I get the message. Don’t talk too much. Don’t laugh too loudly. Basically, don’t do anything to embarrass him in front of his friends.
My son’s “date” is a longtime friend that he has known since first grade. Fresh from the beauty parlor, she is near tears because she thinks her hair is a disaster. Admiring her pretty dress, my son says she looks just fine. He’s obviously paid close attention to his father’s finesse with his mother over the years. I’m proud of him.
Chatting and laughing amicably, the gathered parents direct the photography session like a Hollywood shoot, snapping off rolls of film. I am a muted mom, muffling my chuckles and taking only four pictures. My son slides me a secret smile. He’s proud of me.
Like a gaggle of giggling geese, the adolescents finally head out to the waiting van. Awkwardly, they debate where to sit. The end result is girls in front, boys in back. With quick and casual waves that belie the bittersweet beating of our hearts, we send our babies off to their first dance.
Three hours later, I’m back on the scene as pickup chauffeur. By this time, the dates have split up, the girls heading off to a sleepover. I watch as dozens of teenagers stream euphorically from the banquet hall. Teachers grin broadly as they wave goodbye to their charges. I overhear one remark to another, “Three hours is way too long!”
“How was it?” I ask as four hot, sweaty neighborhood buddies pile into my van.
“Too short!” they answer in unison.
“I wish it had lasted at least another hour!”
“It was so awesome!”
“Even the food was good!”
The combination of their animated conversation and body heat immediately steams up the car. Though the night is cool, I roll all the car windows halfway down. The boys think it is so they can wave and holler goodbye to their friends, which they do with great gusto.
“Who did you and your dates sit with for dinner?” I ask.
“Oh, we just ate with the guys,” answers my son.
“You didn’t eat with the girls?” I ask in amazement.
“Naw, we all split up as soon as we got there,” he says. “Our dates wanted to talk to the other girls, so we guys just sat down.”
So much for the seriousness of an eighth-grade first date. Nevertheless, the mention of the girls brings on a sudden moment of quiet reflection.
“The girls were, well, they were something else!” muses one.
“They were awesome!” says another.
“They looked, like, so different!” ponders the third.
“Yeah, they were . . . really pretty!” gushes the fourth.
Having seen these same girls at eight o’clock on school mornings when I drop my son off at school, I can understand the boys’ surprise. Dressed in blue jeans and baggy flannel shirts, the girls, like the boys, come dressed for school in casual comfort.
For their first dance, however, the girls pulled out all the stops. Pretty necklines, feminine dresses, heels, makeup, jewelry, beauty parlor hair, the works. The eighth-grade boys are delightfully dazed.
“Did you dance?” I ask.
“Yeah, but was I ever nervous!” says one.
“I didn’t have a clue what I was doing!” admits another.
“I’ve never even danced before!” confides a third.
“I just went out on the floor and started dancing,” says the fourth. “I think by the end of the dance I was actually pretty good!”
With good food, beautiful girls, and no embarrassing moments on the dance floor, how could the evening have been more perfect?
“You know,” says one, thoughtfully, “after all that dancing, I don’t even think I smell too bad!”
“I just checked,” says another. “My deodorant is still working!”
“I sprayed cologne all over my clothes before I left, just in case!” admits a third.
“I even put some in my shoes!” says the fourth.
Laughter rocks the car. I lower the windows all the way. Exhilarating, crisp spring air blows across my face. Happy, octave-changing voices float like music out into the night. As I drive my nest of fledglings home, I savor their joyful spirit in the midst of one of life’s transitions.
With humor and honesty, they have gingerly taken their first awkward steps across the dance floor from boys to young men.
Looking out the windshield, I notice the clouds have cleared, and sparkling stars grace the sky. A beautiful ovation for an evening that smells of sweet success.
Driving Lessons
“Slow down! Slow down! Slow down!” my father yells, a distinct edge of panic in his voice.
