The Perfect Son

Making eggs. Eggs? I hate eggs! What are you talking about? I thought eggs are your favorite breakfast. Yeah, when I was like eight years old. I put down the spatula I've been using to slowly stir the eggs. That's the trick to making good eggs. Cook them low and slow. I made them for you this weekend and you ate them up. Yeah, but that doesn't mean they're my favorite. God, Mom! I don't know what to say to that. It seems like lately every conversation I have with my daughter is an exercise in trying not to say something mean back to her. I close my eyes and repeat my mantra to myself. I am the adult. This is just a phase. After 14 years, it's harder to convince myself it's all just a phase. What else is for breakfast? Hannah asks, even though she is two feet away from the refrigerator and three feet away from the pantry. Frozen waffles? Yuck! She sticks out her tongue. What else? You can make yourself some cold cereal. What kind of cereal do we have? I sigh. I don't know, Hannah. Go look in the pantry. She lets out a grunt as she stands up, which would make you think she is 90 years old rather than a high school freshman. She limps over to the pantry and studies the boxes of cereal intently. While Hannah contemplates the cereal selection, my son, Liam, joins us in the kitchen. Unlike his sister, Liam is fully dressed in what is a surprisingly nice blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks. I bought a new wardrobe for him over the summer when he shot up four inches and all his old clothes looked comically short. He recently turned 16, which means he went to the DMV last month with my husband to get his learner's permit to drive. I had thought my son getting his learner's permit would fill me with terror, but I'm oddly calm about the whole thing. Liam will be a good driver. He'll be careful, he'll pay close attention to the road, and he'll never drink and drive. I'm certain of that much. That's not why I'm worried about him driving. Eggs? I love eggs. Thanks, Mom. Liam's lips spread into an appreciative smile. He was always an attractive kid, but in the last couple of years, he's grown downright handsome. We were out at a restaurant as a family last weekend, and I caught a woman who was in her 20s giving him a second look. A full-grown adult was checking him out. There is something about his thick dark hair and chocolate colored eyes that almost twinkle when he smiles. Unlike Hannah, Liam never needed braces, and his smile reveals a row of perfectly straight white teeth. According to my mother, Liam looks very much the way my father did when he was young. My father died when I was a child, and I barely remember him. But I've seen pictures, and I agree. The resemblance is uncanny. I keep one of those photos in a drawer by my bed. And lately, every time I look at it, I get a pang in my chest. It was hard enough knowing my dad never got to see me grow up. And it's another sting to know he'll never meet the grandson, who looks just like him. Hannah pulls a box of Cheerios out of the pantry and studies the label, her nose crinkling. What's in Cheerios, she asks me. Poison. Mom! That was at least four syllables right there. Mom! You know I'm trying to lose weight and be healthy. Don't you want me to be healthy? Hannah has always been a little on the chubby side. I think she looks cute. But in the last year, she's been obsessed with losing 10 pounds, although she has not done anything to lose it. In fact, when I brought home a bag of chips that I had been planning to pair with guacamole to bring to a mom's night out last month, Hannah demolished it before I made it out the door. I ended up bringing some sliced up apples. They haven't invited me back. Of course I want you to be healthy, I say. She rolls her eyes. Hannah has mastered the eye roll. It's her favorite.