Soccer Mom

Only in Canada. I can't imagine this happening anywhere else.

Mom said the other day, "You know that Italy won the soccer game yesterday?"

"The soccer game? You watch soccer?"

"Yes, I watched the game at home last night. Last year, Portugal won. It's always either Portugal, Italy, or Spain."

"You follow soccer?"

"Only when the Euro Cup is on."

"You know about the Euro Cup?"

"Can't help it. It's always on TV at the mahjongg club. That's how I started watching soccer."

Who would have known mom followed the Euro Cup games?

I only know a game has taken place when the blast and blare of car horns reach my ear from St. Clair. If I happen to be on St. Clair, I see cars waving the flags of the victors. Recently, I saw a red flag with a crescent and star and mistook it for the Chinese flag. But I noted none of the flag wavers were Asian. I asked several cars that got close to me, "Does China have a soccer team?" They all said yes. What was China doing in the Euro Cup? That was a very confusing evening and I didn't understand how the loyalty of soccer fans worked.

Later, I looked the flag up and realized it was the Turkish flag. That made much more sense. But why did those cars tell me China has a soccer team? Ah, maybe China does have a soccer team, but just not in the Euro Cup. That was my assumption.

I bet mom knew this.

The Big Prep

I got home in the afternoon to find The Boy with a friend listening to music. At 2 pm, the friend left, The Boy went to pick up the corsage for Prom Date. Ten minutes later, the sky broke opened and poured, hard. The Boy phoned me to pick him up at the florist.

He got into the car with a large fuschia gerbera corsage to match Prom Date's dress and two bouquets of flowers. He presented me with one of the bouquets! Then he got showered and dressed in a hurry. We set off for Prom Date's house, running a bit late because of the rain.

When we got there, Prom Date's parents, grandmother, aunt, and cousin were there to witness the arrival of her date. She brought out a box containing a fuschia rose. That was a boutonniere for The Boy. I didn't know that was the etiquette for girls.
P

Prom Date had trouble pinning the boutonniere on The Boy so her mother had to help.


The Boy had no trouble slipping the corsage on Prom Date's wrist.


And here they are, all dressed up, with matching flowers, on her matching deck. Beautiful.


The proud moms with their beautiful children.


The beautiful kids at the pre-prom party. Just a gathering at one of the girls' home with 30 or so of the closest friends in her grade.

I guess short formal dresses for girls are the in thing this season. I don't think any of these girls look slutty, contrary to what some friends had warned. But then these kids have incredible parental support and guidance. Yeah, no diversity, and the kids conveniently paired up, but whatcha gonna do?

The parents were also invited to this party. Am I glad I actually showered and put clean clothes on for this, looking casual, yet respectable. I could just as easily have shown up in a dirty t-shirt and gnarly, greasy hair. Servers walked around at the party to give guests food and the bartender asked the kids to bring their parents over to signal it's okay to give the kids a bit of alcohol. I think the parents were invited to admire these young adults. Do they know how lucky they are?

The Boy and his best buddies with their dates.


Were there moments this afternoon where I felt like crying? Yes there were. That's why they have proms. It's to give the mothers practice for when their kids get married.

So, That's How It is Now

The Boy's prom is tonight. He's one of the few kids in the school who actually has a real date. The others go as a group and randomly get matched up with a friend of the opposite sex as date.

He's asked a girl in his grade to go with him. They've known each other since Grade 10. They commiserated over the unfairness of a teacher who preferred drama students. In Grade 11, she helped him study for his least favourite subject to ensure a good mark. In Grade 12, they hang out, study, and do whatever school friends do together. A few months ago, she said to him, Boy, you better ask me to the prom or I will never forgive you, or words to that effect. That's how he ended up actually asking her to go to the prom with him.

To prepare for it, he's relying on advise from two other female friends, who together with Prom Date and another girl, plan out how the prom will unroll for their group and tell the others what to do. I called them the Prom Protocol Committee (PPC).

