Guitar

Scales of Mama

C major scale on guitar

C major scale on guitar (Photo credit: Ethan Hein)

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.

Wish I had a better photo of it.

Wish I had a better photo of it.

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.”

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