Chicken Stuff

Two years ago now My Boy moved away. A long, long way away. Grad school has a way of moving young people to the grandest, coolest, most far away from home, places. From North Florida to Flagstaff, Arizona, I gave him no choice but to let me drive with him ‘cross country to reach his destination. Or, rather I should say, his launching ground. It was an unusually uneventful trip. Two-and-a-half days of riding in the truck over wildly varied topography, almost no conversation, just seeing the land. It wasn’t lost on me that he set the radio to the music I like.

Got him unpacked in his apartment, wandered around town and campus, and down the mountain to check out Sedona. Fun time, lots of smiles and photos, a sweet goodbye. And all was well ….until the plane started taxiing down the runway. I cried myself to sleep.

A year or so later My Boy moved again, this time on his own. From Flagstaff to Boise, Idaho. I never thought I’d have a reason to go to Boise, but here we are. He did great. Got the U-Haul, drove more than half way, checked in the hotel, (he may have let the lady at the desk assume he was the one who’d accumulated my husband’s gazillion Hilton points), drove on in the next day, got himself unpacked, and went to work. Grad school at Boise State University, and suddenly we’re all wearing the wrong school colors. I’m mean, come on. Tallahassee natives wearing orange and blue. Only for my kid would I ever, EVER do that and let there be photo evidence.

The Lawyer and I made our first pilgrimage to the potato state at the beginning of football season, and had a blast with our tour guide. My Boy had learned his way around and made us feel right at home. It was amazing to see how much he’d grown and matured. He was no longer a college kid doing college kid things. No, he was changing. Bitter sweet. Heartstrings plucked.

Wasn’t as difficult leaving that time. When your kid is thriving, everything seems better. He came home at the holidays and he and all of his laundry were under roof once again, if even for just a few days. I figured the visit would hold me over for awhile. And it has. I’ve been contemplating when I could get back to Boise for another visit, though. My schedule, his schedule, the football schedule – a lot to juggle around and find just the right window of opportunity.

Until the “opportunity” presents itself in the form of a ruptured pectoralis tendon. His – not mine. Because I don’t try to bench press more than I should.

So in very short order I rearranged four days worth of clients and hopped a plane to the land of the potato. Just like the drive to Flagstaff, I basically didn’t give him a choice. It’s what moms do. Only the second time I’ve flown by myself, and I did quite fine, thank you very much. But the best part was when my one-pec’d chauffeur was there to greet me.

We trekked to the grocery, his apartment to let him meal prep for the week (while I cleaned and such), dinner out, then he dropped me at my hotel. Surgery tomorrow. We were both a bit nervous.

Surgery went well, no surprises, in and out in five hours, back to his apartment. His friend stayed with me during the procedure and he rode with her home. More fun with your friends than with mom, and I get that. I’m happy to try to blend in to his world and just be there if he needs me. Sometimes you just need mom around.

He had one end of the sectional sofa and I had the other. Fits of sleep, up and down, meds, typical post-surgical night. No big deal. He’s handling it well. I left him the next morning to return to my hotel and start the day fresh. He slept.

I’ve made three more trips to the grocery for things I didn’t know we’d need. A thermometer, lunch, can opener. I’m sure tomorrow will hold more reasons to venture there again. Makes a mom happy.

But now to the point. The heart of the story. The heart squeeze of the story. The stuff good stories are made of. The chicken stuff.

If you know anything about me, you know I don’t cook. Never have. Never will. Ain’t gonna happen. I don’t enjoy it, and after being on my feet all day, the last thing I want to do is go stand somewhere and do something I don’t enjoy or want to do. So I don’t. Save for two dishes that I know how to make, and My Boy devours. Calico Beans, and Chicken Stuff.

I really hadn’t planned out anything beyond getting to Boise, it was all very short notice. But after I arrived I realized we’d need to eat, and he wasn’t leaving home to do it. So after 3.7 seconds of panic I realized I could make Chicken Stuff. When I mentioned it to My Boy he lit up and made the expression he makes when he’s most pleased with something. I was elated. Problem was, I haven’t made it in years and wasn’t sure I was remembering all the ingredients. But I knew where the recipe was, and The Lawyer was still home and could retrieve it for me. He was a trooper and rifled through three small cookbooks and a gallon baggie full of handwritten recipes on mangled pieces of paper, and being one to never give up, he found what I knew was there. One step closer to giving My Boy a meal to fill him up and hopefully warm his heart, too.

We stayed home today – not much else to do one day one post-op. We watched our favorite stupid movie – Dumb and Dumber – and both napped off and on. Then another favorite stupid movie – Talladega Nights – because who doesn’t watch dumb stuff when they’re chewing down pain meds? We watched another movie or two, I made trips to the store, we both napped off and on, and really didn’t say much. Remember when I said sometimes you just need mom around? Today wasn’t a day for chatter. It was a day to just be. I’ll take that day any day.

And now it’s almost dinner time and it’s Chicken Stuff night. He’s ready to eat and I’m ready to attempt to cook. Except for one thing. A can opener. Off to the store I go.

The Chicken Stuff gets made, the asparagus gets cooked, nothing is burned. Success. But the greatest was the look on his face, the grunts of satisfaction, the shake of the head to express his enjoyment. My heart can hardly take it. I know, it’s just one simple, nothing spectacular meal, and you’re wondering why I’m going on and on about it. If you’re still reading, you probably get it.

It’s not just the meal. It’s the fleeting moments. The moments that are now fewer and farther between. The moments that are slipping through my fingers. And I’m glad he’s asleep on the sofa and I’m in the kitchen writing this by the light of the stove so he can’t see my tears. He has no idea how my heart is torn, yet so solidly together, because I get to be his mom.

So, you see, it’s not just Chicken Stuff. It’s Chicken Stuff.