Will called me with what he clearly thought was important news.
Very important news.
Serious-hunter-level important.
He informed me—officially, solemnly—that he had used all three of his Alabama buck tags and was now planning to go on hunts out of state.
There was a pause on the line. I could practically hear him waiting for admiration, maybe even pride. After all, in his mind, this wasn’t just an update—it was an announcement. A manly one. The kind that involves maps, planning, and the quiet confidence of someone who believes the season is still wide open.
Without missing a beat, I said, “Well, that sounds to me like your deer season just ended.”
Silence.
Then, with the flat seriousness only a son can deliver to his mother:
“Not funny, Mom. You’re not funny.”
And just like that, I was reminded of two lifelong truths:
- My sense of humor is wildly underappreciated.
- Living in the moment has consequences—especially during deer season.
From Will’s perspective, his logic made perfect sense. Yes, he had filled all three Alabama buck tags. Yes, by definition, that meant he could no longer legally shoot a buck in Alabama. But to him, this wasn’t an ending—it was merely a redirection. The solution, obviously, was to hunt somewhere else.
From a mother’s perspective, however, this sounded less like “problem-solving” and more like “how to ignore the very clear message the universe is sending you.”
Because to me, three filled tags equals closure. Completion. A natural stopping point. A time to clean your gear, rest your body, and maybe—just maybe—stay home for a minute.
But hunters and mothers rarely see things the same way.
To Will, deer season is not confined by borders, calendars, or common sense. It is a state of mind. It exists wherever there is land, a tag, and the possibility of a buck that hasn’t yet heard his name whispered through a rifle scope.
To me, deer season is something that starts, disrupts normal life, and then—mercifully—ends.
This, apparently, is where the generational divide lives.
What makes the exchange even better is that Will genuinely did not find my comment funny. Not even a little. There was no chuckle, no reluctant smile. Just a straightforward assessment of my comedic abilities.
“Not funny, Mom.”
That sentence alone could be stitched onto a pillow and placed in every household with adult children.
Because somewhere between raising kids and watching them grow into independent humans, parents become deeply convinced that they are hilarious. We earn this confidence the hard way—through years of dad jokes, mom commentary, and observational humor sharpened by experience.
Our children, meanwhile, grow increasingly immune.
Still, I stand by my comment.
From my viewpoint, deer season did end. Not officially, perhaps. Not according to hunting regulations or state wildlife agencies. But emotionally? Spiritually? Practically? It should have.
Three tags. Three bucks. Mission accomplished.
And yet, there he was—already thinking about the next trip, the next location, the next opportunity. Living fully in the moment, with very little concern for tomorrow, or for the perfectly reasonable option of being done.
This has always been Will’s way.
He is a “now” person. If there is something to do today, he will do it today. If there is excitement to be had, he will pursue it immediately. Planning ahead exists, but mostly as a way to enable more living in the present.
As his mother, I admire this about him… from a distance.
Because living in the moment is beautiful, until it’s expensive, exhausting, or requires crossing state lines to keep a season alive that probably should have been allowed to rest.
But that’s the thing about watching your kids grow up—you don’t get to choose their pacing. You don’t get to decide when they’re done, even when it seems obvious to you that the logical endpoint has been reached.
Sometimes they’ll keep going simply because they can.
And sometimes, your role is not to stop them, but to comment dryly from the sidelines and accept that your humor will not be validated.
I suppose this is what motherhood looks like in its later stages: fewer rules, more observations. Less control, more commentary. And a growing collection of moments where you say something perfectly clever, only to be met with, “You’re not funny.”
Still, I wouldn’t trade it.
Because one day, when deer season really is over—when the calls stop, the tags are just memories, and the planning slows down—I’ll miss these conversations. I’ll miss the updates delivered with seriousness and pride. I’ll even miss being told that I’m not funny.
And if that day comes, I’ll probably say something like, “Well, sounds to me like your deer season just ended.”
And I already know exactly what he’ll say in response.
