I met Alex's police academy friends this weekend. It was pretty exciting to finally have faces for names, but I was caught off guard when a few of them dove right on in to the hard questions.
"Were you always supportive of Alex wanting to be a cop?" "Do you worry about something happening to him?"
I'd like to think I answered well enough, but I was a few deep before entering the bar on account of our Saturday night custody arrangement (half with your friends, half with mine--and my friends serve champs like Niagara serves water). I tend to dwell on words, rewriting conversations that have happened, might happen, couldn't happen in my head as I go about my day, so I feel the need to share my thoughts on those hard questions here, more eloquently than when I answered the first time, with a sloshing glass of Two Hearted and fingers sticky from beer.
I was always supportive of Alex becoming a cop. I've loved him since we were sixteen years old and I know the difference between when he's being stubborn and (now ironically) rebelling against authority, and when he's made up his mind about something he believes in. When he told me he was going to try to become a cop, he wasn't telling me a possible solution to a problem (that he didn't want a desk job), he wasn't telling me an option. He was telling me that he wanted to be a cop, he was telling me what he believed in. So I didn't need to waste time helping him figure out what to do about not wanting a desk job, I didn't need to give him options. He wasn't asking for my ideas or permission, he was asking for my support. And I gave it, because I didn't need any options either.
As for worry, I'm not prepared to answer at this time. He graduates tomorrow. Will probably be on the streets sometime early next week. I don't think I'll know worry until the first time his shift runs late and he can't call. Or the first time I hear sirens at night and know they might be his. Let's wait on that kind of worry and for now worry about the normal things, like what we're going to have for dinner.
I've got an easy answer for that: mushrooms. Garlicky, buttery mushrooms and a nice baguette to soak up the juices. Add a spinach and toasted pecan salad with fresh cranberry dressing and you've got a meal. We've been into these mushrooms since November, and I can't see getting sick of them. Which is something some of you readers might be shocked to read me write.
I used to be a very picky eater. White and orange foods only. Rice? My nightmare. My mother told me once when I asked her to take me with her to Poland that she wouldn't take me until I learned to like mushrooms. Well, I'm officially eating mushrooms, Mom. I hope you are prepared to eat your words.