Backseat - From Where I Sit

November 2006

By: Michelle

Not Exactly a Hallmark Moment

I had been preparing for this moment for 4 years. It was senior night, the last performance of the marching band for the season. For my son, it was his last high school marching band performance ever. It was the finale of his entire high school musical career. No more after school practices, late night meetings or waiting in the parking lot at 2:00AM for the students to arrive back from a road trip. No more chaperoning an overcrowded bus filled with tubas and hormones. No more uniform cleaning or listening to everyone else’s child’s performance just to hear my own son’s.

I was told I would cry. I always thought I would. Yet, as I stood out on the track with my son on my arm and looked into the bleachers filled with other parents waiting to do this same ritual in a year to two, I couldn’t feel anything. Even as I looked at the blank spot that was my usual seat in the stand, my only thought was that next year another parent would try in vain to keep their butt warm. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t muster a tear.

Maybe the lack of sentiment was due to the shock of realizing that somewhere along the way 2’6” became 6’2”. The world of Poke Mon, Furbies and cracked heads from jumping bicycles over tree stumps, was all a blur leading up to this very moment. I couldn’t believe this person escorting me across the field was the same 7lbs0oz bowlegged being that so changed my life 18 years ago. Yet there we were.

As we waited for our name to be announced, I tried to think of the words I should say. All I could manage was an awkward, “I am proud of you.” I have no idea where my son’s mind was when I said it. It was probably somewhere between “I am hungry.” or “This uniform is too hot.” because he seemed totally puzzled by my pronouncement. He then asked me, in his typical argumentative way, why I was proud of him because all he did was something he wanted to do. He went on to say that “It’s not like I worked hard to get good grades or something.” I couldn’t help but respond by saying “With grades like yours, beggars can’t be choosers.” Our conversation rapidly digressed into lighthearted teasing until hearing our names over loudspeaker reminded us to behave.

So we didn’t cry. We didn’t bond the same way everyone else does. But deep down he knows I really am proud of him. Even though the little boy I used to sneak in at night to watch sleeping can no longer be found among the pile of clothes and papers strewn about his room, I know he is still there. He may not be an “A” student. Actually, he may not even be an almost “B” student but he is a pretty cool kid. Even though I ride motorcycles instead of driving a mini-van and the only cookies in our house are from Giant and not the oven, I am also pretty sure he thinks I am a decent mom.

In hindsight I realize that the best thing I could have said to convey all my emotions, love, and wishes for his future could have been summed up by simply saying:

“Ride safely”

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