Eight Minutes

I have just had the sudden realization that I have turned into my mother. I'm serious! When I was a teenager, my mother had a rule that I would have to wake her up by knocking on her door whenever I came home late. I hated it. There was no way that I could sneak in later than curfew. If I hadn't knocked on her door by the time she was expecting me home, she would lie in bed waiting and worrying.

Now, here we are thirty years later, and I have inflicted the same rule on Joshua. He is given a time to be home on a case by case basis. He is supposed to make sure that I know he is home when he gets here. Unlike my mother, Rachel and I never close our door unless... Well, you know what I mean. Normally, it remains open all night. Josh is supposed to come into our room and bang on my head, if necessary, to let me know he is home.

Fortunately Josh is a good kid. He has never been someone who stays out past the designated time without calling to say that his plans have changed and ASKING for permission to be out later. If we say he can not stay out later, he comes home with no problem. Usually, however, we respect that he asked and grant him an extension.

Tonight, of all nights, Josh was late getting home. I can't get to sleep, just as I expected, because I am too excited about going on my cruise tomorrow with my dad and sister. Instead of sleeping, I 've been laying in bed reading a Stephen King novel (Cell). I realized that Josh had not made it home on time. This was a first. I panicked even though he was only eight minutes late. I wanted to call him on his cell phone, but I was afraid he was on his way home. He is not supposed to talk on his cell phone when driving, anyway.

I got up and used the restroom. I brushed my teeth again. I looked at my suitcases and double checked that I had everything I needed. I counted out quarters, remembering that I like to take that new highway to Galveston (Sam Houston Beltway?). Then I couldn't think of anything else to do. It was now 12 minutes after the time Josh was supposed to have been home. I decided to go downstairs and wait for him, looking out the front window to see him arrive. Just as I was ready to put my new plan in action, Josh stuck his head in the door and said, "Dad, I'm home."

I feel terrible about this. How could I have put my mother through it? If she were alive today, I would drive over there, knock on her door, wake her up, grab her in a bear hug, and tell her how sorry I am. She never complained or got mad when I came home late. Instead, she always said, "OK, thank you, honey". Me? I want to HURT Josh for making me worry. What do I actually do? I look at him, glad that he is home, and say, "OK, thank you, Josh".