Friday was Mark's first-ever school dance. He and his friends were really excited.
I freaked out. He's still my baby, and I'm not ready to release him to the gaggle of fawning pre-teen girls out there yet. (See, that's my maternal side kicking in--only a mother assumes tweener girls are fighting to dance with my son.)
But I gave him five bucks and told him to have fun. My cousin Kathleen offered to teach him some new dance moves.
"Um, no thanks," he immediately replied.
"Come on," she told him. "I'll come to the dance and watch you. What time does it start?"
"Four o'clock," he answered.
"No, that's when it ends," I corrected. "It starts at 2:20."
"Nope, starts at four," he said. "Show up then, Kathleen."
He scooted out of the room before the conversation could get any more uncomfortable. Kathleen and I broke into giggles. It was fun to torture him the way he always tortures us.
I really did want to go, and see the dance for myself. But I stopped myself--even though it would be all kinds of awesome to show up with my camera, and take a bazillion pictures, I realized I'm not that kind of mom. I put his emotional growth ahead of my amusement, and stayed home.
He and his friend Sean returned home full of excitement. I thought it was because they had such a great time, but it was really because they had to go to the bathroom really bad.
"Why didn't you go there?" I asked.
"Because they locked us in!" Mark shouted. "They wouldn't let us leave the cafeteria!"
"Not even to use the bathroom?" I said.
They both shook their heads. "Once you were there, you couldn't leave," they answered in unison. I figured this was a safety measure, so they didn't have kids roaming the school yard.
"How was it?" I asked, and again, in unison, they answered, "Fine."
I pushed a little more. Finally, they answered all my questions: It was fine. Everybody danced. There was food. Sean borrowed two bucks from Josh to get pizza. Mark didn't eat anything, because the free food was bad.
"No, it wasn't," Sean interrupted. "They had Doritos. And Oreos."
"I don't like Oreos," Mark said.
I knew this was a lie, but I let it go.
"And did you dance?" I asked. I left the end of that sentence--"...with a girl?"--unspoken.
"We all danced," Mark said. And then both boys ran outside, thus ending the inquisition.
That's all I could get out of them, and I shared it all with Liz, Sean's mom, when she arrived.
The only part I left out was Mark's injury. He told me about it a couple hours later.
"Ow," he said, shifting in his bean bag.
When I asked what's wrong, he said, "I jacked up my neck."
"In PE?" I asked.
"No, at the dance," he answered.
"Oh no, did you fall?" I asked. (He's a hyperactive dancer.)
"No," he said. "I whipped my hair back and forth a little too hard. I hate that Willow Smith!"
And though I tried, I could not stifle my laugh. Leave it to Mark to injure himself in a hair-whipping mishap.
But other than that, the dance was a big success. Mark can't wait for the next one, though he's promising to wear some protective gear just in case. Which makes me smile, because that guarantees I won't have to worry about the tween girls fighting to dance with Mark--who'll be sitting in the corner with a neck brace on.
But I gave him five bucks and told him to have fun. My cousin Kathleen offered to teach him some new dance moves.
"Um, no thanks," he immediately replied.
"Come on," she told him. "I'll come to the dance and watch you. What time does it start?"
"Four o'clock," he answered.
"No, that's when it ends," I corrected. "It starts at 2:20."
"Nope, starts at four," he said. "Show up then, Kathleen."
He scooted out of the room before the conversation could get any more uncomfortable. Kathleen and I broke into giggles. It was fun to torture him the way he always tortures us.
I really did want to go, and see the dance for myself. But I stopped myself--even though it would be all kinds of awesome to show up with my camera, and take a bazillion pictures, I realized I'm not that kind of mom. I put his emotional growth ahead of my amusement, and stayed home.
He and his friend Sean returned home full of excitement. I thought it was because they had such a great time, but it was really because they had to go to the bathroom really bad.
"Why didn't you go there?" I asked.
"Because they locked us in!" Mark shouted. "They wouldn't let us leave the cafeteria!"
"Not even to use the bathroom?" I said.
They both shook their heads. "Once you were there, you couldn't leave," they answered in unison. I figured this was a safety measure, so they didn't have kids roaming the school yard.
"How was it?" I asked, and again, in unison, they answered, "Fine."
I pushed a little more. Finally, they answered all my questions: It was fine. Everybody danced. There was food. Sean borrowed two bucks from Josh to get pizza. Mark didn't eat anything, because the free food was bad.
"No, it wasn't," Sean interrupted. "They had Doritos. And Oreos."
"I don't like Oreos," Mark said.
I knew this was a lie, but I let it go.
"And did you dance?" I asked. I left the end of that sentence--"...with a girl?"--unspoken.
"We all danced," Mark said. And then both boys ran outside, thus ending the inquisition.
That's all I could get out of them, and I shared it all with Liz, Sean's mom, when she arrived.
The only part I left out was Mark's injury. He told me about it a couple hours later.
"Ow," he said, shifting in his bean bag.
When I asked what's wrong, he said, "I jacked up my neck."
"In PE?" I asked.
"No, at the dance," he answered.
"Oh no, did you fall?" I asked. (He's a hyperactive dancer.)
"No," he said. "I whipped my hair back and forth a little too hard. I hate that Willow Smith!"
And though I tried, I could not stifle my laugh. Leave it to Mark to injure himself in a hair-whipping mishap.
But other than that, the dance was a big success. Mark can't wait for the next one, though he's promising to wear some protective gear just in case. Which makes me smile, because that guarantees I won't have to worry about the tween girls fighting to dance with Mark--who'll be sitting in the corner with a neck brace on.
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