Dear Calvin,

This morning it was just you and me while we waited for your brothers to get home from their last day of school. You finished seventh grade yesterday, and seeing this opportunity for alone time with mom, you requested a trip downtown. I like going downtown, and I love being with you, so I said yes. 

You may be wondering why there's a picture of a pasta package in this letter. That's not just any pasta there, mister. That's genu-wine noodle product from Italy, purchased with you from Tony Caputo's Italian Market downtown. You really wanted to go to a sporting goods shop to look at an airsoft gun, which I'm less than happy about (mostly because you look like a crazed lunatic with those goggles you wear while toting this big black gun thing through the back yard. Also, I worry that one day you'll turn that thing on the blue jays just to see what would happen. Or you'll shoot your eye out, which you tell me is impossible because it's "only an airsoft gun" and not the real thing. But I don't believe you. It's my job to worry, and it's your job to make me worry, and I'd say you're doing a bang-up job of it. And that pun was fully intended.)

I managed to delay the gun shopping by suggesting we get a pastry first. I know I said I wasn't going to eat pastries anymore, but I also know you didn't think I would stick to that. And you were right. Thanks, by the way, for sharing your pain au chocolat with me, even if it was a puny little corner piece with just a smidge of chocolate smeared on the edge. And thanks, too for not laughing or rolling your eyes at me when I held my hand out next to the window and said, "Hey, that's nice light." You patiently waited for me to daydream for a moment about what it would be like to have a natural light studio in that little bakery with its tall old windows and its creaky wood floors the color of honey. You and I know that it's necessary to daydream, if only for a minute or two each day. I dream of light and pictures, you dream of basketball and hunting. These things keep us going. I don't know where these things keep us going to, but I do know that if we stop dreaming, reality will settle in and spread, like the mold growing in the shower. (It's precisely because of this metaphor that I don't clean the shower too often.) 

After our pastries, I suggested we stop at the Italian market next door. And you, my sweet child, readily agreed, even though we had only a little time left before we had to head home. "You're like a kid in a candy shop," you said as I scurried from shelf to shelf, oooh-ing and ahh-ing at the olive oils, the noodles, the bread. You're right. And you, what were you? You looked at everything with delight too, albeit guarded delight. But I saw your smile when you pointed out the shelf of jams and jellies. I watched you examine all of the bottles of Italian sodas, picking up each one and reading the label aloud. I saw you run your fingers over the packages of pasta, and I surely saw you lean down to examine the chocolates in the glass case at the checkout counter. You smacked your lips just like I did when we tried little bites of bread dipped in balsamic vinegar laced with molasses. Face it. You're a foodie just like me. It can't be helped, so it must be nurtured.

And then finally, we made it to the sporting goods store. You stood in front of a dozen airsoft guns, stewing over whether you really wanted to buy one or not. I held a tiny little mouse of a hope that you would change your mind and decide to save your money for a big blowout shopping trip at the Italian Market or a five-course meal at a fancy French restaurant. But no. You chose the gun. You may be a foodie, but you're still a boy. I wondered then, were you so patient at the market so I'd agree to this purchase? Was this a set-up? I hope not. Because there's a little French pastry shop I want to try and hoped you'd come along for the ride. That is, if you're not too busy shooting up the neighborhood.         

Later, after you had sprayed the back yard with little plastic bullets, I tiptoed towards my room, rubbing my hands together at the thought of spending more time with a pile of library books by my bed. But you caught me in the hall. "So, reading time?" you asked. I hadn't planned on it. But then, I thought of our morning together. I thought of how many love calories I consumed by spending time with you. I'm still hungry for more. And so when you wanted to hang out a little longer, I sighed so softly that you wouldn't hear. I looked at you, or rather up at you, since you are now taller than me, and smiled. "Yes," I said. "I'd love to." 

Comments

[LauraB.]

Sounds like a hallmark card moment to me. I love these kinds of memory maker days. And hey - you made me want to break my diet and check out a french bakery in Provo one day soon. I'm glad Calvin still likes to spend time with his mom - that means you have succeeded in finding the perfect relationship mother/friend with your teenage son. A job well done Susan - Kudos.