My son and I plan on a mid-week lunch in the city. He texts me the day before:

“Café Claude, like before.”

Damn, I don’t remember ever lunching with him there. Am I losing brain cells?

I google Café Claude. How nice, close to the parking garage – sweet son. I click on Open Table and make a 1:15 reservation, e-mailing the confirmation to my darling boy.

I arrive at the garage at 1, noticing a text from sonny boy that says “10 min late… sorry.”

Fine by me, it’s a gorgeous day so I walk around the block for 10 minutes, then find the restaurant (weird that I don’t remember ever being here). The waiter seats me at our reserved table in this intimate French restaurant at 1:17.

I tap my toes at 1:30.

I grind my teeth at 1:37.

I finally look at my phone at 1:40. Whoops. Two missed calls and four texts from my scatter-brained son that say:

WHERE ARE YOU.

CALL ME.

I’M HERE.

WHERE ARE YOU??

As I read the texts, a bit befuddled, son calls. He’s angry. He’s never been to Café Claude, he’s at the other French restaurant – the one we’ve been to before. Sighing, he agrees to come find me.

I sip on my tea and breathe in, breath out.

I order his favorite French sandwich, so we’ll at least have time to eat before he rushes back to work.

Son arrives 7 minutes later, huffing and puffing. How could I have gotten it so wrong, he asks. I show him his text that states Café Claude. I pull up the e-mail confirmation that I’d sent him. (What did we all do, before we had cell phones to act as our witness?)

Looking a tad contrite, darling dear son announces: “Let’s say we’re both sorry and leave it at that.”

I smile at my frustrated little boy – 31, father of 3, and sweetly say, “No.”

I don’t shout.

I don’t curse.

I just slowly sip my tea from a straw.

“Okay,” silly son responds with a crooked grin. “I’m sorry.”

Then, we enjoy a delightful croquet monsieur together.