Emancipation

The day Jason turned eighteen, he informed me that he was emancipated and could do whatever he wanted, and there was nothing I could do about it. He was standing at the bathroom sink admiring himself in the mirror when he saw me at the doorway. He tried to slam the door shut, but my foot foiled his attempt to hide his birthday present to himself: a diamond stud earring. As I hobbled down the hall with my foot pain, he poked his head out of the bathroom and said, "I'm eighteen, Mom. You know what that means, right?" Before I could answer he boasted,  "Emancipation. I'm a free man now."

As I sat on the couch with my foot in a bucket of Epson Salts, I thought about my response to Jason's declaration of freedom. "Oh, good. Now you can pay for your car insurance and half the mortgage and three-fourths of the grocery bill. Now you can cut the grass and take out the trash and... ." But before I had a chance to think of more things he could do now that he was a free man, he darted past me, picked up his cars keys, and ran out the backdoor. 

It occurred to me, as I nursed my swollen foot and wounded pride, that I had lost control of my only child. How did that happen? When did that happen? Was it too late to get it back?

"It's too late," a voice in my head said. "You lost control of Jason when he was a child."

"Is that you, God?" I said.

"Are you serious?" the voice responded,  "Do I sound like God?"

"Well, I'm not sure. You talk to a lot of people, and I sure could use some divine intervention right now."

"I'm your subconscious mind. It's my job to make you feel bad about all of the things you should have done differently in your life. I'm here to make you feel guilt."

"Are you sure you're not God?"

"I'm the part of your mind that needed therapy years ago, way before you gave birth to a child that you were not qualified to raise by yourself, a child that would suffer because of your inability to control him."

"But, but, but...he's not the one suffering. Did you see my foot? 

"Oh, he's suffering all right. Did you look out the window?"

AND NOW FOR THE REST OF THE STORY

My son is a big boy but his cowboy father is bigger. Cowboys don't wear earrings and neither do their sons. News travels fast. Too fast for emancipating young men and their diamond stud freedom. Oh, boy! The cowboy ain't happy. Jason has just been pulled out of the car by the collar on his shirt. He's dangling in midair at the end of his father's big strong arm.

"Are you there, God. Because if you are, I think Jason sure could use some divine intervention right now."