Earlier this week, I wrote about my dismal attempts to have my sons read my memoir before it’s published this month – Vetting works much better than bribery.
My eldest son when armed with a mission to vet my memoir, passed on watching The Daily Show with us, and instead took Stretch Marks and went to his room. I wouldn’t have been surprised if, as I switched off lights and reset the thermostat before turning in, I had found the paperback left on the bottom of the stairs or on the dining room windowsill.
I didn’t. I also didn’t ask him the next morning.
Later that afternoon, I was so anxiously caught up in finalizing the proof and book cover design that I forgot to ask my eldest if he’d read any of it.
I didn’t have to.
“I liked it,” my eldest said. I cocked my head at him, I thought he was talking about some cold leftover he’d just wolfed down. He laughed. “Your book, I liked it.”
“Really?” I sounded sixteen.
He nodded. “Impressive, your writing, I mean.” I took a very long deep breath and sipped some tea. My knees shook.
“I finished it last night,” he said.
I choked up and thanked him. I forgot my previous anxiety and fought the urge to channel Sally Fields during her awkward Oscar acceptance speech and blather, “you like me, you really like me!”
Instead, I started by asking what had surprised him.
Everything he’d forgotten about in Ciudad Juárez was his answer.