The Best Medicine

It was such an ordinary thing. But so absolutely extraordinary. I ventured into Alex’s boy-cave and told him I was running out for a while, and I’d be back in an hour or so. Not that he really cared at all where I was going, or if I’d ever come back, but I felt it was my parental duty to tell my child he would be (blissfully) home alone. “OK,” he said. And then for some reason that still puzzles me he asked, “Is there anything you want me to do?” Taken aback, I glanced around his room. His eyes followed the same path as mine as I took in the numerous piles of clothes on the floor, the empty snack boxes scattered about, and the week’s worth of dishes teetering on the end table. I looked back at him and said, “Naahhh. It’s all good.” And then the most incredible thing happened. He laughed! Like for real! Like he saw the humor in the situation, and even though it was his horrible mother, and kind of at his expense, he laughed! We both did. It was awesome. It was musical. A sound so rare these days, it made my heart flutter. In a flash it was over. “OK mom. You can go now.” So I went. But I took the sound of the laughter with me.