As a sixteen-year-old boy, he is fickle about sharing. Somedays he talks and our ears and minds run to catch his stream-of-consciousness; other days his one syllable responses leave us hungry for the little boy who loved to inquire endlessly. Tonight, he engaged, and we listened.
I threw some tortilla soup together when I came in from work hedging our bets on the snow day for which he was wishing. When he got in the car at the end of his shift, he asked about school tomorrow. After I answered that we were still going, the diatribe began. The words rattled effectively creating a logical argument, and the 167 pounds of machismo offered to call the administrator in charge himself. Clearly if the roads were too dangerous for him to drive, they were too dangerous for busses. What were we thinking!
As the monologue ended, he said, "Ma, I want waffles."
"I can make you waffles."
The waffle iron clicked as the heat zipped through the heating coils; in a similar manner, the conversation clicked off stories from school and plans for the summer. Taking bites of soup out of the crock pot and watching as I peeled the first waffle off of the top of the waffle iron, my boys paced around me in the kitchen. It's hard to tell you what that felt like - because it wasn't normal. However, the authentic laughter might be the closest heaven has been to me in a long time.
Between his school, his work schedule and what his grief will allow, the times that Wade needs me are fleeting and fickle. The letter from Stanford University sitting on the counter challenges me to call it "a good thing". The fact that Joe secured airline reservations for next fall break so Wade can tour west coast colleges mocks my bravery, but the waffles....the waffles were a good thing.
The waffles told me he needed me tonight, and I think within the banter and laughter that filled our warmly lit kitchen, I heard his sister's sarcasm. Certain I loved the boy more, she never missed an opportunity to tell me how badly I was spoiling the little twerp. That being said, she would have coyly ambled her way over to the bar, reached over his shoulder and taken a bite of his waffles. He might have balked, but he would have shared, pushing the plate toward her.
I can make you waffles....