Picture, if you will, a weary Mum with a pile of Christmas cards that need to make it to England before December 25th or she will be officially disowned. Strapped to her front in his snugly papoose is a bouncy 4-month old practicing his latest plyometric move that includes pulling up his knees and then thrusting sharply down like a little rocket. As he chuckles away and I check that we have everything for the third time, my 3-year old comes waltzing down the stairs ready for a trip to the post office. When I had asked him to go and get ready I had hoped that shoes and a coat might ensue but apparently that was not the fashion of the day. Grinning from ear to ear he had on red swimming shorts with waves climbing up the sides, a red sweater, white socks that were never intended to be knee socks pulled up to his knees, sunglasses, and the piece de resistance, furry red Clifford slippers! Mustering an amazing amount of patience I calmly asked him to go and change into something warm so that we could leave. I could feel my entire day getting off track and was already picturing the termination notice summarily ending all ties with my family and friends when those cards arrived on December 26th. A pair of beautiful brown eyes looked up into mine and a tiny but firm voice said “But I like this outfit! It doesn’t matter what I wear to the post office does it?” I was immediately transported back to the time when I told my Mum that God didn’t care if I wore jeans to church as long as I showed up. I had been older but she let me get away with it and in that moment, probably heavily influenced by sleep deprivation, I was swayed too and with decisiveness I did not feel I said, “Let’s go!”
I knew I was going to be vilified in the post office; what kind of mother lets her child go out in public looking like that? Maybe someone would take pity on me and realize that it was not my fault that I was a terrible mother who clearly could not stand up to her children and insist on appropriate attire. I would hope that everyone else in the entire city had already completed their Christmas mailings and if there did happen to be anyone in the post office I would not make eye contact. Of course when we arrived the place was packed with people all the way back to the door. This was going to be brutal and there was nothing I could do but take my place at the back of the line. It slowly started to inch forward and Bouncing Boy finally tired himself out and started to nod off. At that moment Fashion Boy spotted the Christmas cookies laid out to reward their patient and disorganized patrons. He moved out of line and only turned back to demurely ask if he could have a cookie…please. The “please” caught the attention of the lady two in front of us and she turned to compliment him on his manners at the same time as catching his eclectic ensemble. Without missing a beat she said, “I love Clifford!” A little girl in front of her turned and loudly complained to her mother that it was “no fair” that she was not allowed to wear her slippers to the post office. The cool young man in his 20s in front of her turned and said “Cool Man!” and my boy triumphantly shot me a glance before helping himself to a cookie. My desire to make my boy conform rolled over me like a wave and was replaced by a desire to let him be himself.
Flash forward ten years and last week that same boy learned he needed glasses. I did not expect this to go well because since his Clifford days he has become self-aware and somewhat naturally influenced by the unwritten rules of middle school and trying to impress girls. When I arrived at his brother’s hockey game I saw him at the same moment he saw me. My jaw dropped and before I could stop myself I said, “You look gorgeous in your glasses!” I don’t now if a mother is really supposed to say that to her son but he looked so mature and confident and that triumphant glance he shot me was a replica of the post office episode. He’s growing up and sometimes I think he’ll actually turn out alright if I don’t get in his way!
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