Something Missing from My Dresser

I didn't do it all for some ideal of justice or just to have control. It was all because I love him and wanted him to be the best man that he could. If he got in trouble, acted rude to me or some other, what some may consider, more trivial offence it made me think he wasn't being his best self. I internalized some of his shortcoming and figured if only I had acted different, or harsher, when he was a child, then he wouldn't have this or that problem. This brought out a person I had never been. I had turned from the meekest of people into a domineering mother, the reality of it made me sad quite often. He drained me and changed who I was, but despite this I never stopped loving him for even a heartbeat and never regretted that he was my son.

Justin was semi-popular at school; at least with the guys. He had a few girls that he talked to as well, but nobody that you would mistake for a girlfriend. The way I would hear him talk with his friends in the basement made me think, perhaps, that his standards were too high. The unreal expectations that they filled each other's heads with were depressing, at times, to listen to. I wondered how many nice girls he didn't give the chance to because they didn't meet the movie star standard. I wanted badly to encourage him and build up his confidence, but even in his best moods he brushed me off.

After checking myself out that Saturday afternoon, I was, once again, sitting on the hardwood floor of my bedroom, too deep in reflection to think about comfort. I felt my bones labour as I tried to stand, reminding me once and for all of my age. A few cracks, and deep breaths, later I was on my feet. My knees were starting to pay me back for my years of activity; I could make them pop virtually at will. Justin was at work; he worked at a parking garage on the weekends and wasn't expected home until much later. Lisa, my daughter, was at her friend's house for a sleepover, as she so often did on the weekends. I didn't have to pick her up until later in the afternoon. The house was empty and I had nothing to do, so I went back to finishing the laundry that started this mess.

My family is such a stereotype in so many ways that it can make me cringe. I never really set out to be this way, it more happened when I wasn't paying attention. I met a man that I love, we had a baby and the rest just happened. We bought more stuff, moved into a bigger house with a pool, bought a second car and I even joined the PTA. This was never the vision I had for myself growing up, but it suited me well. I love my family and the fact that they are my life. It scares me to think what any of them would do without me; probably miss a lot of appointments.

Being needed, perhaps the most human feeling, one that can drive the most insane actions from the most sane people. People want relationships, but it's not the feeling of want that keeps them, it's the feeling of being needed, representing a piece of someone else's existence, the fixture that defines a part someone else. In a close family, like ours, each member becomes a part of the other's definition. The words "love" and "family" are used in a similar proximity as "love" and "sex", yet the meaning when interchanged is supposed to represent different concepts. It's not surprising that sometimes the signals get crossed.

My husband had been gone for hours. I hoped that leaving the house would have given him time to calm down and act as an adult about the situation. I had certainly calmed down and rationalized it into something that really wasn't a big deal. I don't know why I even told him. I wasn't looking forward to talking to him, but I was at least resigned to the fact that I couldn't know everything going in. If our talk was going to do any good I couldn't know everything going in, having no preconceived notions would be better. Justin would either talk to me or he wouldn't, that`s all there was to it.

As the time passed, I became more acutely aware that there was a chance that he would confront Justin before I had a chance to talk to him. My husband, for the most part, is a calm and reasonable person, but he can be prone to rages. He isn't violent, but can say things that are hurtful and doesn't really mean. Over the years, I had become used to it, this is the only reason I wasn't still fuming over being called, "dumb", earlier in the day. Sensitivity really isn't his strong suit and this was an issue I wanted handled with the upmost sensitivity.

Justin is very sensitive. His outwardly tough demeanour had been reduced to tears many times in my presence. I didn't want to think about what a humiliation on this level might do to him. There was little doubt that he would be embarrassed, the damage could be mitigated with some soft words. If he were to be belittled him or got overly harsh treatment it could have destroyed the confidence I so badly wanted him to build up. I was quite anxious for my husband to come home so I could clearly verbalize this before Justin got home from work.

