Old habits die hard. This morning I called my middle son by the little pet name I called him when he was a baby, something I haven’t done in ages.
The boy froze in his tracks and raised an eyebrow at me.
"Dude, Mom. Don’t call me that. You’re freakin’ my style."
Dude, thanks for the tip. But be on notice. It won’t be the last time. I’m your mother, the person who brought you into this world, the person who loves you more than life and cleaned up your barf and washed your soccer socks and quizzed you on spelling words, and you can count on the fact that I will freak your style whenever I get a chance.
Not only is it part of the job’s description, it’s also one of its biggest perks.