Individually wrapped packages

Am in the car, nearing the end of three days of a pretty much non-stop, searing, make-you-vomit headache. Not driving, thank God. Fifteen-year-old Hugh has his driver's permit; he's at the wheel and I am grateful. Really. He's a good driver, alert, careful, already probably better than me on a good day, let alone a Headache Day. We have been to the mall and I have bought him clothes so he's in a good mood. Me, I'm just barely hanging on.

And then I lose my grip and plummet downward. Don't know why--it all just adds up, I guess. Hugh is chatting pleasantly and I want so hard to listen, to respond well, to be a Good Mother. So many of our interactions are hostile, hurtful, fraught, and I long to appreciate this moment, to enjoy his company and the fact that we are Getting Along. But I can't. I just want to be home, in bed, alone, without light or sound or heat or expectations. And then, God help me, I start to cry.

Hugh's a cheerful, live-in-the-moment, it's-all-about-now sort of soul. He doesn't believe in planning or consequences or regret or apologies or any emotions, really, other than enjoyment and a fierce loyalty to friends. And I am sitting in the passenger's seat next to him, crying.

I blurt out, "It must be crummy, having a mom who always has headaches and feels rotten."

Silence.

Then, Hugh, quietly: "It's not so bad."

Me, through the tears: "Geez. It's gotta be. I mean, I don't like being with me, and I'm me."

Hugh: "Well, I think you should smoke pot."

I'm astounded. So he's been paying attention to my discussions with Keith about medicinal marijuana? Lurching into Unknown Territory--conversation with a sympathetic Hugh--I regress into total self-pity: "I don't even know how to smoke!" I wail.

"You can try a pipe," he suggests, helpfully. "I guess I could bake pot into brownies," I admit, and Hugh is exultant "Yeah! In Colorado, you can buy weed cookies! In individually wrapped packages!"

And suddenly, the pain recedes, just for a moment, and I am in a place of grace. "This is My body," in the form of individually wrapped packages of Colorado-produced cannabis cookies offered by my teenaged son.