Motherhood is all about making sacrifices and supporting your children, no matter how outrageous their decisions may be. I’ve learned to accept the fact that my son Lawrence (whose friends rudely refer to him as “Chunk”) wants to be a “Goonie.” But this? THIS? Nothing in Dr. Spock’s many voluminous books could have prepared me for housing a nearly seven-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound slop-eating human wrecking ball known only as “Sloth.”
Look, I get it. Emotions were running high, the kids were all found safe, and they even grabbed enough of One Eyed Willie’s rubies to save our homes from being demolished. We were all overjoyed.
But then Chunk told Sloth in front of everyone, “You’re going to live with me now,” which totally put me on the spot. It’s like when he would ask if one of his little friends could sleep over right in front of them. Only instead of a seventy-pound child for one night, it’s a disfigured linebacker that could rip a normal man in half like a sheet of paper forever.
And Chunk (yes, I also call my own son Chunk now) barely knows this person. They spent—what? seven hours together in a basement? And now that means I have to feed and clothe him until I die? How old is Sloth, even?
Last time I checked, he’s not someone who would fit into a typical suburban household. He’s been living on a diet of garbage (and probably the occasional rodent or two) for most of his life.
Not to mention that he is also a member of a notorious local crime family. “But he’s not like them, Mom. He eats candy bars and likes Superman.” I’m not trying to get into an argument of nature vs. nurture here; I’m just saying that he has likely picked up some bad habits from his family. And what if, God forbid, Momma Fratelli is ever paroled and comes looking for her “baby boy.” Is Chunk ready to fend off an armed and dangerous elderly woman? Because I’m certainly not.
I’m not being heartless. I know that Sloth is a victim, and yes, I know that “Sloth loves Chunk.” And I can appreciate the fact that “Chunk loves Sloth.” I’m just trying to think this through logistically. There is literally nowhere to put him.
And then there’s the day-to-day stuff. What are Sloth and I supposed to do while my son is in school? Do I take him grocery shopping with me? Will Sandra at my hair salon even let him through the door, or will he have to wait in the car? Does Sloth even know what a car is? Or will he flip out and destroy the interior of my Sonata because he thinks the room is moving?
No wonder the only friends my son could make force him to shake his belly just to enter the house.
Okay, I’m sorry. That was too far. I know Chunk is sensitive about his weight. I just… this is a lot, you know?
Look, I’m really struggling to figure out how to create a safe space for a man who could likely crush my windpipe with a single hug while dealing with the overwhelming guilt of possibly being a terrible mom if I turn him away. Because if I say no, guess what? I’m the bad guy. Chunk will never speak to me again, and I’ll be the monster who refused to give Sloth a home.