As fate would have it, this was not to be. Nothing is every easy when it involves moving parts outside of your control. I had to pick up my daughter from her friend's house, this wouldn't take long and I had no reason to expect Justin home until much later. I even welcomed the chance to get out of the house upon receiving the phone call. At the worst there would be some small talk with Emma's mom and we would be on our way, maybe half an hour give or take a few minutes. For that half hour I was able to put the events of the day out of my head, somehow the scenery outside of the house made the drama inside of it feel very far away. The small respite was about to change in a major and life changing way.

Arriving home it was clear that not everything was ok. I could feel that a major confrontation has taken place. In the front hallway I saw Justin`s work clothes. Further I saw a picture, previously on the wall, broken on the floor. The house was silent. I could see Justin's door closed from the bottom of the stairs. It didn't look like a scuffle had taken place, but there were no doubt items were thrown about. I felt a very deep rage boiling in the pit of my stomach. He clearly confronted him in some attempt to assert dominance.

"Lisa, baby, can you go to the backyard for a few minutes?" My tone was measured but gave no doubt that this was not a point to argue with; I was enraged.

I had to keep my voice down because I didn't want him to hear us fighting over this. I tried to do some breathing exercises to capture my composure. When I found my husband, in the basement, my eyes were burning looks that would kill if they could.

"What...did...you...say...to...him?" I had to space out each word to make sure I said each clearly and emphasized every syllable without yelling.

"What the fuck Michelle?" He dismissed me in a rhetorical manner while fiddling nervously with the remote control.

I stood my ground and continued to stare to show him that I wasn't going away.

"Look if he wants to be a little pervert then fuck it!" He continued his profane and terribly insensitive defence.

As he defended his actions with more insults and belittling comments I stopped listening and realized that he was terribly threatened. It was as if he was pleading with me to take his side, have no sympathy and take part is debasing his newly propped up rival. The façade was transparent and the jealously obvious. At that point, I knew that carrying on an argument about something that struck him so deep in his insecurities was bound to be a fruitless exercise.

In a voice that lacked any thrill I told him that, "Lisa is outside, I want you to take her out, get something to eat and take your time, I don't want to be in the same house at this very moment. I am going to go and talk to our son. You are not going to cause a scene."

I waited, "Are we clear?"

"Yeah Michelle, whatever, yeah."

He fumbled with the remote turning the TV off. Despite his flippant words, he knew I was dead serious.

I found him in his room...

Justin had been crying, and I could tell the tears were not of the crocodile variety or simply for my benefit. His eyes were very red and he looked so ashamed. My maternal instincts, at the sight of this, became overwhelming, I wanted to do whatever I could to protect him, show him that I was there for him. He was sitting at the top end of his bed looking at the wall, trying hard not to acknowledge my presence. He looked embarrassed, disappointed in himself and confused. These were all emotions that I could readily identify with; life has left me in the same state before.

I closed the door behind myself and stood still near the entrance. I didn't want to present myself as imposing on or as upsetting the balance of the room. I had to approach the situation with the upmost care, I had no idea what was actually said between them and I didn't want to assume anything. I stood in my place and waited for him to acknowledge me, this way I would not be the aggressor.

"Why did you tell him?" There was more than a hint of anger in his sobbing voice.

"Honey, I didn't know what to do."

"I didn't even do it anyway." He lied in a voice that said, let's pretend I didn't and just leave it at that.

I certainly could have just left it there. That may have been the easiest way to deal with it; just pretend it didn't happen. Everyone involved could just hope it would go away, the uncomfortable feelings, the yelling and the confusion all around. To me, this was not a reasonable solution to the events of the day. If I left that moment, he would have still been ashamed, confused and completely embarrassed. He would have directed those feelings inwards until he was convinced something was wrong with himself, his confidence shattered. Almost worse of all, he would have withdrawn from me completely.

