Pinky's Book Link

Friday, November 8, 2013

My Son the Lawyer

I’ve never lived vicariously through my children which is why it sometimes irks me when I bump into someone I haven’t seen for a long time and they ask, “So what are your kids up to now, Pinky?” 

Deep down I know how they want me to reply.

They want me to say, “My kids are great! What are yours up to?”

Their question is a ploy… a ruse, because all they want is to do is regale me with lofty tales of their own golden childrens’ exploits.

“Oh, Nathan’s a chief accountant for a big multi-national company in Hong Kong, it’s terrible really because we hardly ever get to see him, Raphael’s an obstetrician (which is ironic because he married a gynaecologist) and little Monique is a classical dancer with the Australian ballet,” they’ll respond with an affectation of modesty.

It’s true. They’d never ask me what my kids are ‘up to now’ if their kid was doing ten years non-parole in Long Bay would they?

It seems at last, after twenty-four years, Pinky has bragging rights too.

Jonah, my twenty-two year old son, has finished his law degree and requested my presence at his graduation ceremony in the big smoke at the beginning of December.

I wonder how many ways I’ll discover to weasel the phrase, “My son the lawyer” into conversations from now on?

“That’s a nice coloured shirt you’re wearing! My son the lawyer has one just like it!”

“Sorry I’m late. I was just talking to my son the lawyer on the phone.”

“We need a table for two please; my son the lawyer will be joining us.”

“We’ll need two Meatlovers pizzas delivered thanks, my son the lawyer’s coming over and he has a huge appetite.”

I could keep going but I won’t.

As I’m going to the expense of jet setting down especially for this auspicious occasion anyway, I thought I might book into a health resort on the Gold Coast for a week. Visualise Pinky, all alone in luxurious accommodation, hidden away from the vultures picking at my bones in this household.

It would sort of be like rehab, I thought; enforced non-drinking, compulsory exercise and a prescribed organic-only diet.

I imagined myself reclining on a lazy-boy with slices of cucumber over my eyes and an exotic umbrella-adorned mocktail beside me.

But when I looked at the websites there were all kinds of unsavoury activities on the list of options.

I couldn’t picture myself going to Laughing Yoga classes; especially when my diet would most likely consist of lentils and bean curd. The mind boggles at what may transpire.

The resort boasted Australia’s longest flying-fox. Hurtling at a rapid speed from the top of one telephone pole to another is not really my cup of tea. Besides, that would take up I’m guessing, three minutes of my time, so unless I was like those kids at Dream World who keep going back on the same ride again and again, it hardly seems worth the effort.

The five day package also included a fifty minute massage. To be quite honest the thought of a stranger rubbing me all over my body for almost an hour is unsettling so I’d probably wind up skipping that too.

Mountain bike riding, daily health lectures… meh.

So instead of rehab I’ve decided to fork out extra money for lucky Lulu to accompany me on a shopping holiday. We’ll stay at a hotel in the city and spend our days bonding like only mothers and daughters are able, gorging on delicious food and clothing boutiques.

Of course Lulu’s also looking forward to catching up with her big brother, Jonah.
Did I mention that he’s a lawyer?