Datebook: Tuesday, July 24th ~ 2007

I have 40 pages left to read in the last Harry Potter book and I am waiting for a “good time” to finish it.

In my mind, this would be when I can actually sit down and savor all of the nuances of what has happened through the last seven books and of course, the final dénouement.

This would mean, of course, when my mind is free and unoccupied—which I don’t see happening for two weeks.

To help, my son asked me to take him shopping today. This has never happened before. It is an anomaly, and I guess a sign that my son is growing up and developing awareness of others on this planet. He is leaving for college in 31 days and so far he has only purchased 3 posters and a “Captain Morgan” bar stool for his dorm room. Our mission today is to procure a small refrigerator (for milk and water he says) and new school clothes.

The clothes part frightens me.

This is not usually something we do together. Typically I buy him clothes, he either likes them or doesn’t like them, and he wears them regardless because they are in his drawer and because it doesn’t really matter to him anyway.

So, I’m not sure how this will play out.

My son is not much of a talker. In fact, he has developed this whole new communication system that is probably a bit more expansive than traditional sign language. With his, you just use the head and neck and it does not require any hand movement.

I don’t know all of the words yet and for me it is a language I can only read—if I tried to use it I fear it would be much like me trying to ‘pop-n-lock’ a hip-hop move.

So our daily communication goes something like this:

Me: “What do you want for breakfast?”

Him: Slight lift of left lip, one inch rise of left shoulder (translation: I don’t know yet, do we have any of the green label Nature Valley Bars or Strawberry Pop Tarts).

My concern for this day is that I live in a world of actual sizes. In fact, as I have mentioned, due to the various manufacturer differences I have 3 sizes of clothing in my own closet.

My daughter, at size zero, has no size. She is measured by her costume designers to the last millimeter, to obtain dresses that fit like another layer of lycra skin.

My son shops by color. Boys no longer buy pants with a waist size, they like them to fall to their hips so they are oblivious to actually knowing their size. Due to my husband not allowing our son to look like a “Gang Member/No Account” (In Son Language: red in the face, neck pushed forward, eyes all big), he actually has a ball-park waist size of 30, with a 2 inch margin of error either way.

So today, out of kindness and compassion, my son is going to take me shopping to take my mind off of my trek to Up-State New York next week. He has only one request.

“Can we not talk about skating today?”

This is ridiculous, of course, because I hardly ever talk about skating.

I talk about his sister and what she is interested in, which just happens to involve a sport with a blade on the foot, but this is just being a loving mother.

I may occasionally talk about some of the people my daughter knows, who just might happen to skate, or coach, or choreograph, but this just shows interest in the people she cares about.

It’s possible that I might see a color on television and it reminds me of a costume worn by another team or skater and I might comment on how well that worked for them with their skin tone, but some people make careers from this type of knowledge and even have their own TV shows.

I may hear music playing in the mall, in the car, or in WaWa that I think might work as a Free Dance and I make a note of it on the back on my checkbook, or grocery receipt, but this is just good planning.

It doesn’t mean I talk about it all the time! I mean, really, my son wastes seven of the 15 words he will actually utter today to tell me what not to talk about.

Please.

It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything.

Mombo