Sandy Slaga

The Law of English Muffins

The eighteen-year-old was late for breakfast this morning. Again.

Three years of law school, two bar exams and almost ten years of practicing law ain’t got nothing on one eighteen-year-old boy’s skill at driving me into a close relationship with Jack Daniels.

As I sucked in brewing coffee vapors, the scholar of AP X-Box Live and Honors Cigar Smoking announced his goal for the remaining three months of his high school career. To-wit: thou shalt not complete a full week of school. Leave early, arrive late. Fabricate illness. Whatever it takes.

I lovingly suggested that such reckless disregard for the climax of his Catholic education would perhaps not be wise within earshot of a menopausal mother who holds title to his car.

Then I popped his English muffins in the toaster, invoked St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, and savored a few minutes just hanging with my son before he left for school.

In another year and a half both of The Teenagers will be in college. The heavy lifting will be done. Then to law or not to law?

There have been mixed emotions since taking a break from law seven years ago. Was it the right thing to do? Have I been gone too long to go back? Have I wasted the degree and license?

God knows it’s been one fantruckingtastic moment after another being home. Expletive-laden X-Box Live chatter echoing in the heating ducts. The familiar 11 p.m. weeknight cabinet slamming and glass clanging in search of a bedtime snack. The aroma of maturing socks at the bottom of a bowling bag. The eyeball rolling and heavy sighing.

And the English muffins.

Cream cheese or peanut butter? OJ or milk? Yea, it’s been indulgent. Maybe even spoiling. But not for them. For me.

And while I may not miss the occasional expletives courtesy of the cheap heating vents, I will sure as hell miss the English muffins.