Trophy

Last night 12 year-old boy comes home with a plastic trophy filled with candy after the school dance:

The Boy:  I won this.

The Mamma:  Really!  Wow!  How fun!  Was there a dance contest?

The Boy:  Uh.  No.  Cutest Couple.

The Mamma:  Couple of what?  Socks?  You didn’t wear gloves….

The Boy:  Cutest couple, <mumble, mumble that sounds suspiciously like, ‘You stupid, old woman,”> Cutest Couple, Mamma, not nicest pair.

The Mamma:  Oh. <The Mamma lowers head between legs and frantically breathes in-and-out of Chipolte take-out bag.> What do you mean couple? <She gasps breathlessly, after slowly lifting her head.>

The Boy:  I took K.  We were a couple.  Everybody voted.  We won.

The Mamma:  <From ground, The Husband checking carotid artery for pulse, croaking, not groking.> What exactly do you mean you took K?

The Boy: <Looking down at his mother as if she’s not only acting like a complete idiot, she has the IQ to match,> I texted her two weeks ago.  She was my date.

The Mamma:  <Unable to speak as The Husband frantically tosses Ativan down her throat as if candy from a Peez dispenser.> Hmmfff?

The Boy:  Yeah.  No big deal.  We were like very causal.  Meant nothing.  We were just, you know, the cutest couple.

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Yes, it really happened.

Aspects of the conversation were changed to protect the innocent.

No, The Husband did NOT really medicate me.

Absolutely, I am way too immature to handle this.

Most days The Boy and I compete to see who can act the most 12.  I often win.  12 was one big year of pain and dysfunction for me.  I remember it vividly enough to have flashbacks.

Yet, it’s not like I shouldn’t have seen this coming…

When a series of events culminated to The Boy’s cellphone being confiscated for a couple of days, I can now look back at the encounter through a different lens.  When it happened, The Boy looks at me with such agony that it was as if I had chopped off his manhood.  He was mortified.  As we rarely have to consequence The Boy with anymore than a good talking to, I thought he was simply indignant that I went there… used my big, bad Mamma power and took his phone.

Come to find out when he got the phone back the morning before the dance, he had 17 messages waiting for him.  My boy like had to explain… I didn’t have my phone with me… I’m not ignoring you… We are still on for the dance… See you there….

Glory!

My son is old enough to have to manage dating situations and massage the esteem of girls.

<The Mamma lowers head between legs and frantically breathes in-and-out of Chipolte take-out bag desperately hoping that is the only part of girls he will ever-ever massage.>

The Husband’s out of town… where’s that Ativan bottle?

How calmly does the orange branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair?

How calmly does The Mamma blanch
Observe The Boy’s strutting panache
With a righteous cry and much prayer,
With total and transparent despair…

There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!