Whatever

"Just to let you know, Mom, tomorrow I'm turning eighteen, and I'm going to get a tattoo and pierce my ear, and there's nothing you can do about it because I'll be emancipated," Jason barked as he shuffled out the front door wearing bright orange hair, low-slung baggy pants, a wrinkled T-shirt, and a filthy Fighting Cocks baseball hat.

"That's nice, Jason.  Since you'll be on your own now, here's an invoice for your half of the mortgage, utilities, and groceries.  Oh, and see this car insurance bill?  That one is all yours, sweetheart!" I said, but he was already in his buddy's car with the radio's base punishing anyone within 100 yards.

I knew early on that raising Jason was not going to be easy.  He made that perfectly clear on Day One.  "Nope!  I'm not sucking on that thing.  Are you kidding me? No way! I'll starve first!" Then on Day Three he stopped breathing and the doctors said he might not make it.  But he did make it, and J.J. and I took him home on Day Seven.  On Day Nine, his lungs filled up with fluid and the doctor said it could be pneumonia, but it wasn't.   On Day Ten, the combination of stress, anxiety, fear, worry, and finally relief caught up with me, and Jason and I could be heard crying in unison from the old white farm house on South Morgantown Road.

On Day One Thousand Ninety Five, my son and I found ourselves alone--husbandless/fatherless--in The Stonehedge Apartments in Greenwood.  Jason wasn't really without a father; he just didn't live with him anymore.   It was Jason's apartment; I was the necessary roommate he tolerated because I was the one with the money.  Also, I could cook, clean house, do laundry, pay the bills, reach the ice cream in the freezer, and drive a car, which came in handy when you're only 38" tall and have a mind of a three-year-old.

I could tell you stories about Jason's life from zero to eighteen as a wannabe independent free agent, but I signed a confidentiality agreement when he was ten, during the time he thought he was Michael Jackson.  It's true.  He really did think he was The Gloved One, M.J., Wacko Wacko Jacko, Smelly Applehead Mike.  I have proof; it's in the safe, but unfortunately I can't share it with you, unless, that is, there's a significant amount of money involved.  Then I might be persuaded to snitch.  I have my retirement to consider, you know.

After Jason's stint as the energetic, overactive, hyper King of Pop, he slipped into a slouching, somber, slo-mo "Whatever" stage.  He was still a free agent in his mind, but now he wanted absolutely no attention, interference, or instruction (no picture-taking allowed either) from the outside world, meaning outside himself and his few selected friends.

"What would you like for dinner tonight, Jason?"

"Whatever."

"I need to wash your sheets, Jason.  Could you please clear a path to your bed?"

"Whatever."

 "You do realize that getting D's and F's could keep you from graduating high school, right?"

"Whatever."

On Day Six Thousand Five Hundred and Seventy, Jason pierced his ear.  Remember the father who did not live with his son?  Before the diamond stud saw the setting sun on Jason's emancipation day, Daddy was back home...sitting on the doorstep...waiting for his son.  I'm sorry but I'm bound by the confidentiality agreement to not discuss this any further, but I'm pretty certain that court records are available to the public. 

It's Day Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty-Two;  Jason is thirty-one now and holds no resemblance to the defiant "whatever" free agent from thirteen years ago.  I had my concerns about his ability to successfully navigate and negotiate his way through some of his not-so-good choices, but my worries were for naught.  At twenty-four he turned a corner and ran smack into maturity, and he has been making his mom proud ever since.

Day Six Thousand Two Hundred and Five