My son the felon

Let me open with the stuff I didn't include in the email that I sent to some friends and family, that way those of you who got that email can skip the ending. Although you really should read it again because I Am Funny.

I did not email that:

• My day started with getting nailed... getting screwed... And it cost me $60! My mechanic repaired the hole in my tire and gave me a lovely lube job for good measure.
• I was looking forward to a birthday smooch only to discover that LocalGuy thought it was an appropriate time to mow his lawn! To be clear, he was expecting me, I did not surprise him. All I wanted was a minute or two of smooching. Smooching that did not taste like grass and smell like week old sweat. He did give me ice cream and did not chew my face off. A step in the right direction.

And now for the highlight of my birthday:
On the very first day of my 35th year I had to go bail my son out at the local police station. (Yes, yes I know it was my 34th birthday but technically that's the first day of my 35th year on the planet. Besides, It's my story. Shhh.) As I was relaxing on my patio waiting for my offspring to come home and cook me my birthday dinner, my cell phone went off. Bleep bleep bleep. It was Thing1. "I'm done with play practise and going down to the police station" That was it. OK, at this point I will admit that I was about halfway through my first beer but there is no way half a beer could have altered my thinking enough to come up with that. I'm not that much of a cheap date! Then - Bleep bleep bleep. "My bike was stolen." crap! So, being the wonderful mother that I am, I shot right back, "OK, let me know if you need me." That's right, I let him walk into the jaws of the police station all by himself. I did not immediately swoop in to rescue my Baaaaby. Judge me if you want but it was my birthday and it wasn't MY bike. About 5 minutes later - Bleep bleep bleep. For those of you who don't understand or don't like texting, just bear with me. It's how we communicate, even from one floor of the house to another. Thing1 finishes his shower in the morning and instead of dripping all over the stairs to come up and wake me, he sends me a message - a message that I quickly respond to by saying "Thing2 first." and then snuggle in a little deeper under the covers. And so our morning goes. "Mom, I'm kind of in over my head here. Will you come down?" double crap! I can't really ignore a direct request, can I? I mean, it's OK to not offer. He's growing and learning how to handle some things on his own. But when he asks for help I really do need to go. sigh And so the half empty beer went into the fridge and I hopped into the car to drive downtown. In the back of my head I'm thinking that if they lock me up for driving under the influence of less than a sippy cup of beer it would be the over-cooked-soggy-super-sweet-nasty cherry on top of my day. The woman behind the Plexiglas that had my son so completely freaked out looked like everyone's grandma. Clearly the very idea of having to go to the police station has shaken up my son. That's good. That's VERY good. But, simply by being there, I have given my child much needed confidence. He walked right up to the counter and began talking to the scary granny. I stayed several steps back and let him handle it. As I was drifting off in my own head to brownies that Thing2 forgot to make, Chicken Tetrazini Thing1 wouldn't have time to make and the frozen pizza I would most likely make I caught a glimpse of my son's ashen face. Serial Killer Granny was asking impossibly hard questions now. What color was the bike? crickets What brand? silence What style? nothing We've got nothing. Eventually, Thing1 did manage to describe it to her and we were out of there.

The likelihood of him actually getting his bike back? Pretty slim.
The likelihood that I will bust out the "police station - ON MY BIRTHDAY" guilt whenever necessary for the next 5, 10, 40 years? Guaranteed.

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