Lori Clinch

Are We There Yet?

The next time, she'll

just have a flat tire

I adore attending my children's events. In fact, any time my little dears are in sports attire, three-piece suits or singing off key to a crowd, I'm there. Place them on a stage and give them a spotlight, and you'll find me - their doting mother - front and center.

I've spent weeks at track and field day. I have my own bench at the ballpark, and if the Spitz Sunflower Seed people were ever to erect a shrine in a mother's name for the number of seeds consumed as a meal replacement, why I'm sure that I'd be the No. 1 contender.

But, truth be known, I get my fill.

Although I lead the cheerleading section for any number of events, if my child's name is not listed anywhere on the program, you'd be hard pressed to get me to come. In fact, any time someone invites me to come and pay homage to his or her little dears, I'm usually less than enthused. I've been known to come up with lame excuses, fake the flu and have, on occasion, even fabricated a flat-tire scenario.

So when I recently received a phone call inviting me to attend an Honor Awards ceremony for a graduating class where my children were not involved, I was less than enthusiastic. I fought tooth and nail to be excused, and when push came to shove, I whined more than a little and asked, "Do I hafta?"

"Why yes," the caller explained, "as Bob's Senior Support Family, you simply must come." Then, as if she had learned the same tactics as my children in a course entitled, Total Control Through Guilt, she added, "All of the best support mothers will be there."

Well, as any woman will tell you, if one is forced to attend an event that one doesn't want to, then one is certainly entitled to many things, up to and including a new blouse, and mine was bright turquoise. It had flair, it had a style, and it had a creative neckline that came to a "V" in both the front and the back. I adorned myself with a matching necklace, styled my hair and grumbled my way into the auditorium.

Naturally, the parents of the seniors were seated in the front 20 rows, and the back 50 rows of the auditorium sat empty. As I walked in, the lights did not go black, a spotlight beam did not fall out of the sky and follow me to my seat, and the crowd did not turn and stare and whisper, "What's she doing here?"

But it certainly felt like it.

Feeling that it was too late to turn on my heels and make a run for it, I smiled sheepishly and stared at the ground. I finally took a seat about four rows back from the parents and prayed that someone, anyone, would show up and fill the void around me.

At or around 30 seconds later, the doors of the auditorium opened up and the entire student body began to fill in, taking up the back 43 rows and leaving me with seven rows all to myself. I had nothing to accompany me but the spotlight that I was sure was beating down on my head.

I pretended to study the program, tried to busy myself with my purse. I took time to clean my cuticles, and counted my fillings with my tongue. I was doing my darndest to make it appear as though sitting in the middle of seven rows all by myself did not bother me in the least.

Just then Vernon, my eldest and wise-cracking child, appeared at my side. So handsome, so debonair-so there! Suddenly I felt liberated, I felt joyful and if it weren't for the No. 1 law of not embarrassing your child in public, I would have planted a big smooch on him and gave him the hug of his life.

"Thank God you've come," I whispered to him desperately. "I felt like a fool sitting here by myself."

I was beginning to go into a long commentary of gratitude that involved unconditional love and moving him up a step in the will, when he interrupted me with, "Oh, I haven't come to sit next to you. I just wanted to tell you that everyone back there thinks that your shirt is on backwards. But now that I'm here I see that it looks just as goofy in the front." Then he patted me on the back, said, "Good luck with that," got up and walked away.

I'm not saying that I'll never again attend a ticket-taking event, or take the time to go and watch other people's children bask in all their glory. But I'll tell you this - the next time that Vernon has a shining moment, I've got a flat-tire scenario all planned out.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.