Eleven Days to China

Think I wanted to give my firstborn to the Chinese and before they’ve even got their act together?  Not me. You can guess again.

I mean he did go. That much is true. A flight to Tokyo and then Beijing, but no way that took place because his mother said go on, kid, save the world. It was more me saying don’t go, you son of a bitch, which makes me the bitch but O.K. Didn’t we need him at home cleaning up the mess his father left with his brother a zoned-out pothead and his sister having low self esteem?  Haven’t I worked two full-time jobs?

There are things I would be happy to do for any son of mine—like let his friends sleep off their high school drunks on my living room floor or, when they didn’t have their licenses yet, take the whole bunch out to the desert so they could shoot off their pop guns at the lizards and watch them splatter. But Travis meeting an ambassador and going to the Forbidden City and being paraded around on some bus at my taxpayer expense?  If he wanted that, I could’ve forbidden him Phoenix.

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