It will never matter what his age is. Chronology has absolutely nothing to do with it. It wouldn’t matter if the Earth made 50 revolutions around the sun.
Oh, sure, with time there must be growth. But the essence of who he is, and his relation to me….
Will. Never. Change.
The only question that remains is….
How long will he be able to maintain his secret identity?
He did NOT want to go.
He was PEEVED that his father and I were forcing him to try it.
All he wanted to do was stay at home and design new paper airplanes.
His sister even joined in and said she would do it to support him.
His response was an evil stink-eye, and a chin stuck out so mutinously, he would have fit right in on Bligh’s HMS Bounty.
But we got him there. It took his father, his sister, and I to shove him in….literally… but we got him in.
The only problem after that?
……
…..Getting him to leave.
Turns out that the Hip Hop class at Hope Garden Dance Studio in Poolesville, Maryland is where all the cool boys hang out. There were so many boys there of various ages, and all of them acrobatic as all get out….it was astounding. Seriously, so many kids were participating, there was hardly enough room for them all.
Never having been “cool” a moment of my life, I had no idea Hip Hop was so popular. I also didn’t realize that it is virtually a sport. How would I describe it? It’s as if the left brain is dancing with the right brain to music with such energy and pulse, it makes the walls shake!
My knees hurt just watching.
Hip Hop.
Cooler than you think.
For the record, I have no desire to brag ad nauseam like some out-of-control, maternal monster living vicariously through her progeny.
I am officially NOT going to bore my friends and readers with self-serving stories of my offspring’s success.
In no way will I gush with overwhelming pride for my child’s accomplishments.
Far be it from me to even mention Varmint’s recent attainment of excellent grades, or perfect attendance.
How obnoxious would that be? Not to mention potentially embarrassing to poor Varmint? She has no need or even desire to be singled out. It is enough to her that her family loves her. She doesn’t need anyone else’s affirmation. She has always had the strength to walk her own road, and be her own motivation.
So we are not going to talk about any of that.
What I would like to discuss, however, is the absolute injustice perpetrated on the parents of the 6th grade class at John Poole Middle School during the most recent Honor Roll Ceremony.
We arrived at the auxiliary gymnasium where the honor roll ceremony was to be held, to find a long table laden with a bevy of sugar-laden,
mouth-watering doughnuts. Attracted like a moth to the flame, I hastened over to the carb treasure trove, only to be rebuffed by the most unkind, the stingiest, the downright meanest mothers I have ever beheld in my 29 years. (Ahem.)
Behold the transgressors! Just look at those angry, unfriendly, unapproachable demeanors!
They told me in no uncertain terms that these treats were for the children only and that no parents were allowed to partake.
My friends, you know, you just KNOW, that flabbergasted though I was, I was ready to go to the mats over this. Why, this was no different from taking candy from a baby! What kind of world do we live in where the long-suffering parents of award-winning children are not only teased to the breaking point with the scent of freshly deep-fried, heavily glazed, Colossal Doughnuts, but are also not allowed to join in the long-standing American tradition of celebratory hyperglycemia?
It’s a tragedy. A travesty!
And as if that were not shocking enough….brace yourselves…
THERE WAS NOT EVEN COFFEE.
If this is not proof that the Mayans were right, I don’t know what is.
****Meahwhile****
My Captain marvels at the fact that I can take an event so obviously intended for my Varmint, and shift the focus onto me, and food.
God-Given Talent. That’s what it is.
God-Given Talent.
Meh. I don’t even really like doughnuts.
So there.
( Oh, and….Varmint….I am very proud of how hard you work! I love you dearly.)
Mama B
I am so excited! My Captain just received a transfer to his shift who I absolutely LOVE.
His name is Mike, and he is one of the most interesting characters in this whole entire world, and I’m not prone to exaggeration.
Except on days that end with “y.”
Mike is My Captain’s shift’s newest Firefighter Paramedic, who My Captain most aptly describes as “a true Renaissance Man.”
Mike and I first met years ago in Medic Class, (re: this picture is extremely old and resembles me NOT AT ALL, anymore.)
and we instantly fell into immediate competition. Over Grades. Over Cooking ability. Over Best Hair. (Well….maybe it was one-sided. In all honesty I don’t think he ever gave a rat’s ass about competing with me. But we are talking about the reality in my own little head, and that is INFINITELY more interesting than the truth, now, isn’t it?)
He won the grades challenge.
He won the cooking ability (He’s a trained chef.)
But I won the hair challenge. HA. And I wasn’t even trying!
And though he remains better looking in general, I flatter myself to think that I will always be more photogenic than he is.
But at the end of the day, if I were bleeding, or on fire, he is the one I’d want helping me out. And frankly, I wouldn’t give a damn about his hair.
But I’d still pick on him.
Because I’m bitter about the whole grades and cooking thing.
Welcome to 31, Mike!
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I watched them carefully. I knew they were fearful. I knew they were full of tension and stress.
They were to leave the house a full hour and a half apart from each other for the first time since they started conventional school. There was a lot of change happening today.
I knew what my job was.
I’ve spent the last few weeks encouraging, teaching optimism, and offering perspective.
But, as with anything in life, they had to face this change on their own.
We waited for Varmint’s bus, and took her yearly “Back to School” picture that would be uploaded onto Facebook for friends and family later. But My Captain and I noticed her smile did not reach her eyes.
So I quietly sat down with her on the old, damp bench and listened to the early morning sounds surrounding us.
“Be the light,” just popped out of my mouth.
“Huh?”…
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Mama Boe 
