Emily Post I am not

February 15, 2009

By Roger Monroe

Babies were my passion. It was never “if” I would have children, but rather “when” I would. I planned to be a creative version of Susie Homemaker, Mother Earth, and Mrs. Walton (from the ‘70’s television series Walton’s Mountain) all rolled into one.

My first baby, Michael, arrived on March 2, 1974 and I truly felt like a participant in a heavenly undertaking. Then sleep deprivation set in and I realized this was going to be tougher than it looked. Two more babies arrived in rapid succession and I mentally removed Mrs. Walton and her six children from my list of “wanna be like.”

Flash forward and my firstborn is celebrating his 35th birthday, an event likely more significant for me than him. When I watch him and his two sisters, I still celebrate the miracle of having children. It’s a privilege to cherish always.

Memories are moms’ good friends. My children’s birthdays are nostalgic flashbacks for me, and even though time has distanced the intensity of some memories, I can still recall countless details. Some early events, I relive now through my granddaughters. Others are permanently recorded, not in baby books, I did poorly in that regard, but in this newspaper column and its author’s heart.

The details are poignant and funny and significant. Some parenting choices I made, I’d rethink, while others still seem the best. Sages say we do the best we can with what we know at the time, and when we know better, we do better. I concur.

Here’s a repeat read of just one of many incidents that still melts my heart. Michael was 16 when this was written and some of the details sound very dated. They are, but the memories are sweet.

“Hey, Mom. I’m going to the dance. You know, a dance, dance. The real kind.”

Right. A dance. I’m familiar with the term. They had those even when I was in school.

“I’ll mark the date on the calendar so I can have the car. Dad’s car.”

I know. Must not be seen driving the “family” van.

“When can we go shopping? Gotta get an outfit. First class stuff, Mom. It’s supposed to, you know, go with hers.”

“Who are you taking to the dance?”

“A girl. Nobody you know, Mom.”

If he were taking the girl next door, he would still say it’s nobody I know.

He’s not big on divulging names. Must be grooming himself for some high-level security position.

With the current telephone usage charge, I estimate it cost $2.97 to determine she hates fuschia and looks gross in green.

For an additional $3.29, it is learned she loves gold but would settle for burnt butterscotch if gold is too bright for his complexion.

Wonderful.

I can only imagine stores are bursting with young men’s sweaters and accessories in burnt butterscotch.

Whoever she is, she does not realize her escort coordinates his wardrobe in primary colors. With black and gray thrown in for variety.

And with little concern for his complexion.

I pray for patience and tolerance as we head for the shopping centers.

“Mom, what’s the credit limit on your charge card?”

Seven phone calls, 24 sweaters, 16 shirts and a mere 15 pair of slacks later, he makes his selection.

“Forgot the socks, Mom. Hey, check these out. Perfect design. Only six dollars.”

Six dollars for a pair of socks? Who cares about the design? It’s a dance, not a fashion inspection.

I dressed him for the first two years of his life for less than this one outfit costs.

But we weren’t into burnt butterscotch back then. Nor designed socks.

“Mom, why don’t you buy Dad an early Christmas gift? A bottle of Obsession would be just the thing. I could wear it first so you’ll know what it smells like.”

Right.

“Mom, if you were a girl, what kind of corsage would you like?”

If I were a girl…I’ll explain it to him later. When he’s not preoccupied with flowers and dinner reservations.

“Are you sure she orders first? What if she orders lobster?”

That’s how it is, kid. Hope for the best. She’ll stay clear of lobster and prime rib if she wants to continue the relationship.

The bathroom has been barricaded for over an hour. Steam rolls out from under the door. An occasional sigh is audible.

He emerges only to disappear behind another locked door. His stereo rocks the house. Must be practicing his dance steps.

The luscious scent of cologne announces he’s ready.

Burnt butterscotch must be his color. He looks…handsome. Charming.

He’s so cute!

“Aw, Mom, you aren’t gonna cry, are you?”

No, don’t be silly. Goodness. It’s just a dance.