Musings from Mama Bird
There he is, sprawled out on the couch, covered in blankets, beagle curled up at his feet. An extremely rare occurrence in my house these days, this 20-year-old is truly a sight for my sore eyes.
Last night, my son and his jazz quintet played a wedding at a former theater in downtown Cincinnati, about fifteen minutes from where I live in Kentucky. He had actually told me earlier yesterday he was planning on spending the night at our house, but I didn’t hear him come home.
I woke up at about three this morning. Our beagle, Ella, was not in our bed, and rain pounded my windows while booming thunder faded in the storm’s wake. I reached for my cell phone. My son’s promised I’m home text did not greet me in the dark. Instead of caving to my parental worry and anxiety, I forced myself to remain in bed.
This is a huge feat for me. Too many times to count, I typically deal with this dread by getting up and leaving my bedroom like a death-row prisoner walking down the hall to her execution, and stare at a bright computer screen wishing my Facebook friends were up and posting status updates that occupy my time while I wait and worry.
Three hours later, Ella’s absence wakes me up again. Here we go, I think to myself. If he’s not home, how will I face 6 a.m. if I can’t reach him on his cell phone?
And there he is. And Ella, too. And there’s also this. Breakfast anyone?
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