As a novice fifteen-year-old driver, I am trying to downshift around a curve on a gravel country road and immediately respond to the yelling by hitting the brake. This action sends the car sliding, kills the engine, and jerks us to an abrupt halt. We sit in surprised silence as a cloud of fine dust sifts slowly down upon the car. I wait for an angry reprimand, but instead, my father takes a deep breath and calmly suggests I restart the engine. The driving lesson resumes.
That was thirty years ago. My father is gone and I am now the parent of three teenagers. What was his secret to remaining calm, time and time again, with his own brood of five kids? Struggling for that patience on a daily basis, I wish he were here to give me the answer.
Today, I am the parent scheduled for the road test. I click on my seat belt and watch as my own fifteen-year-old son climbs joyfully behind the steering wheel.
“This is so cool!” he says.
“Have you got your permit?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, waving it before my eyes. “Do you realize, Mom, that I’m the only one in my class who has never driven before?”
“Well, that makes you the only one who didn’t break the law,” I say.
“No,” he says, “that makes me the only dork who doesn’t know how to drive. Are you ready?”
I watch as he starts the engine with a roar, adjusts the rearview mirror to check his hair, flips on the radio to his favorite rock station, flips it off, checks the mirror/hair again, and finally, after what seems like an eternity, puts the car in reverse. Slowly and with much caution, he backs down our long, narrow driveway, which is no easy feat. I am impressed and begin to relax.
Entering the street, he snaps the car into forward and steps on the gas.
“Watch the mailbox! WATCH the mailbox! WATCH THE MAILBOX!” I scream as my foot slams on an imaginary brake.
We miss it by a centimeter.
“See,” he says, “no problem.”
I rub the cramp in my braking foot as my inexperienced driver pulls out onto a main road with giddy delight.
“Wow, this is fun!” he says, a smile beaming across his face.
Enjoying the new power of his moveable beast, he starts to pick up speed. I tense. Suddenly, all mailboxes, light posts, and assorted garbage cans seem really close to the road. Really close!
“Watch your speed,” I say calmly. “Slow down on this curve. Slow down ON THIS CURVE!”
My right foot floors the fake brake as we whip around the bend.
“I’m not going that fast,” he argues.
I let out a deep breath. “Just turn right at the next road.”
Flipping on his signal, he makes a wide turn directly into the opposite lane. Luckily for our insurance rates, there is no oncoming car.
“You’ve got to stay in your own lane,” I snap.
Silence fills the air. He grips the wheel. I grasp for patience.
Heading down a long stretch of country road in a tension-filled car, I struggle to keep quiet and just let him experience the driving.
Looking around at the countryside for the first time, I notice that the fields are awash in a clear golden light. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the rich blue sky. The warm breeze blowing through the open windows caresses our faces and soothes the tension.
After a period of quiet, my son turns to me with an eager face, happiness shining in his ey
es. “How am I doing?” he asks proudly.
“Very well,” I reply.
“See, Mama,” he says, “you just need to give me more time.”
“I know,” I say. “You’re going to make a great driver.”
Smiling brightly, he steps on the gas.
I keep silent. He slows at the curve.
Looking over, I regard the innocent profile of my man-child, whose soft cheeks sport the beginnings of light peach fuzz. Radiating an awakening confidence, his face glows with the realization that vast horizons and new beginnings are stretching out before him, just like the wide-open road we are on.
For a fleeting instant, I feel the magic.
I am no longer the weary forty-six-year-old mother of three with a sometimes overwhelming assortment of responsibilities, but once again the carefree young girl in the driver’s seat.
And through this blurry mist of time, a beam of knowledge shines out to me. Thirty years ago, as gravel dust floated down upon us in a stalled car, had my father’s own memory of a youth gone by come sparkling back to him?
Gingerly tucking my brake foot under the seat, I notice the sky has turned a rosy hue. I turn and look out the back window.
“Is there a car behind us?” my son asks nervously.
“No, but there’s a spectacular sunset,” I say. “The sky is filled with beautiful colors. Keep your eyes on the road and I’ll describe it to you.”