They said The Boy had to get a new suit and took him shopping. I put my foot down and said, "Don't spend more than $300 on a new suit." I figured it was okay for him to get a new suit because the old suit he's worn for all those orchestra performances, well it's a cheap suit that cost $130 three years ago and he rolls it up to fit in his backpack, and when he unrolls it to wear, the thing has no wrinkles. But could he really get a new suit for $300? I doubted it.

The girls took him to a mall and they searched and searched and didn't like any of the suits they saw no matter what the price. There was one $800 suit they didn't find too ugly. But if you buy the suit, you have to get a new shirt, tie, and shoes to go with it. You can't wear old, cruddy accessories with a new outfit. That means The Boy would have to spend almost $1,200 to get all new things. Even the kids thought this was outrageous. Wisely, they opted to rent.

So for $195, The Boy rented himself a tux with vest, shirt, tie, shoes - the whole shebang. That the girls chose for him of course. The next day, I heard him say to a friend on the phone, "You rented a tux too? Did you get PPC's approval?" These girls rule.

I told him he should get his date a corsage. He said, "What for?"

"It's part of the prom ritual," I said.

A few days later, he came home and said, "Mom, PPC said I have to get Prom Date a corsage. A wrist corsage." So I helped him order one from a local florist.

Last night, he said, "I was just reading up on how to take your date to the prom. Can I have some money to buy Prom Date's mom some flowers? I'm supposed to knock on the door and give her mother some flowers and say, 'I'm here to take your daughter to the prom.' I've seen it done in movies."

"That's a very nice touch," I said. "Has PPC approved this?"

"No, this is my own initiative."

I liked that he's finally taking an interest instead of letting PPC lead him by the nose. "Yes," he said, "I'm pretty excited about it. I just talked to Friend on the phone and he's just panicked about tomorrow."

There is a pre-prom reception that one of the girls' parents are hosting. They are catering the affair and hired a photographer to take pictures of the kids all dressed up. The kids' parents are invited too, so we can stand as proud parents beside our children. That means I have to find yuppy gear to get into and gt there.

But this prom is expensive. Here's my tally of the expenses for this one evening:

$80 - Prom ticket. He didn't have to buy one for Prom Date because PPC said you buy your own if you attend the same school. But if you bring a date from another school, then you pay for her ticket.

$40 - After-prom party

$195 - Tuxedo rental

$30 - corsage

$20 - flowers for Prom Date's mother

$40 - limousine contribution

$20 - cab fare home from after-prom party

$20 - just in case money

$50 - my car rental for the day so I can drive him, all dressed up, to Prom Date's house to pick her up and go to the pre-prom reception together

That's $495 for his evening. Aside from my wedding, I don't think I've ever spent $495 for a party.

The Birthday Party

Last night, I went to a friend's birthday party. It was a very fine party.

When children are young, they seem to able to play with anyone. You plump kids together and unless they have jarringly different temperaments and social skills, somehow they find ways to get along without judgement or complaint. As we get older, we learn to discriminate. We do different things with different friends. In our twenties and thirties, we are self-absorbed and even hostile to people who are different from us. Few of us naturally reached out to befriend others.

Then as we get older and become more accepting of who we are, so we become more accepting of others. That was the birthday party yesterday. I knew the birthday girl and was plumped into the midst of a group of women who have known each other since grade school. I can just hear Bro feeling the awkwardness of that, and I know in my twenties and thirties, that would have been an uncomfortable situation indeed.

But now in our fifties, we are in our element. Some of the women hadn't seen each other for years and were trying to catch up. This was as good a set up as any for me to learn about them. Some just wanted to spend a couple of pleasant hours together. We got that too. We welcomed each other's company and were interested in what everyone is doing, with no care of how our association may reflect on who we are. Contrast that to our early years when we didn't want to talk to anyone who didn't make up look cool, or The Boy's current insistence on not mixing certain groups of friends. I like our free-form way much better.

One woman commented that in our fifties, we become the woman we imagined we'd be in our early, idealistic teen years. We make things happen and life flows. I reflected on this idea and thought, She's right - I can't deny the existence of this flow in my own life.

No Sale, No Sale!

