"Jesus, Mom! What the hell happened in here? It looks like
a testing sight for curling devices."
"Don't say 'Jesus," Craig."
"Why not?"
"Because we're religious," she said distractedly, while
plucking at an errant wisp of hair, making it stand up
straight.
"No we're not."
"Oh. Right. Well, it's blasphemous."
"No it's not."
"Well, don't say it anyhow. And before you ask your next
question, it's because I said so!"
"So, what the hell's going on?" he persisted.
"Now that I cut my hair, I don't know if I need the three-
eighth-inch curling iron, the half-inch curling iron, or
the five-eighth-inch curling iron to fit my curls. My old
hot rollers won't stay in. It's too short. Oh, and don't
say 'hell' either."
"How come? You say it all the time!"
"It's not attractive coming from the mouth of a twelve-
year-old."
"I'm almost thirteen," he claimed, throwing her a sideways
glance that would have weakened a lesser opponent. "And
it's enchanting coming from your mouth?"
"Hell, yeah!"
Her attempt at irony didn't escape him. "Okay, Mom, I get
it. Let's not overdramatize things."
She burned her finger on the hot curling iron, grimaced
and cursed. "Why stop now?"
"Yeah," he said, snorting a laugh and stubbing his huge,
adult-sized, boot-covered foot into the bathroom
rug. "Good point. So what's for dinner?"
She could handle his mood swings — they mirrored her own.
Perimenopause and the teenage years were a lot alike.
Well, except for the drooping, the sagging and the
bloating. On the bright side, her pimples weren't as bad
as his. On the not-so-bright side, he applied his makeup
far more artistically than she applied hers. But both only
wore it for large-scale social occasions; another thing
mother and son had in common. "Spaghetti."
"Again?" he whined.
"Well, did you remember to take something out of the
freezer?"
"I didn't know it was my job."
"It's both our jobs," she said, trying the five-eighth-
incher out for size.
"Why don't you just take it all out of the freezer so
we've got it on hand?"
"Tried that once. It all went bad."
"Oh," he said, eyeing her newly made curls. "Those are too
big. They look loopy. Yours are tighter. Like those
springs you find in a pen."
Janine grabbed the half-inch curling iron to try out the
smaller size. "Mom, the small one! Try the small one," he
said with abundant annoyance. "You're just wasting your
time with the other two."
She put down the half-inch and grabbed the three-eighth-
inch iron, watching him from the corner of her eye. "Since
when are you so concerned with how I spend my time?"
"Since I'm starving to death!"
"Ah," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "I
should have guessed. You're so good to me, my son."
"It's all about you, Mom." He grinned.
"Yeah, right." She tried the three-eighth-inch barrel and
had to admit he was right. It worked the best. "Hey, do me
a favor and go put a big pot of water on the stove, would
ya?"
"Yeah, okay. Whatever. Anything to get some food around
here," he muttered on his way out.
"And throw some salt into it," she continued. She knew he
was rolling his eyes. "And don't forget to put a lid on
it, or it will take forever to come to a boil." That was
one of the few culinary tips she knew.
Twenty-five minutes later they were headed for their usual
positions at the kitchen table.
"So why the big interest all of a sudden, Mom?" Craig said
as he simultaneously pulled out and hopped onto his chair
from behind. It was a slick move she'd often wondered how
he came up with. It also prompted frequent prayers to the
gods of the family jewel keepers that he wouldn't hurt
himself. One false move and she'd never have
grandchildren. Time and again she'd told him not to do
that, but he always ignored her, laughing at her concern
and insisting it was his signature move.
Each time he did it, she'd cringe, but with a teenage son,
one had to choose one's fights cautiously. After all,
motherhood was a long haul. A very long haul. It wasn't
just that wonderful and all-too-swift period of cute,
gurgling baby noises and patty-cake. Sure, it was that
too. In the very beginning. But that only lasted a short
while. Then you're given a few years to prepare yourself,
ready yourself — at least as best you can — for…this: your
child's unswerving, non-stop, express train ticket headed
straight to puberty. Some called it adolescence. To others
it was known as the "front lines." A chosen few simply
referred to it as "hell."
She'd learned a long time ago, that if you fought every
battle that came up, a mother — particularly an
overprotective one — would be dead in no time. That
clearly in mind, she decided not to comment on the hopping-
over-the-back-ofthe-testicle-crushing-chair move. She
figured if he ever did miss, he'd be humbled, humiliated
and racked with pain — which was far more of a deterrent
by example than any "I told you so" ever was.
"What do you mean? Why, all of a sudden, my big interest
in what?" She sat down with a heavy sigh. "Please pass the
Parmesan."
He handed her the tall, green bottle. "All the hair-
curling stuff. You've always had the equipment and never
used it before."
Out of the mouths of babes. Her mind couldn't help
pondering the depressing thought that she had lots of
equipment that hadn't seen any use for a while. "I don't
know, it just feels funny." Her hand flew to her head, and
patted.
