mama3girls-phnig

Y’all.

I keep trying to write a post about Mason, and every time I start, some sh*t happens and I lose the plot. Which, now that I think about it, may actually BE the plot.

Except not this plot.

Because everything I’m about to tell you happened after the story I was actually trying to write. I got distracted. Again. By surgery, morphine, and a completely theoretical roof collapse.

Which feels on brand at this point.

Mason is between job transfers and living upstairs, and I only have one month left before he leaves for Utah to go do cool twenty-three-year-old things. Now if you ask Mason why he’s moving to Utah, he’ll probably say, “I got a job.”

Which is technically accurate.

But if you ask me why he’s moving to Utah, I’d say he’s trying to figure out who he is outside the ecosystem that raised him. And if you ask Mason what he thinks about my answer, he’d probably say, “Aunt Jenn, I literally just got a job.”

See what I’m dealing with?

In fact, I think I said something like this to Jimmy last week: “Mason would move to Utah even if he lost that job tomorrow.” And right on cue, Mason walks into the kitchen.

“Aunt Jenn, I have a job.”

“Yes.”

“A real job.”

“Yes.”

“I’m salaried.”

“Congratulations.”

“I can work more than forty hours.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not getting in trouble.”

“Don’t let facts ruin a perfectly good story, Mason.”

Because here’s the thing. I know where his boss lives. And if I report him for working too much, he might get fired. And then he’d have to stay in my house longer. So honestly, he should watch his attitude.

Anyway.

I keep telling him, “Mason. I’m trying to write a post about you.” And then something happens and we never get to it.

Trust me though.

He’s aware.

Have I mentioned Mason’s nervous system? The second floor of my house could literally collapse into the first floor and Mason would look up and say, “Woah.” Pause. “I’m gonna check that out.”

calmly walks upstairs to investigate

And if you think this story is theoretical, only parts of it are. But I do not want to get distracted from the story I’m trying to tell about Mason, so don’t ask questions.

Not even in the comments.

That is a different writing assignment.

Anywhoooo.

No wonder my dogs keep abandoning me for him. Even Summer.

SUMMER.

The dog I literally call Shadow because she follows me everywhere now follows Mason around like she pays rent—to him—and he doesn’t technically pay rent. I suspect when Mason buys fajitas for us for dinner and grills them outside on MY GRILL, he’s feeding certain dogs behind my back.

“It’s okay, Aunt Jenn. She doesn’t bug me.”

Fine.

Take my dog.

Take Utah too.

Apparently we’re all moving now.

The thing about Mason is that I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him truly rattled. He’s twenty-three years old, built like a Greek god, has offensively good hair, and absolutely hates when I say either of those things. Which means I will continue.

He’s single. Employed. Surrounded by friends. Including an alarming number of females. I’m not judging. I’m simply committed to accurate reporting. And before anybody asks, no, I have not asked him about that either.

See a theme developing?

Against all known laws of nature, Mason took a three-hour nap yesterday. I’ve been trying to convince that child to take naps since he was approximately zero years old. When he woke up, still floating around in that weird post-nap twilight zone where you’re technically conscious but spiritually unavailable, I made my move.

“Hey. Before you go out with your friends tonight, will you take me to your favorite burger place?”

“Last Place Burgers?”

“Maybe. The one that brews their own beer?”

Mason stared at me. You know that look when someone is trying to decide whether correcting you is worth the effort? I watched the correction rise all the way to his lips.

Then die peacefully and return to sleep.

“Yes, Aunt Jenn. Let me wake up, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

Jungian theory all wrapped up into this whole nap sitch. 

But that’s not actually the story. That’s the problem. None of this is the story. The story I’m trying to tell about Mason happened before all of this. Before the burger conversation. Before the nap. Before I got sidetracked by whatever fresh chaos wandered through my brain.

Earlier that day, Mason asked, “Aunt Jenn, would you like to ride bikes today?” And with complete sincerity I said, “Yes.” Then stopped talking.

Now Mason knows me. He knows there are usually forty-seven additional words coming. So he waited. Raised one eyebrow. And instead of saying something normal like, “That sounds fun,” I said, “Start praying.”

For context, I had nasal surgery the week before. The pain got bad enough that I ended up in the ER. The ER gave me morphine. Which, in hindsight, may explain several things. What I’m realizing while writing this is that Mason may not actually know I drove myself to the ER. Or that I came home still coming down off morphine. Or maybe he does know.

I don’t know.

Because I didn’t ask.

And that, my friends, is how people miss each other while living in the same house. Live. In real time. While I’m supposedly writing a post about somebody.

Anyway.

Mason looked at me. Nodded. And said, “Okay.” Then walked away.

Cool.

Cucumber.

