Bring Your Mother To Work Day

The employed son stopped by the other morning to investigate the breakfast offerings.  He lives half a block from the market, but my fridge is easier to navigate.  And free.  I was so ecstatic to see him -- it had been 16 long hours since I last laid eyes on him -- that I refused to let go of him.  Clingy?  I resent that.  When it was time for him to head off to the factory, I hung on for dear life. "Take me with you," I said.  "Do they have Bring Your Mother to Work Day?" he asked, terrified of the answer.  "No, but they should," I said. 
"I can you see you in the office," he said,"shuffling around in your slippers and your pink robe, asking people, 'What can I get you?  Can I make you some lunch? Where's the coffee?  Where's the boss?  I want to talk to him about giving my son a raise.' You'd start straightening up the desks, looking at photos, commenting on every single one, 'Oh, is that your wife or your girlfriend?  Does she have a friend for my son?'"  "So you're saying I'd be a giant pain in the ass and go around embarrassing you." "Basically."  Of course, some mothers might be offended by such a stereotypical portrayal, but not the SJG.  I'm honored that the boy is so perceptive, that he recognizes me for all my maternal gifts, like tidying up after others and knowing my way around a can of tuna.  So far, he's refused to take me to work, but I think he's starting to weaken.  There's a lock on the fridge till he says yes.