School's Out!

After seventeen years of schooling, (not counting Mother’s Day Out and preschool), Robert received his bachelor’s degree, and Jim and I are the proud parents of a college graduate. We had an open house party last Saturday to celebrate his achievement and wish him a happy twenty-second birthday. I know many of my friends out there already have grandchildren and even great grandchildren. Lord knows I’m old enough! It’s just that Jim and I got a VERY late start. We were married thirteen years before Robert was born. It wasn’t for lack of trying that we didn’t have children earlier—the fertility gods simply hadn’t smiled on us until Robert.

Only the beginning.

When Robert was handed to me for the first time in the delivery room, I was instantaneously aware I would never have a moment’s pure peace again. I knew I would worry about that little bundle for the rest of my life. Like all good parents, we worried about the usual things: vaccinations against deadly childhood diseases, pacifier damage, properly-fitting shoes, stranger danger, getting into a good preschool, crayons up his nose, getting through horrible Mrs. Clinton’s second grade class and cheating scandal, straight teeth, acne, more stranger danger, sports injuries, cell phone cancer, SAT scores, getting into a good college, responsible sexual behavior, and so on. A parent could go insane.

Jim and I were thirty-nine when Robert was born. I worried he’d grow up to be a weird little old man raised by old people and their old friends. Yes, my friends, we now realize forty is not old, but it’s up there when you’re having your first baby. While he suffered the usual childhood ailments, bumps and booboos, Robert never gave us any real trouble. He was such a good kid growing up that I sometimes encouraged him to live a little dangerously. Not recklessly, but more on the order of adventurously.

Embrace adventure.

I took him to Hawaii during third-grade spring break and we hitchhiked to Hanauma Bay. We hadn’t set out to hitchhike, but the tourist-packed buses wouldn’t stop for us, and a burned out guy in a VW bus with tree branches securing the seats to the floor, stopped and offered six of us a ride. After a short discussion, the six of us agreed we had the advantage of numbers and it looked like the only way to get there. We all gave the guy a few bucks, which I’m sure he spent on something illegal, and he took us to Hanauma Bay. I made Robert swear an oath he’d never tell his dad about the ride with the stranger. As it turned out, the swirling, feeding tropical fish terrified him and he hated the snorkel mask on his face, so the most exciting thing of the day was the ride in the VW.

Dress up occasionally.

I made him wear an Aloha shirt to the luau and dragged him there early, complaining, so we could be the first in line and get great seats in front. It worked! The dancers called the cute little Haole kid in the Hawaiian shirt up onto the stage to be part of the show. Everybody loved him and he has great photos and wonderful memories to recall when Jim and I are tucked safely away in our old folks’ home.

Stand up for yourself when you’re right.

Once in language arts class, he missed one question on a test to identify homophones. The choices were cell, sail, and sale. He didn’t select “cell” and was marked down. I told him the teacher was wrong and we would dispute it. Granted, down here in Texas, there are tornado sales, prison sales, and Durasale batteries, but where I come from there’s no such things. The teacher told me it was the curriculum and I’d have to take it up with the principal. When the principal checked his big Webster’s pronunciation guide, he said, “Well, Miz Hodgson, it seems you’re right, but why is this so important to you?” I felt it was time to inject some humor into the situation. “Well, Mr. Newburn,” I poured out unctuously, “we-ahh Yankees!” Robert’s grade was adjusted appropriately.

Let your hair down.

Before ninth grade I suggested to him that he get his hair streaked before the first day of school—if he wanted to. We agreed he should telephone Dad from the salon and get his opinion first. Jim said, “Sure! I bleached a streak in my hair when I was your age.” Whodathought? We’re talking about 1962 here.

“Robert,” I whispered. “Ask Dad if you can get your ear pierced.” Jim’s reply was “Don’t push it.” Robert was much relieved!

What are you doing next?

We worry—as always—but not in the same way. He’s job hunting, and this is a lousy time to be doing that. When you’ve lived over sixty years, you know lousy times come and go and better economic times will return. And we know he’ll find what he’s looking for in time. My wish for him is to have fun and adventure along the way.

Donna