The door was at the bottom left of his room, if looking from above, and his bed was along the top wall pushed all the way to the right corner. I made my way toward the end of the bed and sat down softly. His attempt to get rid of me had clearly failed, and now he seemed to be bracing himself for the worst. The entire bed was between us, it was as if we both had our little corners. For his part, he was trying to make himself as small as possible in his. My gaze was soft and non-threatening. By sitting on the bed, I was trying to show him that I was not disgusted or angry. Instead of talking from above his level, I could present myself on equal terms at eye level, each to a corner.

This time I knew I would have to engage the conversation, "Honey, we need to talk a bit about what happened." He didn't respond, but his lack of objection was a sign that he accepted that this was going to happen.

"We don't need to talk about anything more than you can talk about, but we need to talk, ok?" I was repeating myself but I wanted him to acknowledge his presence in the discussion.

He started to wipe some of the tears from around his eyes and said, "yeah, ok mom."

It didn't seem like much, but I had established that I wasn't really his enemy, that I was there for him and not myself. This goes a long way in getting him to let his guard down a bit. If I had come into his space and demanded answers or tried to establish some boundary, I likely would have been dealing with a complete and total shut down. I felt like I needed to be careful, the last thing I wanted was this to devolve into one of our fights.

"I never meant for him to say anything to you, and I am very upset that it came to that, I will deal with that later, but it's not important here, ok?" This was not just some tactic to make him think I was on his side, this was the absolute truth. I was past upset with his father, upset doesn't come close to doing justice to my emotions on that front. I also felt guilty about telling him, and in this I was on his side.

I got another, "yeah mom", for extension of this olive branch.

"I can't take it back, but I feel completely awful about it," I continued in my most conciliatory tone, "and sweetie, I apologize for it and hope you accept my apology."

As with most apologies, you can't really fake sincerity effectively. In this case, I had no need to fake, the honest truth being that I was nearly heartbroken by my actions that led to their confrontation. In response, his eyes left his wall for the first time and glanced in my direction, before settling on his feet. He was no longer looking in the opposite direction from me, now he could now see me through his peripheral vision. His body language also relaxed so he was now taking up more space on his corner of the bed; the corner had almost become a his third.

His eyes were dry, but still red from crying before. It was clear that I wasn't going anywhere, and that I had settled in to take as much time as we were going to need. I put my feet up and sat at the foot of his bed, with a display of patience I waited for him to tell me what he was thinking as opposed to interrogating him.

"I never even meant to do it, it just happened." We both knew what, "it", he was referring to without calling attention to what it actually was.

I listened intently, without pressing for further explanations. I wanted explanations, but not excuses. For that to happen, I had to let him speak about how he felt without being forced to justify each statement. He didn't say all that much, it was clear that he understood a lot more about his motives than he was letting on. For obvious reasons, he was embarrassed.

"Why did you have to say anything?"

This was a re-occurring theme as I let him talk. I knew that, whether he knew it or not, it was a device to shift blame away from himself. He knew that I felt guilty, as a natural defence, he was trying to exploit this weakness. For the time being, I was going to allow him to do so. I did not put myself on the defensive; instead I continued to accept the blame for that with no caveat. Being yelled at over such a thing must have been traumatic for him to say the least.

When he was done, his mood seemed to have calmed quite a bit. He hadn't really said all that much about anything really. Stopping short of denying the action, he denied his intent every time without providing an alternate scenario. His face was still sad and resigned. I looked at him and smiled, daring him to look at me and stay solemn. When his eyes, finally, met mine he let go a laugh against his best attempt to restrain it. I hadn't said anything funny, but my cue to lighten the mood had worked. We both began to laugh as if something very funny indeed had been said.

When silence returned, I motioned with my arms for him to come and sit next to me. With much of the mood lifted he slowly made his way to the middle of the bed. I took him with both arms and gave him the biggest hug I could give; he pulled away at first, but then completely gave in sobbing with his head buried in my shoulder. Curled up beside me, he seemed altogether smaller than he actually was. He easily dwarfed my size at over 6 feet tall, but in this position he had assumed a very submissive posture. I wrapped the blanket over his legs and feet so he would be more comfortable; this only amplified the effect.

