Today Tyler came home after a camping trip with his dad... 10 days of four-wheelers and fishing, campfires and pine needles. Last night he called me to let me know they were back in town... and also tell me how much he loved me, and that he was counting the minutes until we were reunited once again.
Fine. I made up that last part.
I suspect Ty called because his dad told him it would be a good idea to check in... which probably hadn't occurred to him at all. In fact, I'm almost positive it hadn't occured to him, because our conversation went like this:
Mom: "I'm so glad you're back, honey!"
Ty: "Yeah... me, too."
"On a scale of 1 to 10, how ready are you to come home?"
"About an 8." Promising.
"On the same scale, how ready are you to play golf again?"
"Probably a 9 1/2."
That one was easy... he's played golf every day this summer, and I knew he'd be chomping at the bit to come home and swing the wrenches. But the next question was a toss-up:
"And how much have you missed me while you've been gone?"
(Slight pause while he decides if he should be honest.)
"Uh... maybe a 7." Honesty prevails.
Seven's pretty respectable, considering that he's almost 14... but I figure I'll try negotiating a better number.
"So... does 'maybe a 7' mean possibly an 8?"
"No. I just couldn't decide between 6 and 7, so I rounded up."
I gasp... he chuckles. (I know, right? What a punk.) He loves messing with me. I love it, too.
But part of me--the part that always wants him to need me just a little bit--would have loved an 8 even more.
Welcome home, happy camper.