Including Me Ch. 01

There, I could hear it now. The sound of an engine.

The sound of an engine. I recognised it quickly to be my son's car, not that I'd usually be able to tell car engine noises apart but over the last six months he'd been driving I'd gotten used to hearing it most days, normally from the office on the ground floor where I did most of my work but even from the master bedroom on the far side of the house I could hear it, albeit faintly. Because it was him... that's why it became such an instantly recognisable sound. My prince, my purpose. My son was home. Day after day the sound became associated with a mix of relief and joy.

I miss him when he leaves the room, let alone goes out for the day. I miss him when we're not in physical contact. I miss him when we're not looking into each other's eyes... that's a natural and healthy way to feel of course and it's not like I'm saying I can't function, but the feeling is real and strong and the further my son is from me the more keenly it expresses itself. Like an addiction perhaps, only of a wholesome type. I like the idea that I'm addicted to my son anyway, it feels like something I ought to be. It feels right.

In any case that's where the relief comes from. The joy, that's another thing, separate from the relief of no longer missing him. It's like, every moment spent in his presence is more wonderful than I can possibly picture it when I'm not, like the reality is better than the fantasy and that doesn't apply to most things, I don't think. No matter how much joy I feel when I realise he's about to walk in the door I'm still surprised by how much more pure pleasure I feel when he actually does, and that doesn't diminish with time either. Even when things have been difficult for one reason or another, that pleasure, that happiness is like a foundation, a frame around whatever might be going on and it keeps my head level and my emotions in check.

Like one time when my son showed interest in a girl at school, in one of his classes, his science class I believe. We were talking over dinner, him sat as usual across the width of our small dining room table, tracing his left toe up my right leg, and then back down again, and then up, and so on. We'd often play with each other's feet and legs when sat at the table chatting, or holding them locked together while we ate. Just a normal mother and son enjoying being close with one another.

Or sometimes we'd play little games, like if I reached my foot out and couldn't feel his because he had them tucked back under his chair, I'd lift my leg and start tickling the inside of his knee leg with my toes, and maybe after a little coaxing he'd relent and let his calves start to unwind from beneath his chair until I could trace my toe past his knee, down the inside of the calf and... then I'd pounce! I'd try to whip my feet around the backs of his legs and catch them. But before I could close the trap he'd snap his legs back under his chair and I'd be left empty-footed again! I'd wait a few minutes, before my other toe now would be tickling at his other knee, only to play the same thing out over again. Two, three, four times. I'd get him in the end though. I always got him in the end and I'd hold his legs with my feet, or we'd lock feet and swing them, or maybe I'd try to hold feet with him by interlocking our toes if we were both barefoot, things like that.

Ultimately he wanted to let me trap him, I knew that. First he liked to tease me and show me that he could get away if he wanted to, but in the end he wanted to let me have my turn to win and be played with and mothered, once it was understood that it was on his terms and with his permission. He got to that age where he needed to assert himself. I think it always made me feel good too, to know even then that he was starting to take charge in little ways, he was learning bit by bit that he was in charge and that was becoming the foundation of our relationship.

So anyway he was tracing up and down my right calf with his left big toe, lazily up, lazily down my bare leg, just like he knew I liked. I was wearing a favourite cotton mini that only came to mid-thigh at best and he was tickling my bare skin but I liked his tickles and I let him have his way. I asked him how was school today. He was telling me this and that, someone on the next table spilling their packed lunch everywhere, a bunch of them playing sports in the school field at break, one of his classmates giving a funny answer to a teacher's question. Mundane stuff, but he liked to talk about it, probably because he knew all I really wanted was to listen to him, to hear him speak and maybe it stroked his ego a little to be the centre of my attention but I didn't see any problem with that.

And then, rolling from one tale to another, suddenly he was talking about some girl and how she had to read out something in science class that she'd written because the teacher thought it was a good example of analytical discourse or something. Any time my prince mentioned a girl, or a woman for that matter, I felt just a tiny little bit jealous. I liked it about myself, it showed what a good mother I was, that I want to give my son everything and anyone else having his attention, that could have been something I gave to him and it's good and right and best of all that he gets a thing from his mother, obviously. I don't take it in a silly way, just as a nice reminder and of course he inevitably mentions females because there are lots of them around at his school.

Only now he was talking about how this girl has done such a good job and everyone in the class liked her and I caught myself having a big jealously pang, almost like a stitch in my gut. I recovered straight away but it ached as long as he continued talking about her and every time he said her name I got another pang. Like I said before, all of this is within a frame of complete happiness so I was totally fine with it. Even amused at myself for being jealous of this fourteen or fifteen year old girl for having even some small piece of praise or admiration from my son. It wasn't a bother, my head was clear, I was with my prince and I could feel his toe gliding up and down my leg and tickling me and I smiled.

He finished that story and went on to talk about some other things and I contentedly basked in his presence. My mind was whirring though and that was the moment when I really started to wonder to myself about how the future might play out when his schooling finished. Would he go off to higher education? Would he meet a girl and want to marry her? Would he leave me and go off and have a life and I'd be on my own? Until then I had put off any serious consideration of how his life beyond us would actually be.