I let him have another cry before starting with my round of questioning. His feelings were important, but I wasn't blind to the fact that he did not address any of the issues. After waiting for things to calm down a bit I started with some of the things I wanted to say.

"Sweetie, you know we can talk about stuff, even personal stuff that's hard to talk about and can even seem impossible to talk about with your mom. I know I'm your mom, but I'm also a person, I've had confusing times and have done things too. I'm not here to make you feel bad or make you feel ashamed. Have you been feeling a bit confused lately?" I was hoping the mood was right for him to open up.

"Mom, it's not that, I'm not really confused or anything." Justin left it at that without getting deeper into the details; there was going to be an element of pulling teeth here.

"Do you feel bad or ashamed about it?"

"Yeah, I do, I just don't know what else to do." His voice sounded resigned to seeing himself as some sort of freak.

"Baby, don't be ashamed, it's not the end of the world or anything."

"Yeah, but you think I'm disgusting now." He said this while choking back his tears.

"I could never think that! And I never have!" I said truthfully and emphatically.

"Sexuality is complex and rarely straightforward and almost never what people project."

"You saw your underwear mom." This statement was almost a rhetorical question implying that I must think he's disgusting after that. It was also the first time either one of us acknowledged what we were actually talking about.

"Honey, yes, I saw the underwear." I said softly, "I saw the stains too." I added so there was no confusion on what I had seen.

I felt the mood and took the chance with a bold question, "Honey, have you been masturbating on them?" It wasn't one that I didn't know the answer to, but one that would show how honest he was willing to be.

"Not really on them, I like wrap them around while doing it." He said this with an air of relief, like he was glad to just tell someone. His open admission to such a private act was not something I really expected and I wasn't sure how to handle it.

My curiosity was very much triggered and now I really wanted to know more. With this out in plain open sight the mood in the room, and on the bed, became lighter. We were no adversaries in this. He was actually enjoying my company.

"Is it the fabric? Like it feels good?"

"Mo-om, it's not just that."

"Is it when you're angry at me?" This notion had occurred to me that it could be an act of frustration with me.

"No, mom, I'm not angry with you." It felt like he wanted to say it but just couldn't get it off his tongue.

"Honey, it's ok, I'm not going to be upset over whatever you tell me."

He seemed to be cuddling up ever closer to me. I was sitting up on a pillow against the wall, he had both his arms around me and was holding me quite tightly, and his head was on my upper shoulder close to my breast. He squirmed from time to time and adjusted to hold on to me in different ways. My left arm was around his shoulders and my free hand would periodically hold his left hand as we spoke. The intimacy can't be understated.

As if breaking with that line of questioning he changed gears a bit, "Mom, I'm a virgin."

I could feel his body and his pulse as he told me this; I could tell this wasn't easy for him to say. I really didn't see what the big deal was or why it was something difficult for him to say. It also wasn't new information for me. I almost wanted to laugh and tell him how little it mattered that he was a virgin at 19, but doing this would have trivialized his feelings.

"Is that a big problem for you?" I asked sincerely.

"Everyone else has done it by now."

He failed to identify just who this, "everybody", was and it is fair to say he was making a grossly exaggerated generalization. I wasn't sure what this had to do with the panties, but he was treating it as a secret of similar proportions. While I was attempting to gather my thoughts with something sympathetic to say, he continued.

"I do it because I like you mom."

I was dumbfounded and shocked at his admission, all I could manage to say was, "Sweetie, you like me?"

"Yeah, I've been masturbating about you mom."

Once the flood gates had opened, he was resolved to tell me everything. Each time he revealed something it was like he was relieved of a bit of weight; weight we carried more easily together. I was shocked, but I did not pull away or recoil in any manner. I kept the same, secure presence that I had become in his bed. His head slipped down to rest on my breast. I kissed the top of his head so he knew he was welcome to stay there. A lot of heat had built between us during the course of our cuddling embrace. I was temporarily at a loss for words, instead I let me body language display my acceptance of him.