“Hey, I can actually see it in my rearview mirror,” he says. “Cool.”
Through the open windows, the cool breeze blows in the sweet scent of country at dusk. It refreshes and invigorates us. I take a deep breath. My son checks his hair. Cruising on down the road, we both admire the fields glowing in the twilight.
Waiting Up
A spotlight isn’t necessary. The youthful faces of these teenage singers and musicians already radiate light and joy. Eyes sparkling and smiles beaming, the young performers join hands for one last time as they take their final bow. After a year of seemingly endless rehearsals and multiple concerts, these kids have thrown their all into this final production.
Now it’s party time.
10:45 P.M.: My seventeen-year-old son, looking grown up in his stage tuxedo, threads his way through the congratulatory crowd to hand us his trombone. His girlfriend, in her shimmering, sequined show dress, joins him, and the two wave a fast goodbye and set off to find their friends.
“What time will you be home?” I call after him.
“I won’t be late,” he yells back. “I’m tired.”
Before we can set an exact time, the vision of sparkling sequins and handsome tux dissolve into the crowd.
Cursed with a tendency to worry, I am not a mother who just lets her kids come home whenever. I need a reasonable time for them to be home, for their own safety as well as for my peace of mind. Until all three sons close their bedroom doors for the night, I rest uneasily.
11:00 P.M.: Trying not to set the worry wheels in motion, I reassure myself that this kid is a responsible senior, past the age of curfew, and at a well-chaperoned party. With college starting next year, it’s time I give him more leeway.
1:30 A.M.: I awaken somewhat alarmed. I have not heard my son come home. Exhausted from the week’s frenzied pace, perhaps I just didn’t hear him. I decide to check. Struggling out from the warm comfort of my bed, I walk down the hall to his room.
No one there.
It’s just as he left it. Unmade bed, jeans, underwear, socks, music, hangers, books, and schoolwork strewn everywhere. The usual.
1:45 A.M.: Back in bed and wide awake, I watch shadows of occasional car lights dance upon the bedroom wall. Are those lights slowing? Did they turn at our corner? Surely, I will hear the sound of his key at any minute.
2:00 A.M.: Why isn’t he home? He said he wouldn’t be late. I call 2:00 a.m. late. The sound of a speeding car sets my heart on edge. Please God, don’t let my son be in its path. It is the first of many prayers.
2:15 A.M. : My tossing and turning wakes my husband.
“What’s wrong?” he asks sleepily.
“He’s not home,” I whisper. “Do you think I should call the party?”
“Sure,” he mumbles drowsily as he snuggles beneath the covers.
My feet hit cold floor as I head downstairs.
In the bright kitchen light, I search for the number in the phone book. Just as fast as my fingers start to dial, I hang up.
This will seriously embarrass my kid. How many other mothers, especially of sons, are calling to check on their teenagers’ whereabouts? Will I sound hysterical? Will I convey a lack of trust?
In my foggy, late-night thinking, I remember the car phone. I dial. No answer. He must still be at the party. Fear, worry, and anger alternate as my sparring partners. I pace.
2:30 A.M.: Time to call. I take a deep breath and dial.
“Hi!” a wide-awake teenage voice answers as rock music thumps in the background.
“Hi!” I reply, as if this is a typical 2:30 a.m. chat. I ask if my son is there.
“Nope,” the chipper teenager responds. “He left an hour ago.”
My stomach churns. My imagination swings into high gear. Where is he? In a ditch? Hijacked? At his girlfriend’s house? Should I call and wake up her parents? Now that would earn me the Mother of the Year Award.
2:45 A.M.: Fifteen more minutes. Thats it and I call. Forget embarrassment. The heck with humiliation. If he’s not there, I’ll throw a coat over my nightgown and go find him myself. Pent up with nervous energy, I do the thing I hate most. I clean.
Wash the dishes. Empty the dishwasher. Stow the clutter.
Try the car phone. No answer.