Something in the way he'd talked about this girl had changed that, I needed to up my game and figure out what plans I needed to make for the future. Knowing that there wasn't unlimited time before he'd be a man and need to make decisions about his life. I'd put everything I was into being the best mother I could be. Our relationship was very close, very loving but never crossed a line, a line I hadn't even thought about. One day I'd need to address that line and make sure that he was aware of it too, but for now it was enough to start thinking about the most important thing, that I would continue to be in the centre of my son's world.

The car pulled into the garage, I could hear the engine purr more gently as he pulled to a stop and then the sound cut out. My heart jumped into my throat for a moment, then I regained my composure. I strained to hear, maybe that was a noise of the car door being closed?

From my office I'd have been able to hear the sound more clearly. Since he'd been driving I'd gotten into the habit of stopping what I was doing if I could and going to the kitchen when I heard him arrive, when I wasn't on a call or otherwise tied up with work. I'd make up some coffee perhaps, or have a look through the cupboards at what we might be having for dinner, just something so that I was right there when he came through that side door. Knowing that if I were doing something, facing away from him as I called out in greeting, he might pad up quietly behind me and slip an arm around my waist and pull me to him, planting a kiss on my cheek and then just holding me, his cheek pressed to mine for a few moments as we refreshed our bond.

Then I might turn in his arm and put my hands on his chest as he held me to him and we'd gaze into each other's eyes, all smiles at being back together. Maybe we'd give our noses a little rub like an eskimo kiss, as we used to do when he was little, maybe even a peck on the lips before we'd break and I'd finish with whatever I'd started doing when I heard him arrive. And then I'd get back to work in the office and he'd settle himself in the living room with his books to get through the rest of his school work for the day so that after dinner we'd be free to spend time together.

Other days he might have sports or study groups though, and on those days when I heard the engine he'd be coming in to dinner being served and when I got the timing just right, his freshly served dinner would be steaming on one side of the table and my smaller meal ready opposite, and I'd be at the door ready to welcome him home with my hands held together behind my back. I'd stand there smiling while he dropped his bag and hung his coat on the hook by the door, and maybe procrastinate a little just because he knew I'd stay waiting patiently for him, and then when he was ready he'd turn to me with those gorgeous blue eyes and an amused little smile, and I'd grin back at him and he'd put his arms around me and give me a warm hug and a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth before heading to the table with me in tow.

We had developed more and more routines like this that involved him giving me permission in some way or other. Making me wait for him. For example, over time it had become a habit that I wouldn't go to bed until he specifically told me to. I'd tell him I was getting tired, but without going to bed. I might yawn and stretch, even doze off cuddled against him on the sofa sometimes. He soon caught on and would tell me to go to bed and then we'd share a slow, delicious goodnight embrace and only then would I pad off to the master bedroom for my slumber. This became the standard; if he told me, only then was it time. Often he'd let me drift off before telling me, but he always told me, never suggested or requested and I never went to bed without permission or failed to obey once it was given.

Today though, he'd be walking into an empty kitchen. I would be waiting upstairs. Passive. Helpless to now affect the sequence of steps I had lovingly prepared that my son was about to walk through on his own. Breathing deeply, at the ready for the moment that I was sure would arrive. When I'd hear the handle to the bedroom door, over to my right, begin to turn. See the door open in my peripheral vision to the desperately beautiful sight of my son framed in the doorway, slightly silhouetted by the light from the hall, lit dimly from the inside by the couple dozen candles positioned around the various items of bedroom furniture along the walls either side of the king sized bed, flickering away, their wax rolling in thick, oozing, viscous little drops along their shafts to pool at their bases.

I'd keep my composure and keep my gaze straight ahead, focus on my reflection in the mirror, as he'd step forward into the room, turn to close the door behind himself. Click the door into place and he'd turn about once more, then pace ahead until he was level with me, turn to his left to face me. I imagined him standing tall and frighteningly masculine in the instant where I would never feel smaller in his presence. I'd feel the gaze of a giant upon my exposed form, my prince now grown, ready to take his place as my King. I wouldn't meet his gaze, I'd keep my eyes straight ahead, leaning forward and pushing gently with my arms so that my behind lifted off from the edge of the bed, and I'd stand before him, eyes directly ahead, looking through his chest. My last moments as his mother, about to become his possession, to be used as with any of his other possession, in whatever way he chose.

A deep breath in. A moment to steady my nerves. Releasing the breath slowly out.

"You're eighteen years old today... you're the man of the house..."

I shuddered as I heard the kitchen door shut behind him. My son was home.

The first time I was alone with my son was over a week after I gave birth to him. There had been complications and the worry had been sickening, it had almost broken me. He required constant attention from the doctors and nurses and was isolated in a closed incubator from the start. I would gaze at him for hours through glass, already going through the withdrawal of separation. I cried continually, it felt like. I've never known such desolation. As the days went by, the main concerns began to be assuaged and the worry subsided to a manageable level. I made a promise to him during that early separation that we'd never be apart again if I could help it.

