My hero’s gone to war.
Armed with headphones, a mobile, few scraps of paper and one blunt pencil, my hero has headed off into the wild world to fight off high school bullies, to be the science teacher’s pet, to promise the math’s teacher that he will definitely do better next time and to coax pretty girls to share their chocolates.
As I almost forgive my mother for worshiping at the altar that is ‘her son’, I look at the clock and calculate how many hours exactly before mine comes back with a fresh new demand for an electronic game.
I envy his ability to completely ignore homework and other mundane tasks without embarrassment of the outcome.
His ability to find fascination with one toothpick and convert it into a missile, a giant magic wand or an injection that brings super powers to his plastic Iron Man.
I dread going into his room, for I am sure to find everything that was in the cupboard on the floor, everything that was on the floor in the toilet and everything in the toilet quite exactly they way it was when he was done!
He’s gone for a few hours, hair brushed, clean, crisp clothes and he’ll come back with chocolate stains, mud stains, a trouser torn at the knee, forgetting his jacket – back from war. And for exactly ten minutes, before I start screaming – to let go of the dogs, to put his bags away, do the homework, where is the lunch box?- for those ten minutes I will be eternally grateful for this child, my son.
Yup, I’m going to university with him.