Street Level

Stitchman got married.

The middle son — so named because, as a child, he could wind up with a wound requiring sutures simply by breathing, it seemed — once again managed to throw his mother off her game.
And that’s not an easy task.
The news came between interviews. I dashed into the office to check e-mail, hoping I’d heard back from a contact I needed to talk to.
The message light on the phone was flashing.
Have you ever noticed how hard it is to ignore that red beacon?
Punched in the requisite numbers and heard this:
“Well, hi there. You’re kinda hard to reach. I didn’t want to leave a message, but I guess I have to. I’m getting married today. So you should call me.”
Who cared if I had 10 minutes to make it downtown, find a parking spot and arrive in time for an interview?
This was a mommy moment.
It was also a panic moment when I realized the son had just five days earlier moved into a new house and I didn’t know the phone number.
Would he pick up his cellphone?
He never seems to answer it.
Ever.
I bet he’s got call display and is just dodging his mother.
Surprise — he answered.
“You’re what?”
It must be said now that this son, along with two of his siblings, lives in Ontario.
“Hey. Yeah, we’re getting married. I didn’t want to leave you a message because I figured you’d just freak out, but I’m getting married in [pause] wow, an hour.”
Damn it. He’s done it again.
He’s left me grasping for words, unable to say anything that doesn’t resemble babbling.
“Oh. Wow. Wow. Married.
“Wow.”
Couldn’t stop crying.
It’s not good to start bawling in the office, especially after you’ve just let out a loud “what?” that has garnered attention.
It’s bad for the image of Mother Goose to the rookie goslings here.
This is likely a good time to mention he’s only 22. He would have me omit the “only,” but that just goes to show he really is only 22.
Apparently, he and his high-school sweetheart, with whom he bought the house, had called the local justice of the peace office to find out when they could arrange a wedding.
They were given two options: pull it all together in 48 hours or wait at least two months.
They opted for the quick schedule, taking advantage of having a week off, theoretically to unpack and get the house arranged.
His older brother found out first, thus receiving about 36 hours’ notice.
His big sister, who was apparently as difficult to reach as I was, had about 11 hours’ notice — and at least eight of those were spent sleeping.
Me? I got an hour and the realization I wouldn’t be there for the first of my children to wed.
I got to spend the day thinking about the time he fell of his tricycle — that was five stitches.
And a year later, when he fell carrying a log, smacking himself in the forehead.
That was another seven stitches.
There were other times — the kid is a klutz like his mother and a hockey player like his older brother, so he was doomed to have cuts and bruises.
Those were mommy moments, too, ones where I could hug him and tell him everything was going to be just fine.
That he’d be just fine.
I didn’t get that chance this time.
There’s been no mommy hugs.
No chance to actually share in his emotions, as I did when he was little.
It was a lot like his first day of kindergarten — a time to let him go and make his way in the world he has created.
And realize Stitchman really has grown up.

dale@kamloopsthisweek.com

Posted by Dale at 3:49 p.m. Comments