It’s a rare Saturday night I get to enjoy the exclusive company of a handsome and entertaining young man. I don’t know how many could genuinely say this about their fifteen-and-a-half year olds but (when he’s not employing downright pathologically criminal behaviour around the smuggling of sugar-laden foods* or technology after lights out) he really is a gosh-darn delight. Not a day goes by I don’t thank the stork overlords for the quirky score they gifted me back then. He’s come along so very far and I’m loving who he’s growing into. (How many would know just how much he’s achieved in his decade and a half?)

Last week we skipped out for a burger dinner, and the entertainment that is Mr15’s personal style just rolled right out of him like a random stand up gig in the classic question form.

“When can I show my face on the internet? (switches support elbows and gaze angle, engages use of eyebrows)…What if I was wearing a Mario hat, glasses and a moustache?”

My baby boy with the big paws, he shaves now.

“Have you ever wanted to interview yourself in the future by use of time capsule?
I am going to do this my own way, ask myself all about my goals and achievements and how I’ve progressed in life. I’ll cover many options with an array of responses but I expect Future Self will gloat to me about his youtube subscriber count.”

(Glances at table in front of us, where a group of girls has departed)
“Those giggling monsters have just left some CHIPS behind. What’s wrong with them?? Who DOES that?!! Teenage girls… I’ll never understand them…”

I laugh loudly, turn to smile at him.

Stewey from Family Guy suddenly turns to me and demands snottily:
“What are YOOOOO looking at? Hmmm?”

I ask him his plan for tomorrow after a hard week at school and musical production rehearsals.

All in one breath with no consideration time:
“Wake up, get out of bed, pee, go back to my room, watch some youtube on my ipad, try to fix my computer, fail, go play some games, record playing some Five Nights At Freddy’s, Skype with some US people, await some email responses.”

We go across the road to share a frozen yogurt with all the carefully chosen toppings, which he is kind enough to actually share before politely (hopefully) asking if I’m done.
“Few things make me happier than the sight of THIS,” he announces before snarfing.

We take a walk in the cold where we speak of school, his first involvement in the annual musical production and the fact that dancing in work boots sucks…because it is dancing and in boots. Nevertheless he is enjoying it immensely and has apparently mastered the art of flipping a cowboy hat onto his head with a success rate of 8.5/10.

I can’t wait to see him throw his theatrical all into the show, I’m proud as a gay on a float! My campaign to channel this amiable, comedic character onto the stage has been a success. He already wants to try for a bigger part next year. (Stage mother running score: One child down, one to go. Cocky confidence regarding his little sister here. My inner Beverly Goldberg is happy as heck.)

Shhhh, Grandpa W Class is sleeping with the lights on.

A couple of times he busts out spontaneous tutorials, punctuated occasionally by the heading “FUN FACT” to helpfully indicate (to a possibly zoned out layperson) a switch to a new subject. We check out the tram sheds. “Look, your favourite Ma.” True, an old W class, is nodded off for the night.

Back at home he starts to fill a giant mug with milk.
“Don’t have that you’ll be peeing all night.”
He glares down, an eyebrow cocked: “Three times is plausible.”

“Goodnight Mama. (Squeezes me like a Boa Constrictor that knows not its own strength). I love you!

*or leaving their empty boxes/tubs/wrappers/packets in fridge/freezer/pantry/under the couch or just about fucking anywhere.

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