Our street had a garage sale today. We put an ad in the paper. I put out several items on the lawn to sell.

A woman passed by and asked for fabric. I pulled out a long piece of blue and white striped cotton and an even longer piece of yellow cotton with red peppers on it. She asked about the striped fabric. I knew that if I gave her a price, she would buy it. I was about to part with this precious piece of blue and white striped cotton. I said, "I don't know how much I want for this. It's 18 years old."

"Oh then it will fall apart as soon as I put it in the wash," she said, "I give you $1 for it."

"No no no, I don't want to sell it. This was my son's room curtains when he was a baby. I can't sell it." So I took it back.

Next, an elderly couple passed by and wanted my free-standing hammock. "How much?" the man said.

"Urrr... $10."

He phoned his son to see if he wanted it. I started to panic. I was about to lose my beloved hammock that I've barely rested in. It's so darn big I have no room in the garden for it in summer and no storage room for it in the shed in winter. The Man hates it. I had to get rid of it. The old man came back and said he would take it. I said, "No no no, I want to keep it. It's practically new. I'll find room for it."

That's when my neighbour stepped in and said, "Stop it. You complain about it all the time. Now's your chance to give it a good home."

"You're right," I said. So I sold it to the elderly couple for $10.

The first lady came back and asked about the yellow fabric with red peppers. "I don't know what to do with such a big piece of fabric," she said, "It could just stay in my basement. But how much you want for it?"

That's it. I can't part with my fabric. For one thing, I paid over $300 for it years ago and I keep thinking I could do something fun with it. And besides, she doesn't love it. She wouldn't pay much for it anyway. "Very sorry, I have to keep this. I love it too much."

After this, I sold a cloth bag for 10 cents to a strange man, and The Boy's old broken scooter for 50 cents to the little boy a few doors down. Then I went up the street to give someone $3 for the ad in the newspaper. My haul today was $7.60 and I am still mourning over the loss of my hammock, though relieved it's no longer hogging up room in the garden.

Everything else I put back in the shed, waiting for another bout of courage to hit so I can discard them.

The Tenant

I finally rented out my mother's basement apartment. It's a cozy apartment for the right person. It's bright for a basement apartment, though it's still a basement.

The young woman who took it is in her mid-twenties, maybe early thirties. In conversation, she revealed she had moved to Toronto from Montreal last year with her boyfriend. They lived in a basement apartment where the ceiling almost touched her head. Our basement ceiling, compared to her current arrangement, is tall, she said.

She recently split with her boyfriend and that's why she was looking for her own place. She's currently in hair-styling school. Something about her gave me a good feeling. Maybe it was the modest and gentle, yet enthusiastic way she conducted herself. She seemed like a considerate person, concerned about safety and having a long stay in the apartment. But most of all, she loved the apartment, even when she came back two days later to put a deposit on it, and was so appreciative of the perks, like parking in the drive if she rented a car, use of the backyard, storage in the garage, her own door bell, a mail box. I told her this house was a very safe place for a single woman. I hoped my good feeling about her proves right.

Then this weekend, I visited mom on an errand. The new tenant had already moved in, two weeks before her time! We gave her keys so she could start moving her things in slowly. Not that we mind giving her half a month's rent free. Mom's done that before with other tenants. It's just that we hadn't expected her to move in so soon. She was sitting in the backyard smoking. Her arms were covered in tattoos. She had several piercings in her nostril and ears. I noticed she had dyed metallic red hair. Hmmn.

But at least she was still pleasant and said she was happy to be settling in. She had already called Bell to arrange for phone installation and gave me her new phone number. And she was smoking outside instead of inside the apartment.

The Never-Ending Story

Well. Exams are over for The Boy. He's been busy preparing for the prom and spending time with friends to "unwind."

That is, until this morning. The principal from school phoned to say the boys were late for their whiskey punishment. Both The Boy and Friend had spent the night here. They prepared to leave the house after the phone call. An hour later, the principal called back to say they were now 90 minutes late. I talked to the principal this time.

