We went to a high school football game to watch a friend's son play in the band (rock on, Brother Gillen!). It was great; we supported Gillen's drum career, and in turn, Gillen encouraged Mark's budding drum career. Chalk one up to Gillen for not only being an awesome drummer, but a really good role model as well.
A bonus was that I got to play supportive mom by staying to watch the game. Mark likes football, so I gave him a chance to see a live game.
I'm not into sports, but I love an event, and sports are really good events. There's always so much going on--and I embrace it all, becoming a temporary Superfan.
Tonight was no different--a whole lot was going on. There was the marching band, playing their jaunty tunes; the cheerleaders, mentoring a much smaller, younger cheer squad; the spirited high schoolers who painted their faces orange and black to match their half orange/half black shirts, then ran, screaming, back and forth with a giant flag, revving up the crowd. There were the families--the proud parents wearing picture buttons of their players, and the younger kids wearing jerseys with their sibling's name and number on them.
And let's not forget the students themselves. The high schoolers were dressed in various layers, some dressed for winter, some still clinging to summer, all sporting the school colors. They were giddy, yelling, giggling and texting non-stop, save for the girl who walked by us crying, her friend's arm wrapped around her in a comforting manner.
Mark looked at that girl, then to me, quizzically, so I explained.
"Know what that girl's crying about?" I asked, and he shook his head.
"Some boy," I explained. "Whenever you see a high school girl crying, it's always over some dumb boy. All high school boys act dumb, and all high school girls cry."
"Did you ever cry like that?" he asked.
I wanted to be honest, but...honestly, I've been out of high school a looooooong time. I finally settled on, "Probably," which made him smile.
As we were watching all this, a guy walked by with an armload of orange hand towels that said "Go OILERS!"
"Spirit towels?" he asked, tossing a couple at us. "Be sure to use them!"
Lacking further instruction, I raised my towel in the air and whipped it around in frantic circles.
"Go Oilers!" I shouted, adding a "Woo hoo!" for emphasis.
I glanced at Mark, and the look on his face stopped me. His eyes were huge, his mortified face frozen, and before I could say anything, he grabbed at my towel.
But I grew up with three brothers, and have cat-like reflexes as a result. I snapped the towel out of reach and asked, "What?"
"Really, Mom?" he hissed at me. "REALLY?"
Which made me smile. Because a) Mark's never sat near me at in the stands, so he doesn't know about my boundless enthusiasm, and b) I realized that he was embarrassed by my behavior, and boy, did I love that.
"I'm so excited!" I told him.
"I know," he sighed.
The band started up just then, and the crowd started stomping their feet on the metal bleachers. I joined in too, yelling to Mark above the din, "You're always on the field, playing--you never sat with me in the stands before, huh?"
He lowered his head into his hands, ignoring me. I saw my opportunity to pay him back for all the times he acted sassy and disrespectful to me in public.
"Oilers! Oilers!" I shouted, still stomping. Mark rolled his eyes, embarrassed at first, then angry, as if warning me to stop.
"What?" I asked, innocently.
"I'm gonna take that towel away if you don't stop!" he threatened.
I waved it overhead with all I had. "You'll never get my spirit towel!" I cried, whipping it just out of his reach. "Unless you pry it from my cold, dead hands!"
Gillen's mom appeared just then, much to Mark's relief.
"There's Jill," he said, pointing to my friend. He was grateful for the distraction.
I spent the rest of the evening hanging out with Jill, watching Mark scarf down pizza and separating the two of them before Jill could plant any idea's into Mark's head. (I spent most of Gillen's youth plotting pranks against Jill; I'm now spending Mark's youth avoiding payback.) We even got to visit with Gillen a few minutes between his band duties.
We stayed past Mark's bedtime, not that he cared much. What he DID care about, however, was his future. He had seen what that holds, and it scared him.
"I can't wait to go to your high school games," I told Mark. I saw fear flash quickly across his face, then he steadied himself, and shrugged coolly.
"Bet you can't wait either," I said, and he shrugged again.
We walked quietly to the car, but I couldn't help smiling. All I could think of was the many, many, MANY times sassy Mark had mouthed off in front of my friends, and now, finally, here he was at the age where nothing was worse than me returning the favor.
I could finally see an end to being yelly-screamy mom, and the ineffective discipline methods I've clung to. And in their place was something that really would work--embarrassment.
Mark's, of course, not mine. Not that I'm planning to emotionally scar him or anything--I think just the threat of me being myself is enough to make him behave. Because just like all my friends, Mark knows the truth--I'm not afraid to act like an idiot in public. Or in front of his friends.
And finally, finally, looks like that will work to my advantage!
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