The First to Go

The first thing to go was his dependence.

“No, Mom, I’ve packed my own lunch.  Don’t worry about it.

   All of my work is turned in, my externship secured.

      Graduation is at six on the twenty-fourth. 

          Do you think Grandma and Grandpa will make it?

It’s okay if they don’t.  I understand.”

Then there were fewer hugs which were

unceremoniously replaced 

by a forty-hour work week,

   a tidied room,

      clothes in the hamper,

    and gas in the car.

--all none of my doing.

It slipped away quietly, almost over night--

an Adult World kidnapping that left no ransom note,

no explanation.

Just emptiness in a mother’s heart--

a heart that once

     Begged for cleanliness,

     Nagged about deadlines, and

     Longed for independence--his

      independence, not mine.

Now, in silence I sit

     alone in a clean room--holding the bear that

    once calmed childhood fears and eased teenage angst--

   praying for the power that will soothe

      a mother’s aching heart

         and fill her hungry arms

        until his hugs return--home.

Firsts

The first day the school bus stopped outside my house, it gobbled up my five-year-old son then growled and spat at me as it drove away, consuming the fruits of my parenting labors thus far. I spent the rest of the day in a state of wonder and "Kyle" query: What was his teacher like? Who were his new friends?  How were the snacks?  What did they learn, make, or do?  Just after three o'clock my questions were answered with the ringing of the phone. On the other end was Miss Mellor, Kyle's teacher. The dismissal bell had rung and she "just needed to call" before my son made his way home. She timidly explained that the school day had not gone well for Kyle after he knocked over the contents of a jar and in his embarrassment, hid his face and refused to clean up the mess.  She tried everything a skilled teacher does to help a student right a wrong, but his embarrassment was paralyzing, and he held firm, ignoring her request to help in the clean up.  "This is the first time I've had a student turn a card on the first day of school," she mused, then asked if there was anything else she could have done to persuade Kyle to follow her directives.  Wanting to crawl under the kitchen table myself, I assured her that she had done everything possible and I would talk to my son.  I hung up the phone and headed for the bus stop, this time in a completely different state of wonder:  How could I have failed so badly as a parent? Where had I gone wrong? What was Kyle thinking--disobeying his teacher--embarrassed or not? How could I help him get over the humiliation factor? Had I really taught him that little mistakes were such a big deal? ... I knew the answer to that one, so I ended my self-directed reflection with: It is only the first day of school for crying out loud!!!

As the bus came to a halt, its brakes squealed  "MommyLoserrrrrrrr!" then the exhaust gave an exasperated "Pffffft!" in my direction. It deposited Kyle and again spat at me as it lumbered away.

Before I could say, "Hey, bud!" my back-packed kindergartener walked toward me, shaking his head and lamenting, "My teacher hates me," before bursting into tears. Taking a deep breath and figuring that his hypersensitivity to humiliation played a major role in Kyle's obstinance, I did my best to listen as he gave his account and tried not to shame him further like I normally would.

With a firm hug I explained that even though it was an accident and he didn't like the attention his mistake had drawn, he always needed to do what the teacher asked--even though the teacher was nice... and calm ... and didn't freak out ... and didn't scream emphatically ... and didn't say bad words ... or flail her arms ... like a lunatic ... like Mommy did. Hence, parent and child learned an important lesson that day--one that continues.

If memory serves, we made a snack then composed an apology note to Miss Mellor. I then added a P.S. that read, "Please assure Kyle that you like him.  He feels terrible and needs your validation."  It was the first of many notes signed with a heartfelt, "Thanks for all you do" to my child's teacher.

As hoped, Kyle returned home from school the following day feeling like a rock star, Miss Mellor his biggest fan.


*******


Though that was nearly fourteen years ago, I cannot help but reflect on that day as so many of these same feelings reemerged last Wednesday when we dropped off Kyle at the Missionary Training Center in Provo. I couldn't help but wonder how things were going: Who was his companion?  What would his responsibilities be?  Would the language come easily or would it be a battle? What day would be his P-day? Did he have everything he needed?  Would he regret not taking his heavy coat?  And most daunting of all, had I done my part to prepare him?  Had we written enough thank you notes and apology letters and righted enough of the wrongs along the way?

