I have determined that it's no use pretending. You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can never take the small town out of the girl. Consider the events of this afternoon.
The oldest and I headed downtown for his senior portraits. First of all, I hate downtown, at least on that side of the river. I get turned around easily (even with a GPS) and let's be honest, bums standing on every corner make me nervous. I know they're hungry and willing to work and want God to bless me and every one of them is a veteran, but they still make me nervous. That will most likely never change.
Secondly, I hate red lights and railroad crossings and road construction that makes me have to turn around. I just want to get in my car, go where I need to go, and get back home without horns honking. Now most of the time I manage to stay calm, at least outwardly, but it just goes without saying that I prefer to be home. I'm not a phobic or anything like that, I just like home. Peace. Quiet. Cats.
Yeah. I'm not crazy or anything.
So I take the boy because that's what a good mom-of-a-senior does, and we are ushered upstairs where he is shown the fitting room and I have a seat. The guy makes some small talk. Nick, introduce me to your sister. Whatever. Chuckle, chuckle. He asks where I went to high school which brings up a place far away from here. That immediately sparked his interest. I was asked a few pointed questions and it is quickly determined that I am something of a redneck girl.
It's okay. I can take it. I do hear myself talk, afterall.
He invites me in to watch the photography session to which I politely decline. I don't think my seventeen-year old boy needs his mom sitting in the corner while he poses this way and that. Besides, the acoustics in that place were great and I could hear every word that was said anyway... mental note for when it becomes our girl's turn. I pulled out my crochet bag (good Lord, have I really become that woman?) and passed the next twenty minutes or so in relative peace.
Of course, my mind was racing. Is that really my kid in there taking his final pictures of his high school career? I thought back to my own... I kinda remember it. Does it all really matter? Where will these pictures end up anyway? In the back of a picture frame behind other pictures? At the bottom of a cedar chest? Where are my senior pictures? At some point in the utterly pointless mental monologue, I heard the photographer asking my boy if he had a girlfriend.
Yes.
What's her name?
He tells him.
How long have you been dating?
He tells him.
Is she cute?
Yes.
Like hot-cute?
Now at this juncture in the conversation, I really do chuckle to myself. I know the guy is just being friendly and keeping the atmosphere casual and all that, but I am thinking, You obviously don't know who you're talking to. I know I'm the mother and some of you might be thinking I'm just being naive, but if I know anything about my oldest, it's that he would never refer to his girlfriend- especially to a stranger, as being hot-cute.
And that, my virtual friends, is called a father teaching his sons about respect.
The session quickly ended after a few more shots with his guitar and the mom-mandatory picture of him in his suit. I was given a brochure that featured the packages and prices arranged on the love scale (another chuckle, chuckle)... $150, we love him a little ~ $949, we love him a lot (another whatever). We made our next appointment to check out the proofs, gathered up our stuff (crochet bag included), and made our way through the stoplights, over the train tracks, and past the bums.
Home at last.
Sitting outside.
And for the record, not a cat in sight.
*And in case you're wondering, he never did answer the hot-cute question. The guy took the hint and moved on. While driving back home, we talked about that particular phrase.
I just don't get it, my oldest said.
I don't think of her that way. There's more to a girl than that.
Good grief, we are blessed.
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