Where Did They Go?

These children. Sometimes, I look at them and think, "Where did you come from?" Sometimes, it's moment where I'm beaming with pride over one of their accomplishments. And other times, I'm looking at them with total disgust unable to imagine that their foul mouth belongs to something that I actually birthed.

I mean, I know where they came from. I did take health in school, and sat through through those "You're Becoming a Woman" movies in elementary school. I know the science behind their existences.

They've grown up so fast. And everyone tells you, "Enjoy those younger years. They grow up so fast, and the next thing you know, they'll be off starting their own families." Well, they sure weren't shitting with those words of wisdom. My little ones have grown into somewhat independant young men.

I vividly recall when my youngest was maybe 2 years old, if that. I worried about sending him off to kindergarten. I was a worrier. I guess I didn't realize at that point that he would grow and mature, and by the time kindergarten rolled around, there was a good chance he'd be socially and mentally ready to head off for his first day of school.

I've got worrying down to an art form. Seriously. Every time he gets in his truck to drive, I hope he arrives at his destination and back again in one piece. At 17, he continually assures me that I'm over-protective. I hear all the time that I need to cut the apron strings, sever the umbilical cord, etc. and so forth.

This kid, though...I spend a lot of time shaking my head. After taking Home Ec in eighth grade, he decided he was going to make some tomato soup. My husband had advised me that I needed to let them do things for themselves. Otherwise, they'd be 35, still living in our house, and playing Runescape on our computer.

I thought he could handle it. It was only soup. He opened the can. He poured the contents into a saucepan. He added half a can of milk and half a can of water...a compromise he learned from dear old mom because dear old dad likes his milk, and milk makes dear old mom have a gut ache.

I watched from the living room, which is a direct shot from the kitchen through the dining room. He looked a little confused. I squinted to see which burner he had on. I could have sworn from the 20 some feet away, it looked like the oven was on.

When I intervened and asked why the oven was on, he said he set the stove to broil. "Because that's what you do, right? You broil soup?"

Oy. I'm not saying they don't need me. What I'm saying is that they're way past needing me with every fiber of their being to remain alive. It's not that I'm complaining, but I like to remember those days when they were little and I was "mommy" or "momma."

Now, most of the time, they call me "Pita" or by my name. It's a long story, but seldom have my kids called me "mom." There have been a series of nicknames, which I don't mind so much. When you're in a crowded store and hear "mom" being bellowed, I don't often turn around thinking one kid has ran over the other's one head with a cart or something.

"Pita" derived from "Pepita," which was my Spanish name in my high school Spanish class. I've been called that for three years now after my oldest son had to come up with a Spanish name for his class. I've been "Kiki" and "Monique," for reasons I'm unsure of.

Those "mommy" days seem like eons ago. Like when I'd brush my son's hair and he'd tell me, "Easy on the scotch." Of course, he meant scalp, and wasn't telling me to stop drinking.

There was the time that my youngest looked at me and told me that my eyes reminded him of the primer button on the weedeater.

Another favorite of mine is when we were coming home from DQ one evening. The youngest, who was about 4 at the time, told his older brother, then 6, "Stop antagonizing me."

My husband asked if he knew what antagonizing meant. He replied, "Yes, it means he's driving me to drinking."

Ahh, those were the days when my oldest would sing that Evan McCain song. Instead of, "I'll be your crying shoulder," he said, "I'll be your frog and soda."

Maybe I'm not only thinking, "Where did you come from?" but "Where did that little boy go?"