Heather Reavey

Peter’s Mom sent care packages to her son’s first job like he was a sixth grader at summer camp. Like once or twice a week.

Peter would wait until after hours to open them. We’d be in the shallow-breathing-power-pointing part of the day, heated by our desk lamps, when I’d hear ripping tape and squeaky peanuts and sighs of discovery behind me. I’d try not to look out of respect for my new coworker. It was clear these unveilings were not meant to be public since everything else about Peter was so generously shared. There was always a range of treasures. Sometimes a new shirt, impeccably chosen. I noted that it wasn’t necessarily Peter with the great taste. Sometimes it would be a necessity summoned from home—the soccer cleats from the back of the closet he'd described that time on the phone. Sometimes a touristy Boston book, a flashlight, or baked goods, something pragmatic for a first apartment occupied by barely men.

But the packages were ALWAYS FULL of the absurdly and deliciously un-useful. Flush in confetti and streamers were the wind-up teeth, pink kitten stickers, fart machines, bouncy balls, singing birthday cards, water guns, silly putty, Swedish fish and jaw breakers and Hershey’s Kisses and Peanut M+Ms, a Chocolate Factory Moment of joy and fun and gags. One time when he wasn’t there, I remember the cleaners pointing to a persistent pile of glitter under Peter’s office chair.

I wondered what this shared moment meant in the relationship of this mother and son? Surely an artifact of complete dedication, each must have taken days to gather. But was it a joke between jokesters? A fuzzy journey back to toy store times together after school? Or was it meant to poke the unflappable young Peter in front of his coworkers? Push him slightly off balance with a wink, like only Moms can? This was my bet. Fixated on the ‘Call Mom’ post-it that was permanent on the corner of his monitor, I could not wait to meet Peter’s mom. Also, I knew that as a future mom, I couldn’t wait to do the same exact thing.