Mom and I are as snug as ice cream in a cone. She breastfed me until I was 14, and even then she only stopped because I started high school and couldn’t make it home in time for lunch.
So we always had this special connection. She calls me her “big little man” and lights up whenever she sees me. When I cuddle with her, I can easily forget my wife’s simmering resentment.
Last month, we flew to Paris, just the two of us. Mom tried to argue that we should only have to pay for one seat but the airline insisted that their policy applied to age two and younger. It felt like discrimination but we made the best of it, cozying up at the window and leaving the middle seat empty. Mom told me to just ignore the guy in the aisle seat, who was watching Psycho, and kept shooting weird glances our way.
I don’t get why people always give us dirty looks. Mom just wants to make me happy. Not long ago we were kicked off the bus, simply for being too loud. And all we were doing was playing “A Smooth Road” and laughing every time I fell through Mom’s legs.
Unfortunately, we have run into a snag. I weigh 240 pounds which generally makes it hard on Mom, who’s ringing in at 105. Yesterday, I sat on her lap as usual to watch The Shining, but when those spooky Grady Twins appeared on screen, I jumped so hard I cracked her femur. She’s not angry, but she told me that for now, I’d have to settle for squeezing up tight against her. Just until she’s had her metal rod put in.
I’m not supposed to spoon her either.
When I told my wife, she almost seemed pleased about it. But how can that be, when there’s a chance that Mom will need a wheelchair?
And how am I expected to fit into that?