This morning I was chatting in an off-topic section of the writer’s forum, and the subject turned to musical instruments. One friend posted a photo of her dream flute. Very fancy. One friend posted a picture of her dream guitar. Funny enough, it happened to be a photo of my favorite guitar, a Gretsch. Yeah, I know I don’t play guitar (or anything else) but I love that hollow body sound. Then I told her about Nerd Child’s electric guitar, made for him by a super cool luthier in the East Village. One of those New York secrets, you have to have a referral, call and leave a message, appointment only, high quality for great prices.
I began looking through my photos, trying to find a pic of Nerd Child’s guitar. I knew I had a few in a folder somewhere. I found them, but didn’t post or send them. Because then I just started looking through these photos, all downloaded from my old phone. And several videos, short clips of Nerd Child playing and singing.
He hates when I video him. He isn’t shy, never had or has a problem getting up on stage and performing. This is a kid who didn’t hesitate to quote Eminem when he gave a speech at his middle school graduation. In church. At the alter. Nothing inappropriate, but not what you’d call a shy choice. Nope. It’s a mom/kiddo thing. You know, “Mo-om.”
I adore each of my kids. They are individuals, and as such, I feel like I have an individual relationship with each of them. I cook and wax philosophical with Man Child. I can be smooshy and explore museums with Flower Child. Nerd Child is the one I was able to share my love of Stephen King with. Seriously, watching him read The Stand was pure Nerd Mama joy.
I spent a good chunk of the morning watching and listening to these little video clips, thinking about how much I miss him and feeling a bit
weepy leaky. None of the videos are recent. I don’t care. He isn’t a hugger. I get it, neither am I–except for my kiddos. Yanno, I’m mo-om, so he doesn’t feel the same exception. But he’s got this rich, deep warm voice that makes me feel like he’s giving me a hug when he sings. His spring break is about to start but he’ll be gone for half of it, on a service trip to help build a house.
I’m happy he’s happy. We video chat when we can, or a quick note or link through Facebook, a text…but he’s busy up at school. That’s why he’s there, so he can do and experience all he wanted to do and experience. I’m lucky. He’s healthy, a good guy, grounded, great judgement, an excellent sense of humor. He’s beautifully supportive of my writing, I think he was genuinely happy for me when we spoke the other day and I told him about agent requests. But I miss his youtube playlists coming from the desktop while I grumble into my coffee and start the day, ranging from classic rock to classical, meringue, show tunes, rap, alternative. I miss him. I’m looking forward to him coming home and seeing my funky new glasses, raising that eyebrow and shrugging as he says, “If you like them, Mom.”