even after his alarm goes off. “Get up, Omar, or you’re going to be late for work!”
“I’m up,” he groans.
I don’t believe him. “I should hear water running, and I don’t.”
“I think I’m getting a sore throat, Mom.”
“Open the door, Omar.”
“It’s not locked.”
He’s sitting on the side of the bed in striped pajamas I got him a few weeks ago. They were tight then, but they look a little loose now. I walk over and feel his forehead. It’s warm. The last time he had a sore throat it turned out to be strep. “You think you need to stay home today?”
“I think I’ll be all right once I take a hot shower.”
“Are you sure? I can call your job if you really aren’t up to it, Omar. We’ve got Theraflu in the kitchen and I can make some chicken noodle soup if you want me to.”
He stands up. “I’m fine, Mom. I think it was just a tickle. Please don’t go calling my job.”
“You want me to take your temperature? Just to be on the safe side?”
He heads toward his bathroom.
“Omar, have you lost a few pounds?”
He yells through the bathroom door. “Six to be exact. Glad you noticed.”
His weight isn’t an issue for me. He’s still handsome. He’s the spitting image of his trifling daddy, who chose not to be in his life because he claimed I tricked him by getting pregnant so he would leave his wife, which was pretty much true. I needed leverage. The last I heard, they’re still together. Omar has never met him, because I told him I didn’t know where his father was. I thought that was best, and we’ve done just fine without him in our lives. It’s for this reason that I’ve probably gone a little overboard parenting him. I know my sisters think I baby him, but I don’t really care what they think. He’s my only child, and as his mother and father I have done and continue to do all that I can do to help him feel more confident. I’ve told him year after year that everybody wasn’t meant to be lean and lanky. “But I’m tired of being fat,” he said when we flew to Vegas for his twenty-first birthday. He needed a buckle extension but I reminded him that even pregnant women need them, too. That may not have been the most tactful analogy, but I couldn’t take it back. Omar’s been on every diet under the sun and he just gets so frustrated, it breaks my heart, which is why he pleaded with me to stop baking.
I walk down the hall to my bedroom and close the windows because the forecast is calling for rain, which is a rarity in Los Angeles. Groups of gray clouds are clustering above us. I head downstairs to look for the thermometer and make him some hot oatmeal. Before I get a chance to put it in the microwave he’s in the kitchen, dressed.
“Mom. I’m fine. Oh, and after work I’m meeting some of my buddies for happy hour.” He gives me a quick kiss on my forehead and heads for the garage. “Don’t make dinner for me tonight, either, Mom. And have a great day.”
Happy hour? Since when did he start going to happy hour? I don’t feel like calling him because I know sometimes I get on his nerves. But something is different about him. The past few months he’s changed. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. I put my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, feed the fish, and water the last two living plants. I go stand in front of Omar’s door and turn the handle. It doesn’t open! Since when did he start locking it? I reach above the doorframe and get the metal key he obviously doesn’t know I know is there, and I open the door and just stand there for a minute. His bed is made. That’s from years of going to camp and being a Cub Scout. I look around. He’s got a poster of Beyoncé on one wall and Janet Jackson on another and the rest are rappers. His computer is off and I know it’s password-protected, because I learned that over a year ago. You just want to make sure your child isn’t doing some freaky stuff or anything illegal.
Wait a
“I’m up,” he groans.
I don’t believe him. “I should hear water running, and I don’t.”
“I think I’m getting a sore throat, Mom.”
“Open the door, Omar.”
“It’s not locked.”
He’s sitting on the side of the bed in striped pajamas I got him a few weeks ago. They were tight then, but they look a little loose now. I walk over and feel his forehead. It’s warm. The last time he had a sore throat it turned out to be strep. “You think you need to stay home today?”
“I think I’ll be all right once I take a hot shower.”
“Are you sure? I can call your job if you really aren’t up to it, Omar. We’ve got Theraflu in the kitchen and I can make some chicken noodle soup if you want me to.”
He stands up. “I’m fine, Mom. I think it was just a tickle. Please don’t go calling my job.”
“You want me to take your temperature? Just to be on the safe side?”
He heads toward his bathroom.
“Omar, have you lost a few pounds?”
He yells through the bathroom door. “Six to be exact. Glad you noticed.”
His weight isn’t an issue for me. He’s still handsome. He’s the spitting image of his trifling daddy, who chose not to be in his life because he claimed I tricked him by getting pregnant so he would leave his wife, which was pretty much true. I needed leverage. The last I heard, they’re still together. Omar has never met him, because I told him I didn’t know where his father was. I thought that was best, and we’ve done just fine without him in our lives. It’s for this reason that I’ve probably gone a little overboard parenting him. I know my sisters think I baby him, but I don’t really care what they think. He’s my only child, and as his mother and father I have done and continue to do all that I can do to help him feel more confident. I’ve told him year after year that everybody wasn’t meant to be lean and lanky. “But I’m tired of being fat,” he said when we flew to Vegas for his twenty-first birthday. He needed a buckle extension but I reminded him that even pregnant women need them, too. That may not have been the most tactful analogy, but I couldn’t take it back. Omar’s been on every diet under the sun and he just gets so frustrated, it breaks my heart, which is why he pleaded with me to stop baking.
I walk down the hall to my bedroom and close the windows because the forecast is calling for rain, which is a rarity in Los Angeles. Groups of gray clouds are clustering above us. I head downstairs to look for the thermometer and make him some hot oatmeal. Before I get a chance to put it in the microwave he’s in the kitchen, dressed.
“Mom. I’m fine. Oh, and after work I’m meeting some of my buddies for happy hour.” He gives me a quick kiss on my forehead and heads for the garage. “Don’t make dinner for me tonight, either, Mom. And have a great day.”
Happy hour? Since when did he start going to happy hour? I don’t feel like calling him because I know sometimes I get on his nerves. But something is different about him. The past few months he’s changed. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. I put my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, feed the fish, and water the last two living plants. I go stand in front of Omar’s door and turn the handle. It doesn’t open! Since when did he start locking it? I reach above the doorframe and get the metal key he obviously doesn’t know I know is there, and I open the door and just stand there for a minute. His bed is made. That’s from years of going to camp and being a Cub Scout. I look around. He’s got a poster of Beyoncé on one wall and Janet Jackson on another and the rest are rappers. His computer is off and I know it’s password-protected, because I learned that over a year ago. You just want to make sure your child isn’t doing some freaky stuff or anything illegal.
Wait a
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