Mad mom

It's 43 degrees this January morning in Chicago. It's exactly 59 degrees warmer than it was a week ago. Amazing.

(By the way, I LOVE weather. I love to talk weather, stalk weather sites, etc. I should have pursued meteorology, instead of political science/journalism, but I wasn't sure I could spell it.)

The snow is melting, which makes my summer-loving heart glad. I'm almost in a good mood.

Almost.

This parenting thing?

Sometimes it bums me out.

I bring up this topic because, hey, he plopped it up on Facebook. My oldest son, who, fingers crossed will actually go back to college next week, has decided that he needs a "fun" job in lieu of the well-paying warehouse one he has now. OK, to be fair, if he starts college next week, he'll need a job in the same town, and current warehouse job that he's at is not.

But transfer locations with his current employer? Nope, I'm guessing he didn't get phone calls returned after calling in sick too much. The job is exhausting, mom, he explained when I asked a few weeks ago. What about getting a job working at a restaurant/retailer or other typical kid job?

No, he proudly called the other day to say he was planning to take a job in a sex shop. Oh you know, not one of THOSE sex shops. This one is a nice one, nice lady runs it, etc etc. It'll be fun, mom.

Now, I am no saint. But I believe in hard work. I believe grunt jobs teach you hard work, humility, character. I've worked fast food drive-throughs, as a janitor in an elementary school, and once summer in a junior high. I busted my tail in school. I worked two jobs well into my 20s.

So, as you can imagine, I'm on board with this. I think this is just great.

WRONG.

I'm nauseous.

I tried, with the many faults that I have, raise a good boy. I sent him to Catholic school until the fourth grade, following a tough year with the meanest school principal I can remember. I hoped I was a strong female role model, who worked hard and tried to be independent. Everything I have, I've earned.

I can't help it, I'm just nauseous and disappointed. Sorry for those who imbibe, but I cannot fathom working in one. I can't imagine waiting on the clientele. I can't imagine what else goes on. I don't understand wanting to work at one. Yes, I know he's a 21-year-old boy. But, geez, do you want that on your resume, I asked? And what happens when you meet a nice girl and you tell her where you work? Man, I would never have gone on a date with a guy like that.

So I did what any journalist (or, in my case, ex-journalist) would do. I googled the hell out of the place and read up about when it opened 10 years ago, and it sued the city in which it's located. I read a fascinating criminology report on how crime within a certain radius of so-called "sexually oriented businesses" is higher than it otherwise would be running the gamut from petty fraud to assault. I read that it doesn't have gross "viewing rooms" (I kind of want to vomit writing that). It describes itself as a "lingerie shop".

The few friends I've discussed this with are like, c'mon, he's a kid, it will be OK. I sense unspoken judgment that I am being too harsh. Maybe I am.

But, this isn't just any 20-something kid. This is mine. The little face in a peewee football uniform who looks back at me every morning from a framed photograph as I grab my wedding rings from my jewelry box. He has the slightest dusting of freckles across his nose that is so sweet.

I know, I probably could chill a little. But the "boys will be boys" and "lighten up, it could be worse, mom" platitudes just aren't helping. He's so smart, good and I love him so much my heart aches.

I'm going to be mad for awhile.