Cotton swab, anyone?

Years ago, when my son was maybe 10? 12? I asked him to run into my bathroom, get into the middle drawer, and bring me back my nail clippers.  Ever the cheerful young man, he said, “Sure!” and darted off.

One minute later he appears, holding a Q-Tip, having completely spaced my original request in 60 seconds.

So you can imagine my thoughts this morning as I dropped him off for his first day of work at his first job. He’s going to be a dishwasher at a local restaurant (Los Dos Molinos, which is about the best ever). I will endorse his skills by saying that, after years of seeing Sam handle our own dinner dishes, I will eat from their china and use their utensils with complete confidence, knowing that he is behind the faucet.

When I dropped him off, my first thought was to simply drive home as he walked up to the front door. But something (maybe it was a cotton swab) made me stop and make sure he got in the door. Which he didn’t. Seems the restaurant wasn’t open yet, so the front door was locked.

I watched him knock on the door. I watched him pull out his cell phone and call. Then I watched him leave a message. He saw me waiting and approached the car, and he thought checking out a back door would work (that’s executive-level thinking, Evans!) and I offered to drive him around to the rear of the strip mall.

I’m sure that the owner of the restaurant (a lovely woman, whom I have talked to in passing for some thirty years as some combination of our family members have eaten in her establishments around town) assumed I was a typical helicopter mother as she ushered Sam into the kitchen for a morning of Dishwashing Delights. But I’m not, really.

I just remember the Q-Tip.

© E. Stocking Evans