Are We Copacetic, Sunshine?

Driving to work this morning I heard a news story that NASA was looking for the next possible “human conveyance into space.”  

Must admit the first thing that popped into my mind was a giant slingshot. I could see it clearly… the handle as big as a hundred tree trunks tied together.. buried in the ground at a tilt.  The band would be pulled back taut and a crowd of tiny looking bodies would be huddled together in the center of the pocket all excited and ready to go.  Then this big hand would come out of nowhere.. not really attached to any being as far as I could tell… just a floating hand…


I’m not really at my best early in the morning. And I’m not exactly sure how I ended up with a job that has me out of the house before Mr. Sunshine starts peeking up over the horizon.  I’m fairly sure I don’t start earning my paycheck until around 10am..  that’s when my brain wakes up.  Until then I operate on habit and reflex. 
 
Raise your hand if you’re a “morning person”…. Yeah.. I don’t really like you. Nothing personal. But please don’t expect me to respond in a happy tone when you start reeling off your weekend activities first thing Monday morning.  I’m basically still asleep and your incessant talking is disturbing my dream state.  Like I said.. it’s nothing personal.
 
My son is just like me in this particular regard… not many others.. but in this we are copacetic.  I wasn’t entirely sure that was a real word… had to look it up.  We used to use it back in the 80’s.. or maybe the 90’s.  I think I heard it first on some television show.. but again.. I’m not sure.  It’s like “cool.”  Do you remember why we always said things were “cool?”  It certainly wasn’t because they needed a sweater to ward off chill bumps.  I live in Florida.. land of sweltering heat. And if you are not aware of the meaning of sweltering it comes from the latin “shweilintia”… which means “so hot you can fry an egg on the sidewalk.”   Don’t look that up.  Trust me.
 
So in the morning my copacetic son and I are on the same wavelength.  I wake to the alarm. After using the potty….remember we only have one bathroom… I go in and wake up the lump.  The lump whose feet now hang off the end of the bed.  The lump grumbles and rolls to face the opposite direction of my voice. My hand gives a slight shake to the lump’s shoulder.  It moans.  But I am persistent.  With not one ounce of mercy I say, “I don’t want to be up either.. but we have to.. so wake up.” One green eye appears.. some type of advance scout for the troops.  Then I walk out.  As long as one of the troops is ready to go my job is essentially done.  And now I can go back and lie down for a few more minutes.  One bathroom.. remember?
 
You mothers are probably balking at my indifference to the boy’s morning routine.  But look at it this way.  He’s 6’1”… 235 pounds.. solid as a rock.  I don’t think my lack of whistling the Good morning, Sunshine song has hurt him too much.   As for breakfast I refuse to be held accountable for his lack of appetite.  Blame the sun… the gaseous bright orb sun… not the comatose in the morning son.  If the sunshine made an earlier appearance we wouldn’t have any problem.  We’d slide out of bed all happy, rested, and ready to tackle the day.  I don’t promise that I’d be my mom and cook up eggs, sausage, and fried potatoes with hot from the oven biscuits.  But I’m pretty sure I could come up with something.. and not even just poptarts from the box.  I’d even put them in the toaster if he wanted.  I’m such a good mom. Yes I am.  I just don’t like breakfast.  Neither does he.  Trust me.
 
He gets dressed and falls back into bed.  I get up and head back to the bathroom for cosmetic miracle work to fool people into believing I am awake and the dark circles under my eyes are just a new type of make-up the young people are wearing.
 
Have you ever attempted to apply eye liner at 5am?  It’s right up there with those movie scenes where the good guy is strapped to a chair… basically stupid but well muscled bad guy is holding his struggling head as still as possible between two tbone steak sized hands while deviously smart but squirly looking bad guy takes out a needle and starts toward the good guy’s face.  You start to scrunch down in your seat.. squinching your eyes to tiny slits… grimacing at the prospect of being the really hot but in a bad spot good guy.  That needle is aiming directly for the golden flecks within the brown circle of his very sexy right eye.  Holy crap. This isn’t going to be good. Close eyes. Put hands over ears to drown out impending scream of pain and terror.
 
That’s what it’s like… putting on eyeliner at five in the morning. Trust me.
 
Make up finished, I dress for the day which takes about 7 minutes.  I’m not overly organized but I am zombie like in the mornings and it’s a deficit I plan for the night before.  Each night I check out the closet for the next day’s outfit.. right down to shoes and unmentionables.  Unmentionables… that’s what we of the more traditionally reserved, respectable and generally uptight older female generation call bra and panties.  Shhhhhhh.. don’t say that out loud.  People aren’t supposed to know you are wearing such things… on the other hand if you are not wearing them they’d really better not know.  That’s how rumors get started and reputations get made… bless your heart. 
 
Another saying of respectable, reserved and generally closet bitchy females… say whatever you want about anybody anytime.. and as long as you follow up with “bless her heart” you aren’t gossiping or being mean.  Just wise and guiding. Trust me.
 
Walking out of my room and I throw open the returned to sleeping lump that is my son’s door and say, “let’s go.” He rises slowly like a corpse from a newly turned grave.  I don’t see him again until we meet at the car.  “Did you get everything?”.. I’ve learned to ask at least that over the years.  Nothing like getting 3 miles down the road and being told he forgot his shoes.  You basically HAVE to go back for those.  No shirt.. no shoes.. no school.  
 
That really is a weird saying for stores to have.. don’t you think? No shirt, no shoes, no service.  Does that mean if you don’t wear pants you’re good to go as long as the other two articles adorn your body? Think about it.. if you were a clerk at the local Target.. would you rather serve the old guy with no shoes or no pants?  Personally I’d be a little grossed out by either but that’s just me.
 
The drive is automated.  My car is like the one Michael had on Knight Rider.  It knows the way and gets us there in a respectable time and relatively safe manner.  Sam and I are asleep in the back seats.  Just kidding.  We’re in the front.
 
The sun is usually rising as we pull into the high school parking lot.  Teenagers of every size, shape, color, social background, and range of dress are scattered over the visible parts of the campus.  I suspect some of the lesser dressed ones are hidden in nooks and crannies where wandering adult eyes don’t look.  But I’m smart enough not to think about it too deeply.  My kid’s dressed.  He has shirt and shoes.  Even has pants… though they aren’t apparently required at most commercial establishments.
Pulling up to the curb I say as any good mother would, “love you.”  Mumbled response is “love you too.”  Then he’s gone into the waiting crowd.  I pull away.  My job is done.  With barely 20 words exchanged between us since waking.   We are a well functioning, fully copacetic pair.
 
Heading south toward my own office I sometimes wonder if I’m the most effective mom I can be.  Would he be an even happier and more successful kid if I sang “good morning, sunshine” and fried up some potatoes for him each day? Have I in some way doomed my son to a less than perfect life with my lack of pre-sun social skills?  Then I figure if I did it’s too late now to do anything about it anyway.  Time for work.  And those people expect me to speak and function.  We are not copacetic.  Trust me.
 
I wonder if there is room for two more in the pocket of that slingshot?  Outer space is supposed to be very quiet.