Knowing I wouldn't get an email until the following week but longing for any word, I found myself checking my mail incessantly the next day at school.  Tears came easily as the magnitude of two years--two long, agonizing, waiting-for-news, hoping-he-was-okay years were upon me.  Even though we had carefully planned, set money aside, organized and prepped for this time, somehow it still overwhelmed me. A student of mine who had missed school the prior Tuesday for her brother's missionary homecoming, greeted me in the office, and as I asked her how her family was, the words caught in my throat and I began to tear up.  Later that day, upon seeing her in class, I tried again with the same result but managed to eek out a "Tell your mom I'm happy for her."  The thought of my son's return seemed so far away, yet I longed for it already. I just couldn't go there.

Once school let out, I held it together long enough to take care of a church obligation, a dance costume, and some grocery shopping. I then went home, leaned on my husband, and cried--the unknown weighing heavy on my heart.  When I couldn't take that any longer, I got up and did what I knew my mother would do: I made a huge batch of applesauce cookies and loaded them into a Ziploc. Along with them I added two Sobees, a note, and a bag of dried mangoes from Costco--Kyle's favorite.  Thankfully, a neighbor who works at the MTC had offered to provide personal delivery service, so I didn't worry that the box weighed close to fifteen pounds.

Feeling better, I sat down to relax for a minute and began checking my phone for texts and messages from friends.

And there it was. 

The most anticipated email of all time. 

A few days early. 

No, he wasn't having a hard time, and no, he hadn't been embarrassed (yet), nor had he been asked to 'turn a card.' He simply needed me to track down his first Hepatitis B immunization that was given in the hospital but apparently never written on his pediatrician's record.  He didn't have time to write much but promised to give more details on Tuesday, his P-Day. He ended is letter "con amor, Elder Thompson" then added: "tambien my companion is elder costello the one we met at the temple we are now zone leaders"  

And with that, I realized that my boy was going to be okay. Whether he could punctuate or not, he was going to be okay. And so am I.

Sugar, We're Going...Where?

Sugar, We’re Going…Where?

Confessions of a Future Rock Star’s Mother

Being the mother of an emerging rock star can pose several dilemmas. When it comes to the hair, how long is too long? When it comes to the music--how loud is too loud? The attention from the opposite sex--how much is too much? Granted, some of these quandaries are beyond a mother's control, but my maternal instincts tell me I should exert every last ounce of parental power I can before my influences are drowned out by the next “bigger is better” amp purchase. Call it intuition or just plain common sense: When my son's amplifier is taller than I am and outweighs me by fifty pounds, my days of motherly control are over. But until that day arrives, I plan to buckle up and hold on, trying my best to enjoy my son's proverbial ride to stardom. And if this past week is any indication of my ability to do just that, I think I can get through it—hopefully without puking.

Our week began with a conversation I should have had with Lane long before he and his buddies began practicing. However, staying true to my typical (lazy) parenting style, my opportunity for a preemptive strike had long since passed and I was left feeling two drum beats behind--like a singer off key, a menagerie of confusion, a tempo that was all wrong (I'm not sure where these metaphors are coming from...but you get the idea). It went something like this:

Me: (Closing my book of scripture, feeling uplifted, full of joy...and completely unprepared for the irony that was about to unfold) So, what song are you guys singing for the Stars Assembly audition?

Lane: It's called “Sugar We're Going Down.”

Me: (Long pause, accompanied by a look of motherly constipation)

Lane: What? Mom, why does your face look like that?

Me: Do you have it on your I Pod?

Lane: Yes.

Me: Go get it.

As I waited for him to emerge from the basement, my head began reeling. The lyrics to a popular Def Leppard song from my youth were made readily available in my mind.  Something about pouring sugar on me…name of love (ooh)…hot-sticky sweet, from my head to my feet (yeah)…Do you take sugar? One lump or two!

