James Michael at the Cracker Barrel
About a month ago I sent my precious little boy off to college. My first baby. The one I practiced on. The one who made me a mom. We grew up together, and I think he has a deeper understanding of that than my second baby who came along once I already had a lot of practice and had developed some confidence in my role.
Of course, I didn’t actually send a little boy off to college. I sent a young man, capable of operating in the world, keeping a bank account, navigating public transportation, fully able to cook, clean, and wash laundry, but not yet practiced at serious things like mortgages, tax returns, or hiring an attorney. In our house, we call this stage being a “JV Adult.”
I’ll admit I was pretty heart-sore when I stopped off at the rural Cracker Barrel one afternoon, taking a break from the outlet mall. At the table next to me were two “senior” women and a little boy, James Michael. I learned his name was James Michael because in between studiously ignoring the boy and continuing on with their “important” adult conversation about knitting needles or whatnot, they scolded him.
“James Michael, STOP THAT.” “James Michael, SIT DOWN.” “James Michael, DON’T YOU TOUCH THAT MAN.” James Michael was even wearing a warning label. Some adult in his life decided it would be clever to buy him a t-shirt with the message. “Here Comes Trouble.” It appeared everyone’s expectations were set. And my skin was crawling with every admonition.
And, of course, being a little boy, James Michael was indeed getting up from his chair, fidgeting, rocking, and even as a last resort for some tiny shred of attention, attempting to cuddle on the cold, bony shoulder of the one I’ll call Aunt Spiker. On the other side of the table, her sidekick, Aunt Sponge, rolled her eyes and gave me apologetic looks, as though we were in agreement that James Michael needed to sit like a content statue with his hands in his lap and gaze emptily into space throughout their Ladies Lunch.
As James fidgeted he came close to my table, so I introduced myself and he shook my hand. We were at eye level since I was sitting, and I made sure to look directly at his face when I spoke, and I smiled with my eyes to show I was certainly pleased to make his acquaintance.
“Would you like to sit?” I asked, motioning to the chair across from me.
He looked cautiously at Aunts Sponge and Spiker, who were still studiously ignoring him. Or pretending to, so they could gain a treasured minute of peace. And then he clumsily pulled out the heavy chair and sat down.
We chatted about school starting soon. I learned he was six and going to first grade, which I said I thought he would enjoy and do well. I told him about my kids and how they used to be his size, and how now my boy is away at college, and I showed him pictures of the young man he could become someday. My lunch arrived, so I offered him a biscuit, but he was holding out for his order of pancakes.
Around this time Aunt Sponge decided to take note. “Don’t let him bother you. I don’t want your food to get cold.” “He’s no trouble at all,” I said. “I had a smart, energetic little boy once, too” (you miserable goat).
If you’ve been to Cracker Barrel, you know the peg game; it’s the triangle board set out on every table where the player jumps golf tees over each other and is challenged to leave only one on the board. James had never played it, so I showed him how and we talked about strategy like a couple of old guys playing chess in the park until his food arrived.
I finished my lunch and prepared to leave, and as I did, James asked Aunt Spiker to take him to the bathroom. He had to ask a few times and tug at her sleeve a bit because she was bent on imparting a lesson about not interrupting an adult conversation. Sure, one we all need to learn, but not at the risk of a puddle on the floor. Once he had her attention, she protested and sighed, “You went on the way in!” and resumed her conversation. Only when he looked at me nervously and asked if I could take him to the bathroom did Aunt Spiker relent.
The three of us walked toward the front together, they to the bathroom and I toward the cashier. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” Aunt Spiker said with exasperation. I stuck to the party line. “No trouble at all,” I said. “I had a smart, energetic little boy, too.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m a teacher and I wouldn’t want him in my class.”
Heart broken.
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