"You did a good thing, Mom," he said, while slurping up a
stray strand of spaghetti.
She watched her son lick sauce off his mouth with a quick
flick of his tongue. "Yeah, I know. Thanks."
"I wonder who'll get it," he said, before shoveling in
another huge mouthful.
She had the urge to tell him to take human bites, but
didn't. "I don't know. They handle it like an adoption."
He nodded. "Have any regrets?"
She swallowed and then added more Parmesan cheese to her
mound of spaghetti before answering. "Yeah, marrying your
father."
He rolled his eyes. "I meant about cutting off your long
hair." Maybe a little. "Nah. It's only hair."
"Not to the girl who'll get it," he said, hitting her
reason for doing it to begin with square on the head.
"Yes," she said wistfully, imagining the joy of the sick
and horrified hairless teen who would receive it. "I
suppose."
They ate in relative silence, a habit they'd gotten into
over the past couple of years. "So how was school?" she
asked before the meal wound down. She knew he'd lock
himself in his room for the rest of the night, and they'd
shared such a nice moment before, she wanted to extend it.
Wanting and getting were two different things when one had
a teenage child.
"What is this? Twenty questions?" he asked, his wall of
attitude now firmly placed around him.
"It was one question."
"One too many," he said snidely.
Yes, their Hallmark moment was over. "What's the matter,
Craig, did I hit a nerve?"
He rolled his eyes. "Everything you do hits a nerve, Mom."
A smarter woman would have quit while she was ahead. She
went on. "Oh yeah, I forgot. But help me out here, a
little. You're not failing anything, are you?"
"No," he said sullenly.
"Anything I should know about?"
"No."
"Any teachers want to see me?"
"No."
"Doing drugs?"
"Jeez, Mom!"
"Answer the question and it'll be the last one I ask."
"For tonight."
"So, sue me for caring about my kid!"
He rolled his eyes again.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Drugs?"
"No!"
"Good. And can I trust you?"
"You said that would be the last question."
She shoved a huge forkful of spaghetti into her mouth. "I
did, didn't I. Okay, you don't have to answer that last
one."
Like her, he shoveled a large forkful of spaghetti into
his mouth.
"Just nod."
"Mo-om," he cried, spitting bits of spaghetti and sauce on
his side of the table.
"Don't talk with your mouth full."
He finished chewing and swallowed hard, eyeing her
mischievously. "You'll have to forgive me, my mother never
taught me manners."
"Don't try to change the subject, Craig." She wasn't going
to let up until she had her answer, and he must've known
that, since he'd lived with her for his entire lifetime.
Capitulation was inevitable. She'd wear him down
eventually. It was easier to answer and move on with
life. "Yes, Mom. You can trust me. I don't do drugs."
"Okay, just checking," she said with a smile.
"Anything else you want to drill me about?" He took a swig
of his soda from the can.
"No. I'm good for now. Eat your spaghetti, dear. And
didn't your mother ever teach you to use a glass?"
"We don't have any clean ones."
"Oh. Okay. I'll have to buy some more."
"You could break down and wash some, Mom."
She opened her own can of soda and took a swig. "What? I'm
the only one that lives here? Your hands are damaged?"
"It's easier to give in than argue," he said with a smirk
as he pushed over the ever-present pad of paper that sat
on their table, and handed her the pen that stayed
permanently on top of it.
She wrote: Buy More Glasses!
As she pushed the pad away, the phone rang and Craig
reached to get it. Janine didn't bother answering it
anymore after three o'clock. It was always for him, and
never for her, so why bother.
"Hey, Dad," she heard her son say after a brief pause. He
listened for a while then looked at her cautiously.
Here it comes. It was another one of those conversations
that was going to make her out to be the bad guy. She
could see it in her offspring's eyes. She could feel it in
her stomach. Either it was that, or the half pound of
pasta and tomato sauce sitting like a brick down there.
She ate too fast. Always did. It was a trait her ex-
husband had pointed out frequently. Of course it didn't
help that after a long while of hearing him constantly
assert that she ate too fast, she responded with a concise
remark of what she thought he did too fast! True, it's not
the most high-minded or confidence-building thing to
criticize about a man, but any man should know not to
criticize a woman about her eating habits. Both were
hitting below the belt, if you'd ask her. So she'd always
considered it a fair comeback. He didn't.
But he was never a match for her. She'd overpowered him
from the moment they'd met. When they were first together
and newlyweds, he'd told her he thought her assertiveness
and aggressiveness was sexy and exciting, but after a
while, he'd changed his mind.
For her, when they'd first met, she'd thought his shyness
and passive-aggressive, soft-spoken ways were endearing.
Plus, it was easy to always get her way. But after a
while, there was no way around it for her. She'd only
perceived him as "wimpy."