Last weekend was a big weekend for Bubba. It seems like every week now something pops up that's new. Something I feel totally unequipped to deal with, not prepared for.
Ah, yes, the homecoming dance.
I have a child that's old enough to go to a homecoming dance. I shudder at the thought.
This dance was not at Bubba's school, as Freshmen are not allowed to attend the homecoming dance at his school. He was invited by a very nice girl to her homecoming dance, "just as friends."
Bubba was very good about trying to get the facts about his big night out, as I'm all about the details. He was given very specific instructions about what to wear, shirt, pants, etc. I can respect that. It was this young lady's first big dance, too. Everything should be perfect.
The Friday afternoon prior to the dance, I received an e-mail at work. Two hairy shins, white ankle-height socks, and two different black shoes. The Irishman had taken Bubba to get new shoes for the dance, which shoes should he get? I picked the shoes and reminded them that the white shirt had to come next. He'd gotten some kind of red sauce on the one white dress shirt he had the first time he wore it.
Saturday was busy. I had to pick Bubba up from school after work study, somewhere around noon. The Boo had a soccer game at 1:00. After the soccer game, The Boo and I headed to the store to exchange the blue shirt The Irishman and Bubba had purchased the day before for the required white shirt. We dashed to the flower shop to pick up the corsage, and made it home in time to push Bubba upstairs to take a shower.
At this point, I had been in such a rush that I hadn't had time to really think about the next hour. As I ironed Bubba's new duds, my heart started beating harder as the full realization of the events that were about to unfold became clear. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!
I tried to get Bubba dressed as quickly as I could, straightening the tie that The Irishman had knotted for him the day before, because I'm useless when it comes to a Windsor. Windsor what? England? Royal Family?
I grabbed the Mapquest directions, shoved the corsage in Bubba's hands, stifled a Hell No! and managed a weak Not today when Bubba asked if he could drive, and off we flew.
We pulled up to the house and were greeted by Bubba's date's father. The date was still upstairs getting ready. My palms were clammy and I'm sure I had a fine line of perspiration on my upper lip. The father was very nice, cool as could be, and ran down the schedule with me after I meekly inquired what the "plan" was.
"Is this your first time?" he asked me? Um, yes. I was a homecoming parent virgin.
"I have an older daughter, so I've been through it. It will be ok, I promise. We'll take good care of him." Oh geez, was it showing that much?
I tried really hard to steady my hand as I took picture after picture, not sure what the right amount of acceptable picture taking would be. I didn't want to seem overly zealous, but I also didn't want to appear uninvolved.
After I'd been at the house for a good forty-five minutes, I decided it was time to leave. With my heart in my throat, I told Bubba I was going to leave, said the requisite goodbyes to the crowd that had gathered at the homecoming house, and left.
I sped away, and in my hasty retreat, failed to pay attention to the street signs. I was lost. But it didn't matter. I was high-fiving myself the whole time, proud that I'd cut the cord.
My only concern was that while driving around in the maze of a neighborhood I'd encounter the homecoming house again, and then they'd really think I was psychotic.
The rub about all of this is that I still have two other kids that are going to go through all of these same "firsts." Get the tanks ready, I'm already short of breath.
