Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year

by Anne Lamott

Tonight Sam and I took a friend of ours out to dinner, a young man in his late twenties who is badly strung out on booze and Methedrine but who is also a very sweet, bright guy. We went to McDonald’s and got Quarter-Pounders and fries, and we were sitting in a booth with Sam on the table in his car seat, babbling. I was talking to the young man about recovery, which he was starved to hear about—I think it must have been like hearing about the sun during an ice age—and then Sam made a loud spluttering noise, so I said jokingly, “Shhh, honey, be patient, I know John plans to share his food with you,” and I went on blithely with my recovery pitch, eating at the same time, not particularly paying attention. Then I looked up and noticed that my friend had torn off about a third of his burger and was holding it tentatively in his left hand, and he said to me, “Is that about right?” and I said, “Is what about right?” and he held out the small piece of hamburger and said with exasperation, “I just really don’t have any idea how much he eats.” I mentioned this story to Pammy later, and she said, “Boy, scratch him off the baby-sitting list.”