Apparently, the boys need to spend the next three days at school moving furniture and cleaning lockers. The principal had reminded them about this several times in the last few days. They agreed they would show up. But evidently, they have selective memory and either forgot about it or chose not to observe the agreement. I told the boys at this point, they need to go through with the punishment because their honour is at stake. This is also a trust issue. So not only do they need to do the work the principal assigns, they need to do a good job.

The principal said she's disappointed she had to phone them to get them to come in. That if they don't serve out the punishment, she would ban them from attending school functions till the end of the school term. That means they will miss the prom. Ouch.

Both boys had rented tuxedos for the event and their lives now evolve around the big evening. But the ball's in their court. Will they do the right thing?

He Plays Me

One day last week, the weather plummeted from a choking 33C heat wave that felt like 40C to 14C. The Boy came home sweating. He had been walking fast for some reason. He said, "Mom, I'm so hot. Can you turn the air conditioner back on?"

"No. It's cool out."

"But it's so hot in my room."

"Try opening your window, turning off your computer and keyboard, and turning on your fan."

"I did that but it's still hot."

"Give it more time."

At bed time, he said to me, "I told my friends that you were moving to Afghanistan and I can live in the house. Everyone thinks it's a great idea and they want to live with me. It's one of the greatest thing a parent could do for a child to support him becoming independent. When are you going?"

"That was an idea, a passing thought that flitted through my head out loud. I am not moving to Afghanistan and leaving you the house."

"But mom, I told everyone you were."

"The most that would happen is I visit dad for a few weeks, but not in September. I am going to Orlando with pau-pau, Sis, and the kids in October. So if I visit dad, it will be after that."

"What holiday is that in October? Why are we going to Orlando?"

"Not we. You will be in school. You'll have the house that week I'm away."

"You're not taking me to Orlando? But the kids get to go? They're in school. That's not fair."

"You are in university."

"Well, this is a disappointing day. You don't take me to Orlando, you won't turn the air conditioner on, and you are not moving to Afghanistan. Get out of my room."

Each Day

Each day brings its own surprises.

This summer, The Exchange is coming back. I would like us to all go to France together on the same flight when he leaves. But to give us more vacation days, I asked his father to move his return up by three days. He replied that the flight was fixed and no change could be made.

I am annoyed by this and I am surprised by my annoyance. Since I am hosting his son without sending The Boy there, I think he should try harder to accommodate us. But I know it's because he doesn't know how to make the change. There is a small service fee but it can be done. It tests my patience. I shift into dominatrix robotic and want to take over everyone's lives to simply things.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of receiving an offer to practise highway driving with Bro, an invitation to a dance recital with a neighbour, a visit from one of the women I went to India with, a phone call from a mutual friend while she was here, and a phone call from The Man. Then in the evening as I pondered whether to visit the cemetery on Father's Day and how to get there, mom phoned requesting that I take her there this morning. Of course I would book a car and take her.

This morning, I received a fright. The Man sent a photograph of him and his colleagues standing in front of a plane. They had been to Kandahar. Kandahar! The place where all the killing is. As if Kabul isn't dangerous enough. What the hell? We communicate everyday and he didn't say he
was going to Kandahar.

I wonder what today will bring when I go out.

Lightning Struck

Literally. Last night, the rain pelted, thunder crashed, and lightning lit up the night sky several times. My simple mind said, At least the new plants I put in will get a good soaking.

Late night, my 26-year-old neighbour came over in the rain and knocked on my door. He said, "Is your cable out?"

"We don't have cable."

"You're on satellite?"

"No. We killed cable years ago and never replaced it."

"Oh, I thought you had cable so I came to tell you our cable is out and I've called the cable company. They'll come fix it tomorrow. The cable wire is down. I don't know if it's live or not so don't go into your backyard."

"Huh?"

"You know the lightning that's been going on? It hit one of our tree branches. The branch fell and took the cable wire down. We can't see much out there now, but I bet we'll have to fix the fence."

We poked around outside in the dark trying to see the damage. There was just a blurry of leaves where there shouldn't be. This morning, I went outside to take another look. This is what I saw.

Where lightning hit.