The moment I gave that pledge, something changed in me. From helplessness I started to plan, to consider all the things that I had power to control in order to build and provide for the future safety and happiness of this amazing little baby. I thought about what was required to make myself fit to the task: physically, mentally, spiritually. I thought of the things I could do to improve my health and fitness, I considered what career path I could approach to improve our financial prospects. What learning I could do to improve his outlook as he grew. And I built into every part of this plan with the condition that I would be with him. All the time, so far as possible. Save for conditions of pragmatism; he'd go to school and there would be necessities, but no more than that. We'd be joined at the hip, I promised myself.

The day came, and I was allowed to lie with him in my hospital bed. The nurse buzzed around for a while, then finally told me she'd be back soon and left us alone. Alone with my little prince. My purpose. And I cried, though now with joy. And I whispered my promise to him, I told him over and over again that he was everything, that everything that I was belonged to him. Again and again I whispered those sweet words to my prince until he fell asleep in my arms. It was the happiest moment of my life.

My son had arrived. He was home. Each moment was an exquisite agony. Now he would be picking up the envelope from where it lay on the kitchen island, scattered with petals, his name spelled out on the front in my finest calligraphy. Now he'd hold it to his nose, taking in the perfume I'd sprayed it with, the same expensive, floral scent that now adorned my neck and chest. Alluring, welcoming. Now he'd be walking with it through to the living room, unhurried, casual but with an undercurrent of excitement. He knew already that something significant was happening and he knew that it meant that he'd be taking an adult role in every way from now on. All the work to learn about the finances, the investments, the property, he understood the intention. How much more did he expect? He'd had a taste this morning, but he couldn't know the full scope, how far this was going to go. He soon would.

Of all the routines we'd developed, our morning ones were the most regular, like clockwork. Not that every morning was the same exactly, three mornings a week we'd get our running gear on and go out for a few miles, had done for the last two or three years. The other two mornings he usually left early to attend some pre-school activity, and so depending on the day our timings would change. But whether following or in place of our run, every morning after breakfast and a shower we'd join each other on the big sofa in the living room for half an hour of TV.

We might have a cuddle or I'd lay across the sofa with my feet on his legs and he'd play with them and rub them, or maybe we'd lie at either end with our legs all wrapped up together, and maybe one of us would start prodding and teasing and we'd start wrestling with our legs trying to pull each other out of our position and turn the other over and pin each other down, until at last one of us would concede defeat and we'd laugh it out; or maybe we'd just lie contentedly for half an hour watching TV or staring happily at each other, or switching between the two.

So it wasn't as much a routine in that sense but we'd spend that thirty minutes or so together every morning, until it was time for him to leave. Then he'd go and fetch his bag and I'd wait for him by the front door - later the kitchen door, once he started driving. He'd come to whichever door and slip his arms around my waist, wrapping one hand around the small of my back and the other under my shoulders and draw me in. My arms would lift until my forearms touched his neck and I'd hold one wrist with the other hand behind his head and bury my face in his strong shoulder.

He'd hold me like that for a minute maybe, and he could see the clock so he knew exactly how long we could take in our embrace before he had to leave. I knew it was time when his head dipped and gave my cheek a little press with his nose, just inside my ear. I'd lift and turn my head to press my lips to his cheek for a lingering moment. Then I'd whisper softly into his ear that I'd miss him. He'd return the kiss then, on the inside of my cheek just by my nose. Then his hands would fall away and he'd half turn and step towards the door, my one hand tracing across his chest as he moved and the other running down his arm. My fingers just pinching ever so slightly at his shirt, as if to refuse to let go, wishing I didn't have to let go. And then he'd be through the door and gone from me. And I hated that, but I'd console myself by turning my thoughts to work and the challenges of the day.

But then there were days when for one reason or other we'd be running late and he'd be calling out that it was late to me as he came into the kitchen and I'd get a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek and that would be disappointing. But it was rare as we learned to make sure we had time. Neither of us liked to start the day without saying goodbye to each other properly.

This morning was different. Today my prince had turned eighteen. Today he needed to know from the beginning how significant that was. Before now it had been my responsibility to be his mother and that alone, and I took that charge very seriously. Our souls were joined, intertwined as a mother and son from the very moment of his existence, and that continued through whatever trials life presented. Any thoughts and plans that had existed, that had developed especially over these last few years, had led to provision being made for this day. At no time had I brooked thought or action outside of propriety, while nonetheless doing everything needed for when that same propriety no longer applied.

Last night when he sent me to bed I had obeyed as usual, nestling myself in his arms in embrace and then heading to the bedroom the same as any other day. With a solitary exception. Instead of the usual 6:30am I set my alarm for six, with a very specific reason. My son's time of birth was recorded as 6:18am. In the official sense he would be eighteen from midnight, but I considered that he would strictly be a man at precisely 6:18am on his eighteenth birthday. Not a chance I wouldn't be with my son at the moment he became a man. Not a chance.

It would have the additional benefit of setting the scene to some extent for what was to come later. I'd prepared him for everything else that was to change in his life well in advance, all the administrative elements and even the emotional, so many deep talks and discussions about what it meant to be a man, about how our relationship would change from parent child to something else, how that something else would be something we would form and mould in the way that made sense for us when the time came.