Was I really going from reading my scriptures one minute, to explaining the sexual connotations of “sugar” and what “going down” can mean the next? Just as I was beginning to taste bile in my throat, a moderately annoyed 15- year-old returned, handing me his earbuds. Hoping for the best but expecting the worst, I listened to the song, my eyebrows raised, trying to hide any signs of prejudice before the last note ended.

Me: (Turning to Lane and maintaining a hollow look of nonjudgment) Hey, I need you to go print the lyrics for me.

Lane: (Rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath as he makes his way to the office) No swearing......can't believe it......nothing wrong with it......so stupid...

Again, in his absence I was able to collect my thoughts: Okay, the “going down” reference isn't sexual but rather, suicidal. Not that there aren't plenty of other sexual innuendos that need to be addressed, but they aren't as graphic as what I had initially anticipated. Nevertheless, I have to divide my brain between an anti-sex and an anti-violence mindset. Here he comes...

Me: (Ignoring Lane's sighs of impatience and perpetual eye rolling as I read through the lyrics. Looking up at him, grilling commences). Okay, do you know what it means to be a notch in someone's bedpost?

Lane: No.

Me: It means you have had sex with them.

Lane: What? Nobody will know that!

Me: Do you know what voyeurism is?

Lane: It doesn't say that! I've never even heard that word before!

Me: It means that you watch people do private things in private places without their knowledge. It's creepy. And illegal.

Lane: So?

Me. So this song is about a guy who is stalking his ex-girlfriend (with whom he has had sex) and watches her and her new boyfriend do naughty things in her bedroom. Then, to top it all off, he is threatening to shoot himself in the head...and you want me and your father to approve this?

Lane: But it doesn't say those things! You are just reading into it. Nobody else will get that stuff.

Me: (Feeling both confused and delighted at my son's naivety but wanting to prove my point). You don't think junior high kids will know what it means to, and I quote, “be the friction in your jeans?”

Silence. Point made.

Obviously, this was not the only conversation we had about this song. There were several. We also talked about the need to approve upcoming songs with parents before the band spends weeks practicing them. I then took it upon myself to inform the other band members' parents that I would be responsible for lyric censorship in the future, since, according to Lane, I am the only adult on the planet who reads into words and analyzes their "hidden" meaning...

As for the 'Sugar' song, we fought back and forth and finally reached a compromise. They could perform the song after changing the “friction in your jeans” line, as it was deemed the most overtly crude and offensive. It was a weak compromise, I know, but somehow I felt okay about it. Perhaps I justified it by promising myself that from that point on, I would take a more proactive role and be more diligent in policing lyrics and song content. Another justification stemmed from the fact that I had witnessed, first hand, how much these kids wanted to perform for their peers, and I wasn't willing to thwart their efforts by ignoring the countless hours of practice and the determination they had invested. So at the risk of seeming more like a groupie than a mother, I conceded.

On the morning of the Stars Assembly, their first 'official' gig, I walked into the school auditorium, wondering whether or not I had made the right decision. Ten years ago I would have said that any mother who would allow her son to perform a “Sugar” song was an idiot, a naive dunce who was practically leading her child to the path of moral corruption. But, when that curtain opened, and I watched Lane and his friends live what they had deemed their “junior high dream,” all doubt washed away.  With every strum of the guitar, with every flip of the hair, with every croon of the indecipherable lyrics, I knew I had made the best decision concerning my son.  I didn’t need a roaring crowd of rowdy junior high students to confirm it, but admittedly, their screams of affirmation only echoed the pride I felt. And, when Lane wouldn't let me leave his school that day without hugging me in front of his friends and whispering, “Thank you, Mom,” another little voice told me that my motherly influence is, and perhaps always will be, louder than any amplifier my rock star can ever buy.

I know. I know. Who's being naive now...

The Day an Angel Came to Play

Your dad was first to notice the sparkle in your eye
He watched you for a moment and then said with a sigh,
"I feel as though someone is here, playing with our son."
Yes, someone from beyond the grave your heart had surely won.

