“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress asks us, standing over our table of four, pen in hand, poised over her pad.
“Pinot grigio for me, Bud Light for him, and two mil--” abrubtly she cuts me off.
“Do you know who I am?” she suddenly directs at my son. Then, squatting down beside the table, propping her face in her hands, atop her bent elbows. “Remember me?”
Oh God, what is happening?
My son stars at her, blissfully dumbfounded. I look at him, at my husband, at the face in the hands. The whole exchange feels like five minutes. Did I miss something?
“I’m Tierney’s mom,” she announces.
A-ha moment! We’ve heard of Tierney! Tierney goes to school with Graham! Connecting the dots!
“And Tierney told me that you were her boyfriend.”
Screech! Halt! Stop the presses! Rewind! Como se whaaaa? My son is four years old. But the face in the hands seems to be very pleased with this information.
Dear God, teenage years, please be kind to this mama.
P.S. Tierney’s mom is super nice and even got my boys to eat their peas. In fact, she might be an ideal mother-in-law…