Straighten pillows. Pick up newspapers. Throw out magazines.
Try the car phone. No answer.
Recycle pop cans. Sweep up crumbs. Put away Nintendo.
Try the car phone. No answer.
2:55 A.M.: I take a time-out from my cleaning madness. A short story by one of my twelve-year-old son’s friends rests on top of his homework. Seeing that it lists my son as a main character, I cannot resist a quick read. Plopping down on the couch, I am thankful for the new distraction.
To my delight, I discover an adolescent tale filled with interesting characters, intriguing action, and a respectable role for my seventh-grader. Just as the plot thickens, the budding author signs off with a suspenseful “to be continued.”
Unsure of her direction, the young writer has placed her trust in her friends by bravely asking for their comments. Recognizing and embracing these innocent first efforts, her friends do not betray her.
“Can’t wait to find out what happens!” reads one comment.
“Can I have your autograph now?” reads another.
“I’ll be there when you pick up your Pulitzer prize!” reads a third.
The gift of simple faith. No doubts. A basic belief in one another. From twelve-year-olds.
This I ponder in the stillness of the night.
3:05 A.M.: Suddenly I hear the scratching sound of a key turning in the lock. The front door squeaks open. My whole body breathes a sigh of relief. Thank you, God.
“Hi!” my seventeen-year-old says cheerfully. “What are you doing up?”
“Cleaning!” I say cheerfully back, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to be doing at three in the morning. All of my anger and angst evaporates at the sight of him, safely returned.
We go over the details of the night. Stage take-down took longer than expected. Got a second wind at the party. Took girlfriend home. Forgot to turn on car phone.
Reaching up to this six-foot-tall young man, I kiss his whiskered cheek good night and slowly climb the stairs to bed. As I crawl once again between the warm sheets, my husband’s sleepy voice greets me. “He made it?”
“Yes,” I answer. “He did.” Pulling the covers up snugly, I listen as my maturing son turns off the lights and gently closes the door to his room.
3:20 A.M.: For
a few short hours, I sleep a peaceful sleep.
Road Shows Remembered
My trick-or-treating days are over. No more night walks through the crunch of fallen leaves. No more blinking, swirling flashlights gleaming on the way to the next neighbor’s house. No more scrambling to create an imaginative costume at the last minute. Worst of all, no more candy to collect.
My kids, who have been my ticket to this performance, have simply gotten too old for the show. For a mother who loves Halloween night almost as much as her children do, it is just another checkmark on the long list of childhood activities they are quickly outgrowing. With my youngest son entering high school, I think I’ve pushed this tradition to the limit. It’s time to hang up the candy sack.
For years, the splendor of a rose-washed harvest moon rising up over golden cornfields signaled that this autumn pageant was about to begin. Off we’d hurry to the local pumpkin patch, meticulously selecting our bright orange pumpkins from a field bathed in the silky amber of an October dusk.
As organizer of the pumpkin props, my husband supervised the boys while they zealously scooped stringy seeds out of the gourds. Working with the intensity of professional artists, the guys placed their glowing masterpieces on the fireplace hearth for all to admire. The pumpkins’ smoky fragrance immersed the house with warmth and excitement.
I assumed the role of costume designer and contrived a variety of inspirational creations that ranged from the toddler-sized furry bear suit (it looked more like a carpet with ears) to the coordinated costumes of Batman, Joker, and Robin, and the Three Amigos.
Not surprisingly, early adolescence brought a desire for costuming independence. I gave up my designated role and left the decision-making to the performers themselves. Like actors preparing for their parts, they rummaged through the basement and closets, coming up with a variety of old hats, jackets, and amazing accessories. An inspired persona always emerged on opening night.
So each October 31, as a red sun sank dramatically behind a backdrop of silhouetted trees, the boys and I headed out into the dusky evening theater. With glowing porch pumpkins as our stage lights, my jubilant children skipped down the driveway in a procession of magnificently creative attire, candy sacks, and flashlights.
On a Clear Night Page 2