That child has the most stable nervous system I’ve ever seen. He was tested for the gifted program with my daughter Tatum when they were little. They ended up sharing classes. And because he lived with us on and off through the years, he basically became an unofficial triplet.

Which means somebody is eventually going to bring up the Harry Potter closet. To which I would like the record to reflect: Mason made himself Harry Potter.

Not me.

The child voluntarily moved into a closet under the stairs because he did not want to share a room with his female cousins. Before anybody feels sorry for him, this closet contained a PlayStation, Wi-Fi, electricity, headphones, and significantly more amenities than Harry Potter ever received.

In hindsight, it was less “cupboard under the stairs” and more “introvert studio apartment.”

If I asked Mason what that experience was like, he’d probably say, “Nah, man. I loved it.” And honestly? I believe him.

Begrudgingly, I accept that this makes me some form of Aunt Petunia. But with snacks. And Wi-Fi. And significantly more emotional availability.

Still.

I haven’t actually asked.

Which brings me to one of my favorite things about Mason. The child can walk into a room, say one sentence, and somehow become the wisest person there.

The other night we were watching the Spurs game. Everyone was fired up. The room was loud. The opinions were louder. We were analyzing fouls, debating strategy, emotionally adopting players, and trying to determine whether Victor Wembanyama needed a Buddhist monk, a hug, or both.

And then Mason said:

“This is when we fuck up. Every time. We need to play slow. Slow it down.”

And honestly, there it was. Basketball wisdom. Life wisdom. The kind of wisdom that is deeply annoying because somebody twenty-three years old just said it in seven words. Or maybe three. 

“Oh my God! Thank you, Mason! That is the first chapter of the book we’re writing on this freaking finals series! And you did it in 7 words. Actually, maybe 3!”–Me.  

Slow It Down.

When pressure rises, people speed up. They force things. They react. They stop paying attention. They forget what game they’re trying to win. Mason saw it in real time. He wasn’t trying to sound profound. He was just watching the game and telling the truth. And somehow, in the middle of a Spurs game, he gave us the chapter title.

Slow it down.

Mason for the silent win. Every single time.

And that’s not just a Spurs thing. The other night I was eating chips. Two chips. Exactly two. Mason looked at my plate and immediately started talking about nutrition. Naturally, I assumed he was criticizing my food choices. As it turns out, he was actually talking about Jimmy.

That distinction matters.

Because one thing I’ve noticed about Mason is that he notices things. He notices things other people miss. He is, whether anybody asked for one or not, the family food police. If he thinks something is unhealthy, he’ll mention it. If he thinks something doesn’t make sense, he’ll mention it. If he thinks you’re being ridiculous, he’ll probably mention that too.

But he can never really get a word in edgewise, so now I’m wondering how much wisdom wrapped in concisely accurate humorous mentions our family has missed over the years.

Jimmy’s response is usually, “I eat what I want. Pass the steak sauce.” Mine is, “Fair point. Also who bought the vegetables currently getting cold on your plate?” And Mason just keeps going.

Which brings me back to Utah.

Because while the rest of us are turning Utah into a symbolic pilgrimage, Mason’s primary concern appears to be his cats. Not housing. Not friends. Not moving across the country. Honestly, he does “care if the girl he meets loves Jesus” but he’s more focused on the trip.

Cats. Cats are the primary concern.

At one point we were in the middle of some family nonsense and I announced, “Does everyone realize Mason keeps bringing up Utah at an alarming rate?” Every female in the room immediately turned and looked at him. Like a choir. Like a jury. Like cheerleaders hearing a whistle.

Mason looked up.

“What?”

“You didn’t hear me?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Pause.

“I was trying to figure out what I could leave behind because I need to prioritize my two cats on the road trip to Utah.”

I think that’s the exact moment all the girls got nervous. Including me. Not sure what Jimmy was doing because I don’t remember him having any concerns. Here we all are, in the shared living room, and the males are in very different head places. The ladies were having a family systems seminar. Mason was doing feline logistics.

I said, “Mason. I’m coming with you. Jesus.” This isn’t Amy and Brian making a decision on who to prioritize life wise. — Dean Koontz ( @deankoontzofficial ), The Darkest Evening of the Year

To be clear, I was coming in a separate car. This was not a choice between me and the cats. The cats had already won.

Later he started talking about finding somebody to watch them when he traveled. And because apparently I know nothing about cats, I said, “They’re cats. Can’t you just leave food, water, and a metric ton of litter and come back eventually?”

Mason looked tired and confused but, for accuracy, I don’t actually know what he was feeling because I didn’t ask—but I felt he felt that way.

“My cats get lonely.”

My cats get lonely.