My garden on the hill is under cover!

The Birds And The Bees

The Boy's been bringing home different girls almost every day. They go in his room, listen to music and sing along. They write music, play on the keyboard, strum the guitar. They call down for food and I make it for them. I go in and out of the house, I visit neighbours, I work in the garden. While I am outside, I don't know what's happening in his room, though I suspect more of the same as when I'm inside.

So while he was on his computer one day, I walked into his room and said, "Hey, do you need condoms?"

"What? No."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Do you know how to buy condoms?"

"Mom, this is awkward. I don't want to talk like this with you."

"Look, I'm just trying to keep everyone safe."

"Not necessary."

"Should I just get a box and leave it in your room?"

He looked up at me and in a most serious tone said, "If you do that, I swear I will march up to you and tell you to put up your dukes. Then I will fight you."

"So what are you saying? You want some?"

"No."

"But you know what to do if you need any?"

"I'm not talking about this."

"You know what dad says...'No glove, no love.'"

"You're not half as funny as you think you are."

Well, I think that went rather well.

The Water Flow

One of the jobs mom wanted me to do was to buy her a new garden hose. "The one we bought last year is all twisted up and water won't come out," she said, "It had been working fine until two days ago and suddenly, water just stopped coming out."

I examined her hose. It folds at several places. But when you untwist it and turn the water on, the hose should straighten out. I asked mom to turn the water on so I could try the hose head. She said the water was already on. I squeezed the lever on the hose head. No water came out. Nothing was obstructing the hose though it looked very limp. Maybe water was not coming from the tap, I thought.

I examined the tap. I tried to turn the water off. The knob wouldn't budge. I fiddled with it, then suddenly, it turned. The sound of water hummed from the house. I squeezed the lever on the hose head. Water came spraying out.

I looked at mom with one an arched eyebrow. She looked back at me with disbelieve. "You turned the water on?" she asked.

"Yes, other wise, water doesn't come out."

"Why was the water turned off? I never turn the water off. Someone must've turned it off without telling me." As she said that, the middle of the hose bulged up and started squirting. There was a leak there. The hose connector at the tap also picked up a furious little squirt.

"It must've been spraying like that and your tenant or your neighbour must've turned the water off and really tightened the tap."

I disconnected the hose from the tap. The sealant tape on the coupling was all shredded. Mom mumbled and bemoaned about faulty hose and tap. I put new sealant tape on the tap spout and reconnected the hose to it. I turned the water on and squeezed the hose head. Water sprayed without leaking at the coupling.

"Wow, you really know what you are doing," mom said, clearly impressed. But the middle of the hose was still squirting. "Can that tape fix that hole?" she asked.

"No. You need a hose mender. It's like a clamp that joins two pieces of hose. I will have to cut your hose. I will get a mender and come back to fix it. I've done it many times." I've done it exactly once. But see how the offer to fix things for her just poured out of my mouth before I realized I would have to make another trip back.

But you know, I left mom thinking I'm a water whisperer.

It dawns on me why I do things for her even though I don't always feel like it. That's how I keep regular contact with her to make sure she's alright. It feels limited and a poor form of filial piety to share just the occasional meal with her. This way, we are incorporated into each other's lives in a real, practical, and meaningful way.

Where's My Tail?

Here I go again. Instead of staying home to clean my own house and tend to my garden, I am going to mom's to wash her windows, clean out her garage, take photographs of unwanted items to put on craigslist, nail in quarter-rounds where the floor meets the baseboard, and do who knows what else she's got in mind.

All these are outstanding chores that apparently I said yes to, but keep putting off with reasons like, The Man will be home, The Boy needs help, It's too hot out, I've already got plans, I'm too busy. Mom accepts all these reasons except for I'm too busy. She doesn't understand this one. She keeps asking, "What are you busy with? Why aren't you home? You don't have a job." As if employment is the only justifiable reason for being out during the day or for being busy.

