Camp Counselor Mom

My son had his first sleep over with two girls, which means I had my first sleep over as Mom. They are our friends' daughters, who were only too happy to sleep at our house--or so we thought. I threw burgers on the grill, despite my son's skepticism that I knew how to use the grill. We had a picnic on the floor, topped off with homemade banana splits. We put in a movie, which they watched dressed in their pajamas. I can remember three summers ago when the girls and my son were here in this same house. My son and the youngest girl were just walking, barely talking. Now, they talk, sounding like young adults.

I made them hot chocolate, which they slurped as they watched their movie. Breakfast will be pancakes with sausages and bacon. As overwhelmed as I get with one child, I romanticize the idea of being the Camp Counselor Mom, who has kids running in a and out of the house, mealtimes just one big scream fest. Somehow this idea, as everyone knows, is simply ridiculous. As they say, know thyself, and this self, I, do not have the constitution for such a scene. I could probably hold myself together till the meal was finished, the table a scene of destruction. The end of each day would require this Mom having a healthy cocktail or Xanax, or both.

It's funny how families, except in certain religious groups, have shrunk, so that any family with three kids is considered humongous. I know when I run into families with three or more kids, I find myself marveling at the sheer audacity of the parents and then look at them askance as I think about the work, cost, fatigue, and emotional work to raise such a large brood. Two seems to be the number that everyone strives for, the only child viewed less now than in the past as a condition, choice, made, or made for you, for a host of reasons. I never thought I'd have an only child since I am an only child. But motherhood was more challenging than even I, the realist, pragmatist, had thought possible. Having waited to have our first, by the time I felt ready--emotionally, physically--to have another, it became too late. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I could have another child. However, the idea of having an infant at the age of 40 seems wrong for me.

It's funny though. As much as I complain about motherhood, my son and I are enjoying our alone time together. There is no Tia, his Dad in New York, only us, in a sense, rediscovering one another. I watch him morphing into an idea of the man he will be. Like all parents, I yearn for him to be shielded from the bruising punches life sometimes offers. But I know that is impossible. And like my parents, and every other parent, I will have to watch him suffer as all of us do.

The girls decided, actually the oldest, that she couldn't spend the entire night here. So, calls were made. Their parents arrived. My son shed tears of disappointment about his first sleepover turning into the, "the worst sleepover--his words," ever. After the girls had left, my son tucked in after reading his bedtime books, I sat down. I didn't have a drink or a Xanax, or both together, but simply sat.