“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. You know me. I’m gonna be the life of that party.” I do theraise the roofgesture, which people don’t do enough anymore. When I was an exceptionally talented teen actor, I had a three-episode arc on the Disney Channel’s hit seriesThat’s So Wizard. I played a cocky wizard who was mean to Greyson Manning, so he put a spell on me that made me do late-nineties dance moves nonstop until I apologized. I didn’t apologize until that third episode, so my arms got quite a workout.
My son gives me the side eye.
“Wanna bet?”
“You hate parties.”
“I don’t hate parties. I hate being around people at festive gatherings if they expect me to smile and pretend I don’t think they’re boring idiots. But some of the people I despise the least in this world will be there tomorrow. So it won’t be as horrible as it could be. Probably. But don’t call people boring idiots,” I add, parentally. “I don’t mind if you tell someoneIcall people boring idiots, though.”
“Okay. Are you bringing a plus-person?”
“A what? A plus-one? You’re my plus-one, buddy.”
“I’m going to be pretty busy talking to the other kids. I think you should bring a lady with you. Remember the restaurant you took me to forom-e-letteslast week?”
He pronouncesomelettesas a three-syllable word. I never correct him. Partly because it’s so cute the way he says it and partly because I have no idea if I’m the one who’s been pronouncing it incorrectly or not. “You mean the restaurant where you got up on the table and started dancing around, singing the theme song toMickey Mouse Clubhouse?”
He shakes his head, trying so hard not to laugh. “That never happened.”
“Oh, I’m thinking about the other seven-year-old guy I had breakfast with.”
“Dad. What about the waitress at that place?” he continues. “The one with the butterfly on her neck?”
That woman was even older than Elaine. Why does my son want me to date someone my mom’s age? I saw how worried he was about me last year when Alyssa started dating Barry. So I went out with a few of the women my old friends fromThat’s So Wizardtried to set me up with. Turns out those assholes were just doing some “Lazy Wingmen” comedy bit and I wasnot supposed to take it seriously. Have they not met me? I take everything seriously. I took those blind dates seriously. And I hated every single minute of them. “You really don’t have to worry about me,” I tell my son. “Okay?”
He sighs again, and it looks like he thinks he’s failed at making me happy, and it breaks my heart. So I tell him what my dad never told me. I tell him this every chance I get.
“Hey. I’m really proud of you, buddy. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You know what, though? You’ve got a really big, fantastic booger in the lower right quadrant of your left nostril, so we’re gonna have to take care of that before you get out of this car, okay?”
“For real?”
“I am so serious.”
“How come you didn’t say anything before?!”
“I was waiting to see if you’d figure it out for yourself. Totally fine that you didn’t. It’s just hanging out there, super chill.” I open up the middle console and pull out a Kleenex and a baby wipe, because dealing with that thing is going to be a two-step process at least. I hold the Kleenex up to Paxton.
“I wonder how long it’s been there.”
I don’t tell him it was there when I picked him up from school, because I know he doesn’t care all that much. He’s seven. At least half the nostrils in his class have boogers in them at any given time. But if it’s there when he sees his mom later, she’ll make him feel bad about it, and he’s anxious enough about tomorrow as it is.
He huffs, unfastens his seat belt. Then he removes his glasses and places them on the dashboard, acting like this is an unbearably cumbersome process. I watch as he carefully rollsup the sleeves of his button-down private-school shirt and then opens the glove compartment. He sprays hand sanitizer into one palm, rubbing it into both hands, and then holds his hands up like he’s about to perform surgery. “Okay. Kleenex.”
He can’t see himself in any of the car mirrors, so he flares his nostrils at me as I hand him the Kleenex and I watch him dig around up there, counting to thirty in my head. Finally, he checks the tissue for treasure. He finds it and then tilts his head back and purses his lips, giving me a clear view of his nostrils. “Did I get it all?”
“You sure did. Good job.”
He hands me the balled-up Kleenex, applies hand sanitizer again, rolls his sleeves down, puts his glasses back on. Then he looks at the clock on the dashboard and says, “Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