I've stopped telling her how I spend my time. I don't want to hear "Why would you want to do that? What are you bothering with that for?" any more from her. Too negative. I guess I've just taken my time to do what I wanted and let the chores pile up. Not that they are necessarily my chores. It's more that they become mine because I complain to mom about how unsightly her walls are, how dirty her windows are, how messy her garage is. Mom then says, Oh I hadn't noticed, or I don't know how to fix that, or I can't do that by myself. I give a big sigh and say, Look, I'll come one day and help you do it.

So naturally, that repair becomes my task and I can't really say I'm being forced to do it since I pointed out the problems, then volunteered to fix them. The real question is, why do I do that, then feel it's a great imposition on my time that I have to do the chores. I don't know. But it has a chasing my own tail feel to it.

The Nazi Restaurant

The Uyghurs are a Turkic people living in the Jinxiang Autonomous Region of China. This Chinese province is also know as East Turkistan. Uyghurs are Chinese muslims, though unwillingly Chinese. The owners of The Silk Road, the only Uyghur restaurant in town, look more Arabic than Asian. They refuse to serve tea in their restaurant. Too Chinese. But their menu is printed in both Chinese and English. When I've overheard conversations there, I think it's mandarin they speak.

My first exposure to Uyghur culture was at Sis' birthday dinner last year. Bro ordered food from The Silk Road, which introduced my taste buds to a whole new kind of cooking and use of spices. Since then, I've dined at the small, run-down restaurant with plastic flowers a couple of times and with each visit, I like their food more. But not so their service. I mean, the food is just downright delicious, clinging your to palate and beckoning you to savour every morsel, leaving you satisfied and wanting more. Nothing Indian about it.

Any reviews I've read about the restaurant talk about the politics of the Uyghurs, commend the great food, but condemn the terrible service. The owners are very particular about how you may come to dine at their restaurant, reminiscent of the Soup Nazi in a Seinfeld episode. For example, you must order the lamb pillow (a lamb shank with sticky rice and raisins) in advance, especially for take out. Despite the hole-in-the-wall-in-a stripmallness of the restaurant, they want you to make a reservation to eat there. You cannot be seated unless your whole party is present.

Once, we made a reservation for four but six of us showed up. Not only would they not accommodate us even though they had vacant tables, they were rude about it. Bro got so angry, he stormed out of the restaurant and swears to never eat there again. During that meal, we had to move the car in the middle of eating because someone complained it was blocking another car even though we had parked in a legal parking spot.

This week, when we went there, we were asked to move the car again before we even sat down because the waitress didn't like that it was parked by the front door of the restaurant despite that being a legal spot. Then she asked me if we had a reservation even though there were several empty tables in the restaurant. When I said no, I swear, she growled at me.

Every time she brought things to our table, she abandoned them brusquely in front of Sis' fiance, obstructing his use of the table surface and access to the food. She seemed to convey she found us politically offensive, or that she found us unworthy of eating their food.

Oh but the food is so damn good, damn it. The lamb kebobs on long skewers charred just right on the outside and tender inside, coated with mystery spice, the handmade broad noodles in sauce that make you lick your lips again and again, the sticky rice peppered with raisins and lamb. Would I suffer their abuse just to eat there? Yes, again and again.

Tripping Out

So far, my plans for July include a weekend getaway with my book club and a wilderness camping trip with my vegetarian friends. The plans for August include a family car-camping trip, a trip to Montreal, another wilderness camping trip, and a trip to France. For October, there will be a trip to Orlando.

All this planning makes me restless and anxious, especially that trip to France. I don't think we can afford to go. But we're getting an apartment free and The Man's flight will be covered by his employer as R&R.

I want to take mom to Orlando because I had wanted to do that with mom and dad. I've missed the chance with dad. Now I want to take mom. In fact, mom is coming car-camping and to Montreal with us. Sis had asked why I'm taking mom all over the place. Now that I've thought about it, I think it's to honour her while I can, even if she objects, and she does.

She objects to leaving her house. She doesn't want to miss putting out the garbage. She thinks the house will fall apart if she's not there. I think these concerns are age related. I suspect mom is a little depressed. Her doctor says she's deficient in vitamin D. I want her out in the sun a bit more.