I told Dani–my best friend who is also a committed cat rescuer in San Antonio–this story. She immediately said, “He’s a cat daddy.” Apparently that means a man with a giant heart who rearranges his life around high-maintenance creatures.

And honestly?

That may be the most accurate description of Mason I’ve ever heard. Because he’s been doing that his whole life. Cats. Friends. Family. Grandmothers.

And, fine, probably neurotic aunts.

But I would like the record to reflect that Mason doesn’t follow national park rules. And that’s all I’m going to say due to personal concerns that the government may see this post and start asking personal safety hazard questions. And for those who may be perusing this reflection and making connections? It happened “when the sun was going down.”

He can’t afford fines right now.

Mason has a cat daddy heart. He’s the kind of person who takes care of things—truly any living thing that may be standing in front of him needing something. And I guess, from this specific viewpoint, vegetables can still be important, but they aren’t EVERYTHING.

And yes.

Money too.

Mason thinks about money constantly. Work. Savings. Gas. Food. Utah. Planning. The man treats financial security like a competitive sport. And honestly, that’s probably one of the reasons he’s going to be just fine wherever he lands. He pays attention. He plans ahead. He notices details most people overlook.

This is where Aunt Jenn enters the chat. Because I’ve watched him work all day. I’ve watched him finish conference calls and immediately drive across town to help somebody. I’ve watched him miss Spurs games because somebody needed him. I’ve watched him buy dinner for his grandmother, deliver it while she was sick, help her log into things, and show up when she needed help.

And then I’ve watched him get fussed at because he didn’t answer his phone.

This is usually where I become difficult. Because from where I’m sitting, “thank you” seems like a perfectly reasonable response–and this viewpoint often gets me into an alarming amount of trouble inside our family ecosystem…

Maybe that’s why I keep standing up for him. Not because he’s helpless. Lord knows he’s not helpless. The child could probably survive a roof collapse, a zombie apocalypse, two emotionally needy cats, and a hostile corporate merger without his blood pressure changing.

But because sometimes the quiet people don’t get credit for everything they’re carrying. The loud people tell you what they’re carrying. The quiet people just pick it up and keep walking.

And if I actually ask him about any of this? There’s a very real chance this entire post collapses in on itself. Because after all these words, Utah, cats, money, grandmothers, Harry Potter closets, Spurs games, morphine, and at least three unrelated side quests, Mason will probably look at me and say:

“It’s not a big deal, Aunt Jenn.”

Lord Jesus. Literally.

That’s the problem. Because I think Mason and I define “big deal” very differently. And maybe we also define “obsessed” differently. I’m out here trying to keep humans alive. He’s out here living his best life.

(Side note: I can make a solid theological point that God is obsesses with His people, and I try not weaponize scripture until it’s dire.)

And maybe that’s why I finally asked him a question. Not a therapist “in training” question. Certainly not a non-leading question. I looked at him and said,

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

Mason looked at me and said, “No.”

Then he stopped talking.

And for once in my life, I shut up.

I waited.

Eventually he said, “I was really young.” And then he told me a story. He remembered getting locked in a bathroom at Grammy and Papa’s house. He remembered being stuck. He remembered not wanting to upset anybody. Eventually he cried for his mom. She came to the door. And she couldn’t unlock it either.

Then he said something that stopped me cold. Goosebumps all up my arms and down my legs. He remembered thinking, “If my mom doesn’t know how to open the door, then I’m stuck.”

He was maybe three years old. Maybe younger. One of those memories that survives everything. And then he remembered his mom saying, “In the name of Jesus, unlock the door.” And he remembers the door flying open.

Now maybe the point of that story is that he remembers a miracle. Maybe the point is that he remembers being rescued. Maybe the point is something else entirely.

I don’t know and I am always a fan of blessing up to Christ. 

But for the plot of this subplotted story, for once, I didn’t keep talking long enough to decide what the story meant before the storyteller finished telling it.

After spending all this time trying to write a post about Mason, I think I finally learned something. The most interesting thing about Mason isn’t the stories I tell about him. It’s the stories he tells when somebody finally asks a question.

And then slows down long enough to listen.

I should probably ask him more questions.

But if I’m being honest?

I’m scared to ask.

And maybe that’s the real reason I don’t. Not because I don’t care. Not because I don’t notice. Not because I don’t love him. Lord knows we’ve already established I’m allegedly obsessed with him.

Maybe I don’t ask because I don’t want the answers. Because what if he says, “It’s not a big deal, Aunt Jenn,” and I believe him?

Or worse.

What if he tells me a story?

What if the kid who has spent years helping everybody else finally gets the floor? What if I find out he’s been carrying more than any of us knew?

So yes. I should probably ask him.

And then I should probably do the thing he told us during the Spurs game.

Slow it down.

And listen anyway.