Nope. Not a political topic. This time it’s just life, or more to the point, the lives of my children and how I haven’t been arrested for stalking or harassment yet.
Last night was the boy-child’s first junior high dance. Junior High? Good God. I’d like everyone to observe a moment of peace now and pray for my sanity. Thank you. The donation bowls will be passed from the back, please give accordingly.
Anyway. Junior High. Dances. These two things come with one other deadly sin—girls.
Now you have to understand something, especially if you’ve met my daughter. My boychild is not outgoing. He’s not loud and rambunctious like the rest of us. He’s often considered abnormally shy, but I think that’s just in the context of those around him. However, from a very early age he took an interest in looking good and smelling good… even though he didn’t want those that he was looking/smelling good for to notice, or Bob forbid, say something.
Way back in kindergarten, he discovered “product.” That was, in and of itself, a great adventure to witness. There was stealing squirts of dad’s cologne, and mom’s hairspray, and standing in front of the mirror until every hair was just so. Kindergarten. And his teachers loved it. His second grade teacher used to tell him he smelled good and gave him a hard time for it [with a smile] and he ate it up while pretending to protest.
But this isn’t kindergarten. This is Junior High. And my baby is getting the attention of girls, not teachers.
On the way to drop him off at the dance the conversation went like this:
“Are you going to dance?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Do you want me to show you?”
“No… I’ll just stick to slow songs.”
I almost ran a red light [because yes, we do have two stoplights in my little town]. He’s never shown interest in girls other than JFB’s daughter, and that quickly became “weird” because they’re neighbors and friends and their mothers are friends. After that though, there was nothing. Not a peep. And I take a certain amount of pride in the fact that my children really do tell me everything*. But here he was saying that he wouldn’t dance in the crowd-style, but maybe slow dance. So rather than run the red light or make a big deal out of it, I took the light approach, figuring my little class-clown in the making would appreciate that.
“Drape and sway, eh?”
“Yah. In a pinch I could do that… if I have to.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Oh I’m not asking anyone!”
There’s the boy I know and love. “So why go to the dance if not to dance?”
“Hang out with the guys, eat pizza and pick on the girls.” He looked at me with that little evil smirk he has, “Duh.”
“Ah. Ok. Well… have fun!” And he hopped out of the car and off across the quad to join his friends—other little boys trying to figure out why the girls were acting weird and whispering and pointing. They entered the hall of doom as a group, believing [I'm sure] that they were better protected against the fairer sex if they seemed like a force.
After the dance, JFB and I went to pick the kids up—why take two cars, right? We drove through the McDonald’s drive-through [because somehow my daughter started a tradition of getting an ice cream cone after dances and I stick to it because it's five more minutes in the car pretending to ignore them in the back seat while they talk about everything that happened at the dance. What? It's not evil. It's perfectly legal, parental eavesdropping. Plus, my mom always said, "Be the parent that picks up the kids and you'll find out everything without asking." Mom has yet to be wrong.] Of course, being our kids, they talk directly to us and tell us everything. Who danced with who, and who was sad because no one would dance with them, or no one asked them. They didn’t dance with anyone, which was good for both of them as they claimed from the backseat that they didn’t really want to anyway. All in all, the lowdown was pretty tame.
Until we got home.
JFB pulled into her driveway and we said our good nights. The boychild and I walked across the alley toward home. In the blackest section of the darkness, which I’m pretty sure he planned, he told me what really happened. [*told you they tell me everything]
“So a girl asked me out.”
“Oh really?” I was being very careful, because we had entered forbidden territory. Everyone has always told me that my little man that watches bad “made for Sci-Fi” movies with me and plays games and lounges near me when sick, would someday become daddy’s because of the subject matter of girls, and then I would lose him forever. I’m not ready to lose him… have you seen the movie line up for the next few weeks?! I need my popcorn boy!
“Yeah. Right at the end when the lights came on.”