Still, I understand the desire to stay put. Maybe it's the weather. We're in our first heat wave of the season and right now, it's raining hard out. There's even a tornado warning for Toronto tonight. My head and my body are on different courses. My head is planning the trips, my body doesn't want to go anywhere.  

I started a pottery class recently. This is a different kind of trip altogether. I get high making plates, planters and a birdbath for my garden. I just want to stay home and work on my garden, dig up the front yard, put in new plants. Now this is the kind of trip I'm talking about.

It Wasn't Over

It felt like nothing's been happening in the last while. But when I talk to The Man and friends, I realize that's not so. There is the summer to plan (The Exchange is coming back!), my mother's basement apartment to rent out, my garden to clean, weed, and plant. And The Boy's episode with whiskey wasn't quite over.

The principal had banned the boys from going to the cast party. But the party was held in in a private home after hours. She had phoned the parents hosting the party to say the two boys weren't allowed to attend. Did she have jurisdiction over The Boy's private time on private property? This was a grey area for me. Without the musical production, there certainly wouldn't have been a cast party. 

Another teacher met The Boy in the hallway and threatened to ban him from a June solstice concert if she found out he attended the party. This was uncalled for and amounts to bullying on the teacher's part. I had issue with that. The Boy had been invited to play in the teachers' rock band, he had been rehearsing with his own rock band, he had been working hard at transcribing a music score for the orchestra so they could play backup music for his rock band.

The Boy was incensed and felt violated on being banned from the cast party and being threatened with a ban from playing in the solstice concert.

That night, I attended the musical performance at the school. An excellent production as always. But what transpired during the day was, the boy whose parents were hosting the party sent word to The Boy that they still wanted him to come to the party, that they would cover for him and lie to the school if needed. Now it was my turn to be incensed.

In those few split seconds in the hallway while I weighed whether The Boy should go to the cast party, I understood the following:

1.  The Boy and his friend had done wrong.
2.  The principal had a responsibility to apply punishment as a deterrent to other students.
3.  Whether the principal had jurisdiction over The Boy's private time on private property was in question. But she did waive giving him a permanent record in favour of a party ban to reduce permanent damage.
4.  The Boy felt violated and great injustice had been done to him because his private activity had been interferrred with.
5.  The teacher in the hallway had bullied The Boy.
6.  The Boy felt greater injustice at being threatened. He felt he must attend the party now on principle, to make the point that the principal and teacher had no right to violate him. He felt safe because the host parents would cover for him.

While all these principles were at issue, my gut told me something else. It said there was already enough damage done; my maternal instinct needed to protect The Boy and contain the damge. As his mother, I had greater interest in and concern for his long-term welfare than anyone else. If I didn't look out for him, protect him from himself and the situation, who would?

The teacher had escalated the problem by threatening The Boy. He would escalate it further by attending the party. His participation in the solstice concert was at stake. Because of the work he's already put in preparing for this concert, he would feel worse being banned from it than not atttending the party. Further escalation of the problem means more people would know about what happened. The school's reputation was at stake. More importantly, The Boy's reputation was at stake. I didn't want him to end his high school year on a sour note after having given so much of his energy and affection to the school.

And while the host parents should have consulted with me instead luring The Boy to the party, I interpreted their invitation as a first response based on affection for The Boy. I drew to The Boy's attention that because of their affection for him, he had a greater moral responsibility to not put them and all the other kids attending the party in a compromising situation where they are required to lie for him. 

Because of all of the above, I discouraged The Boy from attending the party and took him home. I am thankful he trusted me, heard some of what I tried to say to him, and came home willingly despite much anger and frustration on his part.  

Had I done the right thing by not teaching him to stand up for himself and fight the principal and the bullying teacher? I don't know.

Friday night, he had the solstice concert. It was fabulous he reported. Being invited to play in the teacher's rock band was no small thing. The teachers have never invited a student to join them before. And this time, he attended the private party after. Then he went to another party Saturday night. I have seen him twice this weekend, for all of 10 minutes each time. He phoned to tell me he's having a good time.