Your smiles, coos, and gurgled laughs directed in the air
Let me and your father know, indeed, someone was there.
Then without hesitation, I answered your cheers of glee,
Inquiring of this visitor whom only you could see.

"Is your Great-Grandma Thompson here with her smile so sweet?
Is she pulling funny faces? Is she tickling your feet?"

Then the room got quiet, and the smiles began to fade.
Your gaze was suddenly broken from the new friend you had made.
Yes, we know who that new friend was, and this is why we say,
The veil was oh so thin the day an angel came to play.


Another Kyle poem--a haiku

Blue like the ocean
They dance on his soft round cheeks
My son's laughing eyes

Urban Cowboy--a critical analysis

Urban Cowboy—a critical analysis

(if that's not a paradox, I don't know what is)

I am not sure what possessed me to do it. Was it the award-winning soundtrack?  Was it my one-time affection for fine fitting Wrangler jeans? Perhaps it was the fact that I was never allowed to watch it as a kid. Whatever the reason, last night I took a detour from my usual shrewd regimen and sunk below the depths of honky-tonk hell, watching every last raunchy minute of the once popular movie Urban Cowboy. As a result, my IQ suffered a (minimum) ten-point drop. In addition, it left me feeling a little dirty and wondering how on earth this particular film was ever deemed a pop sensation with its PG rating.

Set in the late seventies when bras were optional, bad hair was in abundance, and the phrase “Woman, make me a sandwich” was a socially acceptable imperative, Urban Cowboy offers its viewers a detailed account of what happens when two people who have the maturity (and vocabulary) of seventh graders are allowed to marry.

In case it has been a few decades since you've had the privilege of viewing this piece of...work, allow me to refresh your memory. Bud Davis (played by John Travolta) moves from a small Texas town to a thriving industrial Houston in search of a good-paying job and a new life. Thanks to his Uncle Bob (Barry Corbin), Bud quickly secures employment and is introduced to the iconic Gilly's bar and nightclub where most of the movie's action (and I do mean action) takes place. It is there Bud meets Sissy (played by Deborah Winger), a tough talking tow truck driver who has an affection for tank tops and an aversion to wearing bras. After their first dance, which is seemingly conjugal, Bud and Sissy fluctuate between flirting and fighting for a few days before deciding to wed. From there the flirting and fighting escalate and the flippant use of the middle finger begins. Can you feel your IQ dropping yet? Bear with me, it's about to get worse.

A substantial rift forms between the two when Sissy out rides Bud on a mechanical bull--the new nightlife attraction at Gilly's. Both characters take this opportunity to capitalize on one another's jealousy by hooking up with someone else: Bud with a beautiful, wealthy bar slummer (who shares his wife's aversion to bra wearing), and Sissy with an ex-con who satisfies her quest to find a “real cowboy.” After a series of overtly ridiculous, jealous-inducing incidents, the two lovers reconcile when Bud proves his cowboy prowess by winning the mechanical bull riding contest. His celebration is cut short, however, when he discovers that Sissy has been smacked around by her new guy (played by Scott Glenn). In true redneck fashion, Bud beats the crap out of his wife's boyfriend and the formerly estranged lovers live happily ever after.

In the end, viewers are left with this astute observation regarding life and relationships : If ever faced with the dilemma of deciding between two losers, a woman should always choose the better dancer over the man who hits her the hardest. If they happen to be the same person, a new dilemma arises, in which case, said woman must take matters into her own hands, choosing the "company" of a mechanical bull over either aforementioned losers.

After the credits rolled I wasn't sure if I should laugh, cry, or just take a shower and beg forgiveness for wasting two precious hours of my life viewing the world through a trailer trash lens. Baffled, I began to reflect on life in the late seventies and early eighties, drawing comparisons to our society today. That's when the film's appeal started making sense, sort of.

