146. Mother and son

I am feeling brave this morning. My son is out on the pitch and I have two hours before he comes home soaking wet and caked in mud. I step into his room and as I make my way to the windows to draw the curtains I nearly trip over his large suitcase (what is it with my kids and large suitcases?).

Once I have some light I look at the case. I cannot work out if it is half empty or half full. If he is in the process of emptying it of the dirty stuff or filling it with clean things. Which is a really dreadful state of affairs. As I am about to leave the room, my hand poised on the door handle ready to turn it, something catches my attention. Am I seeing things? Am I having visions? It is definitely not hot enough for  a mirage. 

I try to calm myself down. I listen to the reassuring noise of weekend family life downstairs. My husband moaning at the kids about the dishwasher, about the person who finishes the milk goes and gets some more, Maths-Head saying she has got absolutely no time at all as she has got 37 exercices to do, Baby asking for a new skateboard and my husband telling her 'An other one? How many skate boards do you need?'

All is good. All is normal. 

Which gives me the strength to go on. I lift the Clermont-Ferrand team shirt and yes! There it is!!! A book! A book! My son carries a book in his suitcase! And a real one! With lots of pages made out of paper!

Then my heart sinks as I think that maybe he just carries a book around to make his mum happy. I pick it up stupidly thinking that I should be using a handkerchief so as not to leave my fingerprint all over it ... I have the book in my hands and I can see there is a bookmark in it! Quite close to the end. Which sends me into a panic again. What’s he going to read next?????

Then I think calmly and say to myself that it is Book 1 of a set of 5 books. The set I got him for Christmas! I look around the room to find the set. It’s not on the bookshelf, not on the desk, not even under hte bed, I can’t find it as anywhere. I check the waste paper basket ... Nothing.

Would the complete box set be in the boarding house? Does he read in the boarding house? Surely the staff would have let me know! This is quite an achievement. Due to his mother's first-rate educational methods.  

Later on, once he has showered and is presentable - and hungry, I ask him, in all innocence, as if I am asking him to choose between fusilli or spaghetti:

'You took your books to the boarding house?' 

He sighs, deeply, and raises his eyes to the ceiling - which I ignore for once.

'Yes, mum!' An other big sigh. ' And, you can relax, mum ... no-one is going to steal them from me.' 

He can read my thoughts. But I am too excited to ponder this and he is not mature enough to witness my excitement. I go outside, pretending to have an urgent matter in the outhouse and once safely hidden in there, I jump up and down with joy, punching the air in front of me.