"With You"

“I can’t wait to be a grown-up,” Everett says matter-of-factly. 

I’m in the car with my boys, driving to In-N-Out to pick up dinner. It’s Saturday, and I suspect the drive-thru is going to be a circus, but we’re low on food and picking up burgers seems easier than grocery shopping right now. I let Everett ride shotgun for the quick trip, still a novelty experience for us both. He’s perched on a booster seat wearing a hoodie, suddenly looking eighteen instead of eight.

“Why do you want to be a grown-up so badly?” I ask him.

He stares out the window a moment, contemplating his answer before rattling off a list. 

“So I can have kids, stay up late, watch movies every night … and eat McDonalds for dinner as much as I want,” he responds with a grin, looking at me to see what I think of this response.

I laugh at his big, uncomplicated dreams. Too much McDonalds will make you sick, I warn. Regardless, I can’t help but take note of the fact that “have kids” is at the top of his list.

“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a grownup, too,” I tell him, “But it’s funny because sometimes now I wish I was a kid again.”

We stop at a red light next to a Mercedes dealership. Everett pushes his face up against the window, examining the scene.

“Do you think I’ll ever drive a car like that?” he asks, staring at the impressive row of shiny metal.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” I say. An honest answer. 

“What kind of car do you think I’ll drive?” he asks. 

I reach over and squeeze his leg. “Whatever car you can afford, buddy.” 

He smiles. I want to tell him not to think about cars, not to think about driving yet. I want to tell him to just think about LEGOS, and the chocolate milkshake he is about to enjoy, and what trick he should try next on the trampoline. I want to tell him he has his whole life to think about grownup things, cars and bills and work and figuring out what’s for dinner. But I don’t tell him any of this because when I was eight, I didn’t want to hear it, either.

“What kind of job do you think you’ll have?” I ask him.

He shrugs. 

“Something at Legoland. Maybe I’ll work at the Lego store? I really want to be a master builder someday.” 

I nod. This has been Everett’s dream job ever since we went to Legoland and he learned that it’s someone’s real job to assemble the hundreds (thousands?) of Lego creations all over the park. He couldn’t believe that was a real job. I couldn’t believe it either.

“What about you, Car Car?” I glance back at Carson, who is listening quietly.

“Do you want to work at Legoland, too?” 

He nods, “Yeah … but I’m not as good at building as Everett.”

Nobody corrects him.

It’s finally our turn in the drive-thru, and I place our order: one double-double, one hamburger, one cheeseburger, two grilled cheeses, four orders of fries, and four milkshakes. My husband and I usually don’t order milkshakes for ourselves, but in a pandemic, apparently we do. Our total comes out to $36.58, which seems both expensive (for burgers) and cheap (for eating out). When it was just Brett and I, our In-N-Out total came in around $11. I pull the car up in the line wondering how much money we’ll spend on food when we have two boys in high school.

“So, where do you think you’ll live when you’re a grownup?” I ask Everett, curious to finish putting this figurative puzzle of his adult life together. 

“Probably an apartment, um, or ... I don’t know, a house? Maybe I’ll live in an apartment until I can afford a big house.” 

I am wondering where Everett learned the word “afford” and what a “big” house means to him, but before I can ask, Carson interrupts.

“Everett, will you live with me or without me?”

The question hangs in the air for just a second, enough time for a highlight reel of their friendship to fill my mind: the two of them holding hands at the zoo when they were little, the hundreds of hours they’ve clocked on the trampoline, the way they read books side by side on the couch. Just last week, they asked if they could sleep in the same bed—for no reason at all, simply because they thought it would be fun. 

Everett turns around to look at Carson, and with all the sincerity in the world, answers, “With you.”

I laugh in that awkward way people do when they’re trying not to cry, but tears pool in my eyes anyway. As we creep up the drive-thru lane, I listen to them finish out the dream. They’re going to live together in San Diego and work at LegoLand and both have dogs. 

“Yeah and we can do movie night EVERY NIGHT,” Carson pipes from the backseat, “And when I’m a grown-up, I’m going to fall asleep on the couch!”

This is the third time I’ve heard Carson mention his Big Dream of someday falling asleep on the couch—as if it’s a quintessential pillar of adult freedom.

“And Carson, remember?” Everett says, “We have to get our dogs extra french fries from McDonalds. Then they can eat french fries during movie night!” 

They both burst out laughing at this idea.

Six months ago, my brother and sister-in law brought their dog over for Carson’s birthday. We grabbed In-N-Out that night, too, and brought it home to eat in the backyard. Every time someone dropped a french fry, the dog ate it. My kids laughed as if it were the most hilarious thing they’d ever seen. Now they think all dogs love french fries and I have no idea if that’s true.

We drive home listening to music, taking a break from the fantasy, letting the smell of grease overtake the car. The boys help me carry everything in, and as we unpack our dinner on the kitchen counter, I think about how long it’s been since I’ve had time with just the two of them, all alone like that. How nice it was, to have the boys all to myself, even though they talked about growing up and leaving me the entire time. 

“How’d it go?” my husband asks, strapping Presley into her high chair, who is already screaming for Fies! Fies! 

“It was the highlight of my day, being with them,” I tell him. An honest answer.