The Last Supper (needs more butter)

My summer vacation is coming to an end as my prodigal son returns from six weeks spent with grandparents in Michigan. I'm excited to see him, of course, but realize this will probably be the last night for my dinner of choice: bud light and popcorn (uh, could you supersize that?). I don't know whether my ex- was happier to see me leave, or this monster bowl.

My son has flown solo since age seven, when he flew from Germany to Massachussetts, and has been doing it ever since. The airline keeps all the kids under fourteen in a room together, stewardesses help them find the next gate, and we've never had any problems. He's in a grey range age now, though...between 15-17 means I can still pay a little extra for supervision OR let him handle it himself. I booked a nonstop flight to Atlanta so he will officially be flying AS. AN. ADULT. (that's a new wrinkle between my eyes, isn't it? Argh).

Bad news for me: I'll be driving a little over four hours to pick his ass up, then turning around to come home. Note to self: pick up AAA batteries for his mp3 player. Yes, fine, I admit it...I missed him.

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