Last night I was driving the Fox and I home, speeding along the viaduct, waters spreading out to my right, and beyond, the Olympic Mountains, and Forest in the back, rocking Pandora.
He has his own station. His own taste. He dances and drums. I had no musical taste until.. wait, how old am I now? I want him to have that. But that means he is holding the phone a lot while I drive.
And then he pipes up from the back of the minivan, “X just sent a text. She wants to know ‘Are you home?’”
Friend X was on an internet date. She is probably texting about the fact that she doesn’t want to fuck him. Or does. Or is making out with a cook while her date twiddles his thumbs at their table. Or just got sent a dick pic. This friend is a no-holds barred woman with an appetite, as am I.
But I am absolutely sure that her text is not rated G. And now, Forest can read.
“Hand me the phone,” I say.
“I want to text her back,” he says. He is usually awesome about phone rules. This resistance is coming from pride in his explosive literacy. He is reading everywhere! Signs, menus, fire alarms… (“Momma, this sign says “Pull here.” “Wait!”)
“I’m going to say ‘On our way.’ ” He tells me.
“Okay,” I say. “But first write: This is Forest. Got that? Understand?” Otherwise, I know I am going to get a blow by blow of the blow by blow. And by “I,” I mean him.
“I’m writing ‘Forest says.’ How do you spell ‘says?’”
“S-A-Y-S. But I want you to write ‘This is Forest.’” I am certain ‘Forest says,’ is not clear enough.
“She just sent a long text.”
“DON'T READ IT!! ! Forest, hand me the phone.”
He does. I was right. No references to dick pics, but she drops the F bomb. Just like I do in my texts to her.
Motherhood is complicated. Thank goddess I have friends.