If this movie were released today, a few changes would need to be made in order for contemporary audiences to relate: a fully furnished, three-bedroom starter home would replace Bud and Sissy's double-wide because two newlyweds with decent paying jobs are entitled to life in suburbia (or so say the banks of today). Likewise, the use of credit cards (perhaps government issued) would allow Sissy to buy more groceries to keep her man happy and the excess cash could then be used to purchase more cigarettes, tattoos, and upgraded cell service. A subplot revolving around Uncle Bob's death would also need to be added, wherein Bud and Sissy encourage Bob's widow to file a wrongful death suit and take the company for all its worth. And for that matter, Bud's arm breaking incident could also provide a look into today's healthcare and insurance coverage (or lack thereof). On a lighter note, the braless beauties in the film would have to discover Victoria's Secret, squeezing every ounce of their back and belly fat forward and upward until it seemingly becomes part of their "pushed up" cleavage and obnoxiously overflows from their spaghetti-strap tank tops. And finally, as with all films depicting the lower echelons of today's society, the f-word would need to present itself in every other sentence—functioning as no less than five of the eight parts of speech.

(The original music, nice truck, and ridiculous cowboy shirts, however, could stay.)

Once I considered the changes necessary for this film to survive in our current society, I realized that the (1980) Urban Cowboy I missed out on as a child, speaks volumes about a time when the lines between white trash and middle class were distinct, and both sides seemed happy to be a part of the group with which they associated. Neither made apologies for who they were, nor did they overspend and incur debt they had
no intention of paying off in an effort to pretend they were somehow upper class. So, unfortunately, the answer to the question, Could this film possibly get any worse? is Yes. Yes, it can.

I know, I am probably giving the film far too much credit in an effort to justify watching (and now writing about) it because let's be honest, as Americans, we don't really seem to care about the quality of a movie's moral message, especially when it features a little bit of love, some smooth dancing, and a killer soundtrack.

That said, I hope anyone considering a remake of Urban Cowboy will ponder the disastrous re-creations of Grease, Footloose, and (soon) Dirty Dancing and just say NO! Some things--like a hairy John Travolta lying spread eagle in bed, hiding his essentials with nothing more than an ice pack--are better left alone...

Excuse me now, I gotta go make my man a sandwich.

Perspective

Perspective
(Daniels Summit, Sept. 2013)

When I look at you, I see a welcome place to stop and rest along the trail—a refuge—a comforting reprieve from the past and present as I consider what may lie ahead.

Some may look at you and see only a roadblock—an inhibitor of progress, an end to a journey just begun—a hindrance to complain about, a bully to blame.

Others may look at you and see a challenge—a hurdle to overcome—a   barrier adding welcomed variety and excitement to the monotony of the trail.

Still, others may look at you and see the potential that lies within, imagining all that could be created from the qualities you now posses while giving nod to what you used to be.

And yet, others may look and see only a fallen failure—especially when compared to the lush life that thrives in your midst.  Too cumbersome to move, too wet to burn, too lifeless to consider of use.

But I, when I look at you, I see a welcome place to stop and rest along the trail—a refuge—a comforting reprieve from the past and present as I consider the possibilities that lie ahead.

The Legacy of a Mean Girl

She was a mean girl, full of bitter, angry,
I'm-not-even-going-to-bother-talking-behind-your-back,
Bold meanness.

"Whacha lookin' at, B? You gotta problem?
Maybe I oughta come over and pound your ugly face.
Doubt it can get any uglier."

I never heard her laugh
Unless it was at someone,
Drawing attention to out-of-style jeans,
Hair that refused to lay flat,
New glasses, or a flake of dry skin on someone's nose.
An innocent flake, instantly deemed a booger--
A booger that by the end of the day,
Everyone would know about.

Her voice was siren-red,
Offering  fair warning
But never allowing escape.
Its shrill, ear-bending reverberations 
Captivated bystanders, who couldn't help but be drawn  in
By the carnage left behind in her critical wake.

I often wondered how someone could be so full of
Hate-filled, over-the-top, animal-sneering meanness...

Then, one day, while in the office
Getting a Tylenol,
I overheard her mother talking at to
Mrs. Carter, the nicest secretary
God ever placed behind a desk.

After that day, I have never again wondered how
Hate-filled, over-the-top, animal-sneering
Mean girls are created.