How to Make a Girl-Date Tracker Corsage
A Teenage Conversation
There are things one must teach a teenage boy by the time he’s 18.
How to be loving and affectionate
How to have good management skills
How to have a conversation.
I unfortunately forgot about number 2 and have lived in hope for a few years for number 3.
So anyway I heard a rumour that Son Number 1’s formal was coming up. (Well not so much a rumour but more of a notice in the school newsletter. The news definitely didn’t come from Son Number 1.)
So I asked him about it.
“So is your formal coming up Son Number 1?”
“Oh,” I say excitedly. “When is it?”
“Have you got a date?”
“Tsk. This conversation’s over.”
I’m shut down.
I’m disappointed yet impressed because ‘this conversation’s over’ is the first time I’ve heard him put 3 words together in years.
So I ask if he has a note from school or something, but get no response. Now, I’m no genius but even I know you need to have some sort of planning for these events. So I ask him again the next day about it.
He hands me a notice. Oh lovely. It’s in 2 weeks.
The excitement for my sons Year 12 formal seems to be shared between me and pretty much me. Oh and I forgot, ME.
I then remind him. “You have to let me know if you have a date. If you do, we need to get a corsage and you have to plan things like matching colours. You know Nonna will be hoping to make her first grandson his date’s corsage.”
“Yeah but I don’t. Now skedaddle.”
(Yes, ‘skedaddle’ apparently means piss off. Yet it’s somehow softened by the childish tone of the word. Well that’s what I tell myself so I don’t kick his arse out the front door.)
So we shop. We buy a suit. From the first men’s store we go into, thank God, because I avoid shopping like the plague these days.
We’re all set for the formal.
Except he’s not.
I come home Thursday night. I sit in my study upstairs while he sits in his bedroom downstairs. And in the glow of the silver moonlight beaming through my window, I receive this text:
WELL, there ain’t no way he’s getting a corsage now. Of course though, when I tell my Mum the next afternoon she freaks out because his date’s feelings will be hurt. Well secretly I think that a few hours ago she didn’t even have a date, so she should be thankful, but as usual I feel the guilt so I ask Son Number 1 if he wants a corsage.
“Um, yeah ok.”
Oh crap, for the first time in my life I was hoping for a grunt and a shrug. So do you think a florist can make one up in 2 hours????
“Sorry but you have to order the Wednesday before.”
So what do I do? I rush to spotlight. I try to remember what I’d need. I find the basics. I buy them. I rush home. I ring my Mum.
“Ma, I can’t remember. How many leaves do I use? What about flowers? I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW TO DO IT!!”
Mum says: “It’s ok. It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. It’ll come back to you.”
I calm down and slowly it comes back to me.
And viola! Corsage in 1 hour.
Later in the evening we go to the pre-formal drinks and see his arrival in a stretch white hummer.
I should add at this point, that he had organised and paid for the transport with his friends, way, way earlier, with no assistance from me.
Anyway they arrive and 15 kids come out of the car.
And I look.
Who is this date? What sort of girl is she? Does she know what I know now? That I think I may just be the mother-in-law from hell?
I say to Warren: “Which one is she??”
“Look out for the corsage, you should recognise it.”
The Girl-Date Tracker Corsage.
So I search. I check wrists in search for ‘The One.’
And then I see it. And I look up. And I mean UP.
It is then that I realise why God blessed with me with 3 sons and no daughters. My heart survived a massive clot, but there ain’t no way it would have survived seeing my daughter walk out in THAT.
She’s tall. Her black dress couldn’t be any tighter. And as my face registers the shock of the skimpy, and I mean skimpy, boob covering, Warren whispers: “It’s ok. I think it’s a date of convenience. They’re in the same group and must have just decided to come together.”
(Hey, I never said I was ‘Mother of the Year’, and I certainly never claimed I was ever going to become ‘Mother-in Law of the Year’).
As we walk out to leave, I point out all the nice homely girls he could have asked. I say to Warren: “Oh my God, I hope that’s not his taste in women??”
And all at once I realise my baby has become a man.
Just not a very organised or talkative one.
Enough With the Lemons