When my son asked me to spend Mother’s Day with him, I imagined cooking his favorite dinner and getting tickets for a concert. If I were lucky, he would bring me roses.
Peter had other plans. He invited me to spend two weeks on the road.
As I climbed into the cab, I noticed his bed was neatly made. I wasn’t sure my heart could stand the shock.
“You’ll be more comfortable in this,” Peter said and tossed me a T-shirt. I stepped behind the curtain and changed out of my new red silk blouse I’d bought for the trip. I pulled on the T-shirt, and I had to admit it did feel better.
“Is there some place I can hang my blouse?” I asked.
“Sure, give it to me,” Peter said. He took the blouse, rolled it into a wrinkled knot the size of a baseball and tossed it onto a top shelf behind a blue flannel shirt. I never saw it again.
After hauling a load of tires from Tulsa to Little Rock, we pulled off at a truck stop. A waitress said she liked my shirt.
“It’s a gift from my son,” I bragged.
“Well, I admire you for being brave enough to wear it,” she said with a smile.
“It’s just a white T-shirt,” I said.
“Did you read it before you put it on?” she snickered.
I dashed into the ladies room and yanked off the shirt. On the back was a picture of a rig and red letters that said, “I’m a Bad Mother Trucker!”
“Just wait until I get my hands on that kid!” I whispered through gritted teeth. There was nothing I could do but put the shirt back on and join Peter in the café.
He’d ordered for us, and the chubby waitress was setting down the plates. I was glad to see Peter eat a good, hot meal. I worried about him living on fast food while on the road. Peter ate his meat and potatoes and left his vegetables – just like when he was a kid.
The waitress returned.
“You folks care for anything else?” she asked and glared at Peter. “Don’t you even think about ordering dessert until you eat your vegetables.”
I smiled at her and blinked back a tear. She’d done something I’d never been able to do: get Peter to clean his plate. As long as there were waitresses like this one, I wouldn’t have to worry about Peter eating right.
We were carrying 14,000 pounds of auto parts to Ohio when I started getting sleepy.
“I’ll just splash some water on my face, and I’ll wake right up,” I said.
I reached for the plastic bottle in the cooler next to me and poured some liquid into my hand. I rubbed my face and smoothed back my hair.
A few minutes later I couldn’t see.
“I’m blind!” I yelled.
Peter pulled off the road.
“What’s wrong? Are you having a stroke or something? Should I call for help?” he said as he tried to pry open my sealed eyelids.