It took everything in me to resist the urge to “ahhhh” and keep a straight face. I figured I would do my 20 questions. He was familar with them, had heard me drill his sister with them regarding her “love” of the week, repeatedly. But instead of answers, I learned the real difference between boys and girls at this age. The girls are all gung-ho crazy for boys. The boys? Not so much. You knew that. But the girls… well. They will wait and wait for you to ask them to dance or go out or whatever, but unlike in my day, they won’t wait forever. And the boys, being not quite interested in the girls enough to admit it to their friends, fear those girls of little patience.
“Is she pretty? Is she smart? What do her parents do for a living? Where does she live?” None of my questions brought anything other than shrugs and grunts and “I don’t know.”
I scrunched up my face at him just as we rounded the garage and came into the yard light. Waiting for him to fill me in.
“She said, ‘Do you want to go out with me?’ and I didn’t know what to do, so I said, ‘I guess.’” He stopped under the harsh yellow of the back door bug light. “So I guess we’re going out.”
Now, never mind that he’s 12 and “going out” means eating lunch together and maybe calling each other on the phone. I hit all those highlights for him later when he brought it up again. For the moment outside, I let it go and learned how fear can get a boy to shrug an acceptance.
“What’s her name.”
“I don’t know.”
Yeah. Let that sink in. Little mister hair gel and Axe body spray doesn’t even know the name of the girl.
“You don’t know her name?”
“Well, I mean, I know but I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Nah. It’s a weird name. Maybe I’ll remember. Otherwise I’ll ask her on Monday.”
“Maybe?”
“Oh hey,” as if I wasn’t still stuck on maybe, he continued his thought. “I can’t even ask her Monday. I won’t see her. She’s on the second floor.”
Score! Of course, I don’t know if the point goes to the boychild or unnamed girl at this point. But the second floor means that this was a 7th grade girl that asked out my little 6th grader. A 7th grader? That he doesn’t know? At his first junior high dance?
Not bad for the shy one. After more talk he decided that “going out” was a silly thing [Especially if said unnamed girl thought it meant there would be kissing!] and he was just on the spot and didn’t know what to say. He talked to her a few times at the dance, but not enough to “be all freaky” like his sister is. Nope. He’s decided he’s not ready for all that yet and was having way more fun just running around with the guys and heckling and whatnot. He thinks he will tell her that if he sees her next week.
I told him to do what he thought was right and held my tongue quite a bit [you would have all been proud of me!]. I only offered one tidbit of advice at the very end, when he was calling the conversation finished and making me promise not to tell dad or JFB and/or her daughter [for fear of ribbing].
“You should probably figure out her name before you break up with her.” He smirked, I smiled, and his first dance became a memory.
This morning, he flitted down the stairs [yes, flitted] to announce that he had indeed remembered her name. He then proceeded to bounce back and forth on whether or not he actually liked her, and that his friends think she’s nice, and that someone else told him she liked him. If I didn’t know better, I would think that he really does like this girl, but he is absolutely against holding hands and kissing and anything else she might think “going out” means. I smiled and listened. I think my smile may have been misinterpreted, as he stopped talking for a moment, looked at me and then declared, “But I’m still breaking up with her!”
Some days I wonder about people who claim one sex is easier to raise than the other. They each have their own issues, their own weaknesses and strengths, and their own heartache. Regardless, they both come with loads of giggles for those of us enjoying the ride!
Thursday we attended graduation for one of the neighborhood clan. It was full of excitement and fun, pride and hope. We poked fun at the band, made faces at Justin from the crowd, and joked that there were seven more of these to attend over the next decade.
Remember that class? Where you learned about politics and the economy and monopolies and fair trade? I do…vaguely. But apparently you are allowed to forget ALL those rules come graduation.
My son is NOT Ferris Bueller. He doesn’t have the tools to be Ferris. The fashion sense. The technology. The balls to steal a car. The girl willing to ditch with him. And he’s so far from being suave it’s almost painful. His nickname is Kram for a reason (yes, that’s Mark backwards—because that’s how he signed all his artwork/homework in kindergarten). He really isn’t Bueller…