We loved to swim. One day, she wore a mommy-looking two-piece bathing suit. She saw me looking at a faded scar on her abdomen.
“Tommy, you were a big baby, and I am very small. I was in labor for 18 hours before they did a Caesarian. They had to cut me open to bring you to me. There were complications: you are my one and only, but you are also my first and last. If anything ever happens to you I will be alone forever. Please, be careful – you must promise me you will never do anything that will cause me to lose you. Alcohol, drugs, cars, please don’t do it. Even if your friends dare you, please don’t do anything risky. I cannot live without you.”
“I’ll be careful Mom, don’t worry.”
She smiled, but I could see she was deeply concerned and worried.
Like most testosterone-saturated teenage boys I had insatiable fantasies; their only subject was Mom. When she was out of the house I would explore the drawer where she kept her panties and bras. I’d spread them out on her bed and revel in looking at and touching them. This most unrighteous and unholy practice was repeated numerous times, until the day Mom came home early, and upon entering her room, found me in her room with her underwear arranged on the bed. Panicked, I blurted
“This is not what it looks like…”
It was clear even while the words were being spoken that it was a lame and dumb-ass thing to say. Her eyes were wide open; she was shocked. The only course of action for me was to drop to the floor and cover my face in shame.
“I am so sorry Momma.”
She reached for me, and gently lifted me up; kneeling in front of me she wiped my eyes while holding my head to her bosom in a most motherly manner. Mom’s voice was soft, sweet, and tender.
“Tommy, it’s alright, I understand. Don’t be ashamed. You are growing up. You’re at the age where you are obsessed with girls. Your body is changing, your hormones are raging, and you are no doubt confused by all of your feelings and emotions.”
She struggled to find the right words, and was nearly in tears.
“It’s not your fault, Tommy, it is mine. If I wasn’t a slut you would have a father, and he would be helping you to work through this challenging time of your life.”
The sound of the word was vulgar, profane, and dirty. All the more so coming from her lips – she would never say ‘hell’ or ‘damn’. Regaining her composure she said
“It’s normal for boys to be curious and have fantasies. Most of the women at work have shared similar stories about their sons. Let’s get ready for dinner, Ok?”
Trying not to whimper I said “It wasn’t right, I’ll never touch your things again. Please forgive me.”
“I already have. I love you more than you’ll ever know, and I always will.”
“Mom… please never say that word again.”
She didn’t ask for clarification of which word I was referring to. She tried to diffuse the tension with small talk. Breaking into her mischievous smile, pointing to the clothes on the bed she said “Tommy, which ones are your favorites?”
“Mom…”
“Tommy…”
“Mom, please…”
“Tommy…”