Just call me Joan. I think it's best to keep my full name secret. Once you have read my story and found out how naughty I've been you will probably understand why.
I'm a forty year old woman with a nice, full figure and I have one son, called Adam, who lived with his father after we divorced eight years ago. He's twenty now with a good job and a place of his own. I've been to stay with him several times.
This new arrangement couldn't have come sooner. The previous custodial arrangement meant that I only had limited access to my son. One day a week was about the best I was going to get. It was nowhere near enough. My son is the most important thing in the world to me and I just couldn't bear the long separations from him. Despite my unhappiness about the situation there wasn't a lot that I could do. I didn't have the money or the stomach to fight another bitter legal battle. Besides, it wouldn't be fair on our son. His well-being always came first. So instead, I channelled my frustrations into making the few days we had together as enjoyable as possible. In the beginning, when he was just a skinny, little blue-eyed school boy, we went to informative places like zoos and museums. I'm glad to say my efforts to provide entertainment paid off very well. He was very curious about everything he saw.
"Mum, why are the chimpanzees picking at each other?" He asked me once, turning his innocent face up at mine.
"I'm not sure sweetheart. I think it's to do with fleas."
"Fleas?" He persisited.
"Yes, they pick fleas off of each other."
"Why do they do that mum?
"Er...let's go ask the warden sweetheart."
For a while I called him Quizzy. There was no limit to the number of things he could ask in one day. Back then he wanted to know it all. I prided myself on being able to cater for his needs somewhat. It wasn't for me to make it all happen, but seeing the happiness and gratitude in his eyes made it all worthwhile. It was important for me to give him something to remember his childhood by other than divorce. He used to complain that getting his father to play games with him was like getting blood from a stone. There wasn't going to be same negligence from me.
Those scattered days with Adam were unspeakably precious. When I had to drive him home at the end of every visit my heart nearly broke. I knew he was sad too. He'd get out the car, give me a soft kiss on the cheek, solemnly say goodbye, then saunter up the driveway and disappear inside. Our parting was always followed the same sad ritual, and I always cried bitterly. By the time he was fifteen he had changed noticeably. He had gotten harder and tougher. Curiosity wast ousted by a need for thrills and rough-and-tumble stuff. He was still as kind to me as he'd ever been. Although, he did relieve me of my duties as day-planner and appoint himself instead. My ideas of fun were now 'antiquated' according to my son. So we waved goodbye to the Chimps and heralded a new dawn of football, skateboarding and cart-racing. He had entered upon the thrill-seeking phase of his life. For a worrisome mother such as myself it could be hard on the nerves.
"Sweetheart," I ventured to ask him after he'd crashed his go-cart into a wall of tyres at the local race-track. "Is it really necessary to take so many risks?"
"Mum," He replied cockilly. "The risks are what makes it."
I accompanied him to countless sporting venues over the next couple of years. Being such a quiet and unadventurous person I felt quite out-of-place, but as I wanted to be supportive there was no question of me not being there. Anyway, I also knew that it was the only real way to be with my son. I mean, he wouldn't want to know me very long if all we did was bake cakes together would he?
I don't know much about sports, but I do know that Adam was very good at them. At least, the admiration of his peers would lead me to think so. He had certainly gotten popular lately. A far cry from a few years back when he was considered to be a loner at school. Many times I'd be driving him and a couple of his friends home hearing nothing but compliments about his skateboarding prowess all the way. In truth, I was impressed too. Not so much about the sporting aspect as in the way he was growing up. Once upon a time he was skinny and awkward. Now, thanks to his new and robust lifestyle, he was beginning to fill-out. A dalliance in karate and basketball had made him assured on his feet too. There was a catlike confidence about the way he moved.
I still tried hard to encourage intellectual pursuits in my son. It was important to me that he grew up to have a gentle side. I upbraided him when he swore, corrected his bad english, and encouraged him to read more. Manners have always been important to me. Perhaps that's why I became a librarian and put myself in a peaceful, polite envrionment with high-minded works of literature all around me. On his sixteenth birthday I gave him two distinctly different presents. One, a bike, the other, a copy of Little Women. Predictably enough he was delighted about the first and perplexed by the second.
"What's this junk?" He said, holding it at arms length
"Sweetheart, that 'junk' is actually a very great book. It's also happens to be my favourite. My grandfather read it to me when I was growing up and I'd like for you to read it too."
"But mum, it's about women."
"What's wrong with that? Women can be interesting too you know."
"Is there any sex in it?"
"Adam! Don't be so rude. It's not that kind of book. Now are you going to read it or not."
"I'll give it a go. Seeing as you bought it for me."
"That's all I ask sweetheart. It's good to read. It improves the mind. You don't want to be end up a dunce do you? I added rather snobbishly.
To his credit he read it through enthusiastically and was suprised at how much he enjoyed it. Unfortunately it was a one-off. I never saw him read anything again, except for car manuals and sporting magazines of course. Still, I flattered myself from that day on that any culture he possessed was down to my persistence.
Anyway, books or no books, these new times together, although quite different, were still very important to both of us. Parting had not gotten any easier. There was the same deep pain whenever the time to say goodbye arrived. What touched me the most was that, in spite of his tough new persona, Adam still gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek just before getting out of the car. I still cried the same bitter tears too.
For several more years I had my strict quota of days rationed out. I endured them as best I could, but worried that I was actually getting quite depressed by it all. But when things were looking pretty dark everything changed. One lovely spring day my son turned eighteen. At last he had the power to rule his own life. The very first thing he did was go and tell his father that he was leaving. Before I knew it he had rented a flat. I was while I was at home in the garden that he wrang. Our conversation was quick and excited. It went like this:
"Hey mum, I've got great news and I wan't you to be the first to know. You know that place I telling you about? Well, it's mine! Everything was finalised this morning. I'm moving in at the weekend. Now you'll be able to come and see whenever you want."
"Sweetheart that's wonderful! Are you alright to manage everything? Do you want me to help with the moving?"
The realisation hadn't sunk in yet. I was listening to Adam in a daze.
