Son Seduces Mom Stories

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Son Seduces Mom Stories

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I walked into my son’s school a few weeks ago to pick him up. He was sitting with all his friends waiting for me by the door and immediately got up when he saw me coming. Clearly, he didn’t want me coming anywhere near his friends. I got the feeling he didn’t want anyone to know he was with me. I was right.
As he got closer, he whispered, “Mom, why do you have to dress like that? Everyone stares at you.”
“No they don’t. They are probably staring at you because you are so handsome,” I told him.
“I blend in. They aren’t staring at me. They are looking at you. Why do you have to wear dresses and high heels?” For the record, I was wearing the outfit below. The nerve, right?
I decided I wanted to try something with my teenage son that day. I asked him if he wanted to dress me for a little while. I told him he could pick out my outfits and I would wear whatever he wanted me to wear as long as he had an open mind and would listen to a few things I had to say about people and the way they choose to dress, so that’s what we did.
I wanted to talk to him more about the subject and why he was feeling the way he was. And by having him choose my clothes for a while I would better understand why he wanted me to wear certain things, and maybe he would understand why I like to dress the way I do and that, really, it shouldn’t affect him as much as it does.
This was his choice for the first day. He picked out a very casual, sporty outfit, and I loved it.
While I dress like this about half the time and like this look, it doesn’t always suit me. Sometimes I feel like dressing up more, so I do. When I asked my son why he picked this out, he said because I “blended in and didn’t look out of place.” In his mind, when I dress up, I look like I don’t belong. If he only knew how many women I saw throughout the day wearing suits and heels maybe he would have a different opinion.
Regardless, I told him nobody should be judged based on how they dress — not even your very embarrassing mother . Most people wear what they are comfortable in, what makes them feel good. It doesn’t matter where it came from because this isn’t how we judge others. We focus on how they make us feel, if they are kind, how they treat people. I told him judging people for what they wear is very transparent, and he will be missing out on a lot in life if he is going to focus on making friends because of what they wear, what they have, or what they look like.
If he is comfortable dressing in a way that makes him feel like he blends in, I think that is great. However, I want him to have the inner confidence to step out of the box if he wants. If he feels like wearing something, even though none of his peers are, I want him to feel like he can.
I also let him know what someone puts on their body isn’t an invitation, for him or anyone else, ever. And he should always take heed on how he looks at people, especially women. There is a way to look at a woman without staring or gawking. No matter how you see her, she deserves respect. I don’t care what she’s wearing.
I also want my son to realize just because I am a mother it doesn’t mean I have to dress a certain way. I loved the outfits he picked for me, and dress like that on my own accord often. But I also love wearing dresses, heels, skinny jeans, and trying out new trends because that is who I am, and who I was long before I became his mother. It’s not my intention to embarrass him. It is my intention to be myself, and him making comments or telling me he doesn’t want to go anywhere with me because of the way I dress is hurtful (as normal as it is).
A few days ago, I discussed these “lessons” I was trying to teach him with a friend and she told me he would “take all these lessons and bake them into a gentleman pie.” I really hope she is right.

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What seemed like a depressing situation evolved into a critical part of my healing.
I moved out of parents house and in with my boyfriend at the ripe old age of 19. One day, I lay dreaming in a twin bed in my mother's basement, the next I was playing big girl pretend in a one-bedroom apartment in a boxy building complex.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" my friends whispered as they helped me lug a hand-me-down sofa up two flights of stairs.
"Is this really want you want to do?" questioned my mother, as she watched me untack my Van Gogh framed art and my Sarah McLachlan poster from my walls.
"For God's sake, people!" I countered confidently, tossing my New Kids on the Block scrapbook into a half-filled moving box. "I know what I'm doing!"
But — and I know you'll be surprised by this – it turns out, I did not.
The story goes like many young love affairs do. I married the boyfriend, we moved from small apartment to a feral cat ridden street just outside of Detroit. We got a dog and a KitchenAid mixer. We made love, we made children, and we made a huge, gigantic mess of our lives.
Fifteen tumultuous years after I bode a fond farewell to the four walls of my childhood bedroom, I found myself back home once again.
My husband and I had let our marriage die a slow, insidious death. Only when it was finally cold and lifeless on the floor, did we decide we needed to have an exit plan. Except we had no real plan at all. My husband moved into his father's house and I stayed with the children during the week, but nearly every weekend he would come and stay with the kids at our house, so that they would have the stability of being in their own home, around the things that made them feel the calmest.
On those weekends where I was displaced from my home, my mother graciously offered to allow me to return to the home of my youth. It was a wonderful, miserable proposition.
On Friday nights, I would load my sad belongings into a lumpy duffle bag and kiss my children, whom I had never been separated from before, goodbye. Then I would sob every second of the 20 minute drive to my mother's, turning up the sad songs on the radio and screaming out the lyrics to the empty car.
At first, there was something slightly humiliating about returning to my mother's house, something akin to shame over ending up in the very place I had so casually abandoned a decade and a half before.
But that quickly faded when I realized my mom had HBO. And a fancy cappuccino maker. I remembered all the wonderful things about being at home again, nearly instantly. She was a great cook and her house smelled wonderful and did I mention, there were no kids there? What started out as a dismal, depressing prospect — leaving my home on the heels of a divorce to return to my mother's house — ended up feeling like a weekly respite at a really, really nice bed and breakfast for free.
I'd stop at the drugstore on my way to pick up a six pack of beer, a copy of Cosmopolitan and a family size bag of peanut M & M's. I would get into my pajama pants when I arrived and my mother and I would eat take out Chinese food. I'd sleep late in the mornings and eat my mother's snacks and let her take care of me, in a place that reminded me of comfort, warmth, and of the soft surrounding of childhood.
It healed me, at a time when I needed healing, and it helped me breathe again.
When the arrangement ended a few months later and my husband bought his own house, I missed those times at my mother's house dearly.
People often say, "You can never go home again." Well those people clearly never had their mothers serve them a cup of coffee while they sat, as a grown woman, reading the newspaper on a cold, rainy Saturday morning. After my experience of moving back home part-time at the age of 34, I think the adage should really go a little something more like this: "You can never go home again, unless your mom has all the premium channels on cable and makes really great baked goods."
And then, by all means,go home, again.

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