Mama, May I?

October 10, 2010
I had the pleasure of getting in on the ugly end of a mother's rant Thursday after school. She'd come to school, all huffy and a tad bit puffy, book in hand, to right what she thought was a ridiculous wrong.

"You'd keep a kid from Homecoming because of an overdue book?!" she sputtered.

See, East High has the radical notion that even teenagers can handle natural consequences, taking responsibility for both their actions and their inactions.

Thus the overdue book and Homecoming.

"I mean, I'm all for holding kids accountable, but blahblahblahblahblabh...."

Is that why you're here, and not your son?" I thought to myself.

"I can't tell you how sick I am of coming to school to take care of these things for him...."

At this point, foam began forming in the corners of her mouth, while my ear drums were beginning their self-protective retreat. My eyes began to fog over, too, as I dreamed of a world where people still were expected to lay in the beds that they had made. Or hadn't made.

I dreamed of a world where parents and their kids seldom interacted, unless it was to clarify that the dishwasher needed unloading. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tap into my own recollections of a youth spent mostly away from and uninvolved with my own parents.

I can't recall even once telephoning my mom to rescue me, aside from that day in my short-lived shoplifting phase that ended in the back room of Wards. And, even then, I only called home because the policeman made me.

And look how I turned out. Okay, okay, but I really did have a happy, well-balanced, generally fine childhood followed by a nice time at college and beyond. And I always loved my parents through it all, which is why I left them out of it.

If this mom truly hates her role as rescuer-in-chief, then I'd recommend she quit rescuing her son. That overdue book held great powers that she snuffed out by returning it to the library herself. Had she just let the power of the written word do its thing, her son would have spent last Friday night home alone, grinding with his G.I. Joe doll in his bedroom, while his sweaty peers were being expelled--one by hip-thrusting one--from the dance at school.

He had the chance to learn some important lessons that night. G.I. Joes are lousy kissers, and overdue library books are powerful things that should not be ignored. Even at a lousy nickel a day.