My Mother, My Son

These days my son lives in his bedroom. I think of his room as something like mission control—banks of beeping and blinking technology: monitor, laptop, headphones, remote, chargers, game cube controllers. Musty-smelling. The paint on the walls is chipped and dirty white and dotted with pieces of yellowing scotch tape. The top of the bookcase is a hodgepodge of water-glasses and granola bar wrappers A giant drawing dominates one wall: what looks like a wild Satanic dog standing on two legs. His teeth are bared, and he’s holding a giant pencil, pointed like a weapon.

Most of the time I knock once or twice and walk right in. He anticipates this by living under his bedspread—doing whatever he does on his smartphone. I know it’s wrong of me to barge in. I just want to reach him, have access, know what’s going on in his life.

Today, I knock on the door. He yanks it open. Yes, what do you want? Sarcastic.

I feel sheepish. Just let me know if you want my help on those job applications.

I know, he says.

I’m not ready to give up. Why are you so cranky?

Because you’re irritating me, he says, pulling the door closed.

I stare at the door for a minute, then walk away.

I think of my mother. As a teen, I lived in my bedroom, refused to eat the meals she cooked, refused to speak to her, scorned her pathetic attempts to insert herself into my life. I wanted to be free of her--at the same time I needed her desperately.