It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

We arrive at school. We’ve managed to teach Mom how to turn off her phone so she does not have to leave it on the seat of the car. She mentions that she has a hard time making calls on this phone while driving, as if the turning off problem was the phone’s fault. I am secretly remarking in the thought bubble above my head that driving isn’t exactly her strong suit either, so maybe multitasking isn’t such a hot idea. So glad she isn’t a big fan of texting.)


Mom is feeling a little out of place and looks for something familiar. She asks if our old swim club manager, Mr. Stevens, is still the President of Gray and Griff’s school. I tell her that he is. He is still lovely, still handsome. A full head of pure white hair. She wants to connect with him. She starts feverishly scanning the crowd of thousands to find him. Like he’d be wandering about, not processing with the graduates.

Eventually she is distracted. By the procession of the handsome graduates in their full regalia. By Griffin’s impeccable posture and extreme cuteness bearing the US Flag during the National Anthem. By the articulate speeches and poise of each young man you spoke. By the talent and grace of each of the vocalists. By the ponytail of the lady in front of us which seems to be tied in a pair of men’s dress socks. By the lady a few rows back who wore her red satin suit and matching festooned pillbox hat and a bedazzled pair of shades.

The ceremony is lovely and afterwards we go with the crowd to the garden that surrounds the statue of St. Augustine so that the graduates can be dismissed according to tradition and toss their mortarboards in to the air. I manage to catch the prayer and dismissal and the caps flying into the air on video and am very pleased with myself. As I lower my phone to view what I’ve taped, I see that Mom has sashayed to the foot of the statue and is chatting up Mr. Stevens. Fat lip and all. Apparently oblivious that she looks like she’s been mugged.

I am nearly hyperventilating with panic. For Mr. Stevens. For Griff, who has to remain at this school for another year and really doesn’t need the social crisis. For Charlotte who I am sure would prefer to throw a net over Mom’s head and claim to need to return Mom to the Nervous Hospital before lunch when the pills are dispensed .

I walk against the flow of human traffic to make my way toward Mom. I pop up in front of them both and interrupt. It takes a moment for my identity to register with Mr. Stevens who I am sure is wondering why this dangerously unbalanced domestic violence victim is talking to him about the pool. I point out the familial ties, between the woman in front of him and me, and to Charlotte and Jack and Gray and Griffin. It registers. He recalls seeing me recently at the deli counter at the Acme. He’s looking at Mom incredulously.

He mentions that he wasn’t sure of the connection before (Read that, “I had no freakin’ clue who you were until now, lady.”) And she mentions that it is probably because she was always blond then.

No, Mom. It’s because that was 35 years and 40 pounds ago and you aren’t standing here in your coral Catalina bikini and your Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and matching hoop earrings.
I manage to drag her off by pointing out where the boys are, and that we should be leaving for lunch.

I am heaving a sigh of relief that the carnage is minimal. I am sure Mr. Stevens is, too.