Part Forty-One: About My Standup Career…
Photo by Rob Laughter on Unsplash
Tomorrow is kind of a big day. One of our attorneys is meeting with the prosecutor about our proposed plan for Mr. Happy. We didn’t know this was happening until yesterday afternoon and, since telling Rob and Mr. Happy, I wonder if it might have been better if we didn't know or I’d kept it to myself.
Rob never gets down. Last evening he said he was down and missing me.
Mr. Happy never shuts up. Last evening he was sitting on the sofa watching the news silently.
Silently.
I asked him if he was ok and was he worried and did he want to talk (oh God, inviting him to talk. Maybe I don’t have to worry if there’s chocolate in Hell). But he said he was fine and not worried and in fact was thinking of all the things he wants to do in 5 years when “all of this is over.”
And then said what he says at least one hundred times a day. “Everything is going to be ok, mom.”
It is going to be ok. In fact, right now, somewhere out there in the Universe, it’s already ok. Whatever the prosecutor tells our attorney tomorrow, whatever decision he’s made, it was made the day he received the proposal or the next day or whatever. The point is, it’s already done. If it’s not what we’re hoping for, we’ll figure it out. The man has already shown his willingness to help my son. Sure, he has to uphold the law, but he’s been willing to consider the context of my son’s case; I’ve never gotten the feeling he was making decisions in a vacuum.
At first, a year ago, during that dreary Virginia April when I was dressed for Florida and freezing my choppers off, I was angry at everyone. Everyone was an asshole. Everyone was out to get my son. I don’t know if it’s the passage of time, the faint glow of light at the end of the tunnel, or that I’ve relaxed into the situation and allowed myself to be grateful for this time with both of my boys, but I’m not angry any more. It is how it is. I can fight it and continue ruining my health (and my waistline), or I can go with it.
I can rail against the whole thing, or I can remember that eventually I get to go home. Home to the man who has supported me emotionally, psychologically, financially this whole time. Home to my rock.
My Rob.
I can be miserable and pissy and poison this time with my guys, or I can enjoy (or at least be cool with) starting every day with “What do you want for dinner tonight?” and “What movie are we watching?” and “I’m running a load of darks. Who’s got stuff to throw in?”
I can drive myself batshit and make myself miserable thinking how I’m too old and too tired to be mothering them like they’re little, or I can enjoy them and this surprise interlude in our lives.
(As the Boss once said, “Someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny.”)
Now that I think about it, somewhere, out there in the Universe, it was decided a long time ago that this would happen, that I would be here. To see Mr. Happy through, help Mr. Rugby get healthy, and get to know my sons as the young men they’re becoming.
They’re funny as hell, brilliant and boneheaded. They’re annoying and frustrating and stubborn as mules sometimes. But they’ve both got beautiful hearts and big goals and they’re kind. Most importantly, despite the bickering they still do like babies, they love each other.
And I’ve got proof.
I told Mr. Rugby about my “I Can’t Die” standup routine. I went on and on about how I’d take it on the road, and pack houses, and be big and funny and famous for never being able to drop dead. I’ll bill myself as The Woman Who Can’t Die! I said. Funny, right? Right?
Nothing. Not even a giggle.
“Tough crowd,” I said. “Don’t forget to tip your server!”
Nothing. Silence.
He just sat there looking at me like I’d lost my mind. Like he didn’t know who I was or, more accurately, like I didn’t know who he was.
I kept pushing, trying, becoming more animated and desperate by the minute to make him laugh – and he stopped me cold. He looked me right in the eye and said,
“Mom. You can die. I don’t want you to die, but you can. And you don’t have to worry. I’ve got him.”
My standup career is over. Dead on arrival. Killed by my baby boy who is, clearly, becoming an amazing man.
More to come.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-40, you can do so here.
If you’d like to check out my newest book, BOUNCE: A Memoir of Resilience, you can read the first two chapters free here.
You’ve raised amazing young men. You’re all in my thoughts and I hope you get positive updates from tomorrow’s meeting.
What a beautiful answer from your son.