Devonne Brown

This Week

The end of Christmas, the end of the semester, parent conferences, the end of winter break. Parents signed up to be able to tell the teacher how cool their kids were. Endless talk about their kids. They didn’t care about behavior or academics. They wanted to tell us, their teachers, all about their kids. They wanted to tell us the story of the marvel of their child. We knew, believe me, we knew. I was the timekeeper because we knew and parents didn’t. Parents had no filter nor concept of time, space, nor place when talking about their kids. I’m still a parent, I too fall under the spell. We scheduled fifteen minute appointments with parents of the kids we didn’t need to see, as usual.

So, my incredible boys were home, no longer in school but awaiting a conference with me when these parent sessions were over. Parents need a time to glow in their child’s accomplishments in spite of their child. Mine never wanted recognition, no one understood them but their teachers. It felt good to vent and validate their greatness.I got thirty minutes because I had twins, glorious. It felt like scratching that itch that was just out of reach. All parents need to bask in their child’s glory. It’s a shame we have to put a time limit on it.

Just like old times. The boys were familiar with conference nights.

 I had made great quantities of pasta salad and ham with beans while I met with parents who didn’t need conferences with their kids’ teachers. The kids whose parents I needed and wanted to see were never available. Those parents had probably gotten enough phone calls from the school to have a good idea of their child’s academic deportment.

My guys’ break lasted a week longer than mine, and they were still at the house after I went to work on Thursday, the day after conferences. They wanted hot dogs, and we were well stocked with hot dogs. I brought home the chili and slaw for perfect West Virginia hot dogs.

Ooops.

“Where are the hot dogs? Aren’t we having hot dogs for dinner?” I asked.

“Nick and I decided to have some for lunch too. That’s ok. Mam, I’ll run out and get more,” said Ian. He grabbed my card and car keys and sparkled out the door. Just like old times. He came back quickly, put the card and car keys away precisely where they were supposed to go, and threw the bag of hot dogs and buns he got got for good measure on the counter, a ritual.  

We want to discuss our kids. We want to praise them. To broadcast their accomplishments and our  predictions of their success. We want to proclaim to the world their wonder and glory. 

I do without shame. Yes, That’s what I do. I want to sing their praises without heaping another complex upon their heads. I seem to have done that, given them complexes. In all my excitement and sense of whatever I thought was right, I gave the boys complexes anyway.   

It is hard for me to think of my kids as adults with their own functioning plastic cards that enroll them in the serious parts of the grownup world.

They left home around 1:00 p.m yesterday. Premature twins driving all the way from here to Ottawa. The boys arrived at their destination around 9:00 a.m. this morning. Breathe, Mom.

These are the children who brought me diapers when their bottoms were uncomfortable. Am I a bad mother because I let them tell me when it was potty training time? Every evidence I have points to their intelligence. Emotions ran high. Emotions ran high.