27: Nice
Originally emailed on Jul. 14, 1999
Ed and the boys and I were at dinner the other evening when the phone rang. When I came back from answering it, Ed asked, "Anybody interesting?"
"No," I said, glancing at Mark. He was on my right, so I could see the earring in his left ear. "Sales." Ed raised an eyebrow; I knew he didn't believe me.
As we were doing the dishes, he said, "Another concerned mother?"
I said, "Oh, for crying out loud, yes. My third. Calling to express her concern that I let Mark get his ear pierced. Apparently it's made everyone else's children twice as hard to manage."
"You must realize, Louella," this particular mother had said, "that it makes Justin think he should be allowed to get his ear pierced, too. He already resented us for not allowing it, and this just makes it worse."
I said, "I'm sure you're quite capable of explaining to Justin that just because I let Mark get his ear pierced doesn't mean you're going to let Justin do the same thing. I'm sure Justin can be made to understand that different parents set different rules."
She said, "Well, of course. It's just that ten seems awfully young for a boy to be allowed to make a decision like that."
I thought, "This from the woman who had her daughter's ears pierced at six months," but I said, "I don't think so. Mark has wanted it for a long time and so far he's taken good care of the piercing. And he actually saved some allowance money to help pay for it. He also undertook to research where and how to get it done." Actually, his "research" consisted of asking Harriet's brother Ron, the much-pierced, where to go, but I didn't tell her that.
"Which, I understand, was at a tattoo parlor."
"And piercing studio, yes. With sterile needles. And autoclaved jewelry."
"Louella, may I give you some advice?" she asked.
I sighed. "By all means," I said.
"I understand your family is a little unconventional, what with Mark's father and his--friend. It seems to me that it might be better for the boys if you erred on the side of a little conservatism."
"I recently asked a minister to move in with us; isn't that conservative enough for you?" I thought. But I just said, "Thank you for your concern. May I offer some advice in return? Since there's absolutely nothing wrong with a boy having his ear pierced, perhaps the best way to resolve your difficulties with Justin is to let him get an earring. I can recommend a good piercer."
"Well, I'm sorry if I offended you," she said. "I only meant to offer some help. I know you've had some struggles and I thought you might appreciate some guidance."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm sure your intentions were good. Best of luck with Justin. I've got to go now; supper's getting cold."
"My God," I said to Ed later. "I had no idea this would be such a big deal. I thought boys with earrings were a non-issue these days."
"Apparently not," Ed replied. "Mark seems happy with his earring."
"Yes," I said. "And I must admit I'm enjoying being the best mom in the world for the time being. But that won't last. He'll just raise the bar."
"And how high are you willing to leap?" Ed wondered. "His eyebrow? His nose? Tongue? Upper lip?" I laughed. "All of the above?"
"With chains connecting them."
"And his head shaved."
"And a big tattoo on his scalp."
"A skeleton on a Harley."
"A woman with impossible dimensions."
"The weeping heart of Jesus."
"Or 'Mom,'" I said. "That brings a tender tear to my eye."
"You've let him take the first step on the path to ruin," Ed said. "The rest is inevitable: the black t-shirt, the dog collar, the leather jacket, the motorcycle, the cigarettes, casual sex, Wild Turkey out of a paper sack in the parking lot at the liquor store, the string of illegitimate children left in your care while he serves his time in the state pen."
I was nodding ruefully when Mark himself walked into the kitchen. After our criminal fantasies, he looked innocent and rumpled in a dirty Darth Maul t-shirt and baggy shorts. He put his arm around my waist and leaned against me with a casual affection he hadn't shown in months. "You need a haircut," I told him. "Do you want me to make an appointment for you at the barber?"
"Nah," he said. "Michael said he'd take me to his stylist before we leave on vacation next week. Can I have a Coke?"
"Half," I said. "Give the other half to Sammy if he wants it." Mark poured a can of Coke into two glasses, dividing the soda into two equal parts with a precision worthy of a Nobel-winning chemist, then left.
"He's going to Michael's stylist," I said to Ed.
"That must be a relief to you," Ed said. "Tattooed criminals rarely have their hair done by a stylist."
I laughed. "Somehow I doubt it would be relief to Justin's mother. I don't think red-blooded American boys are supposed to get their hair done by stylists, either."
It was good to be able to play around with Ed a little. We've been a bit wary of each other since the morning he preached and I didn't go hear him. He says he understands why I stayed away, but it hurt his feelings, and it's been a little hard for him to forgive me.
As he predicted, his return to the pulpit didn't launch him instantly into the ministry again. He says it went well, but he has many feelings to discuss with Pastor Bob. I say, "You can discuss it with me, too," but the truth is I'm not much good on the subject. As soon as Ed gets to, "I just wish I knew what God wanted from me," I'm in over my head and none too comfortable. It feels like a thing between us, his religion and my lack of it, and I'm not sure how to bridge the gap.
Michael called the next day to tell me he'd made an appointment for Mark with the stylist. "And I just wanted to check in with you about parameters," he said.
"Parameters?" I asked.
"Yeah, like how fashion-forward we can go."
"Fashion-forward?" I asked.
"Trendy, Louella," he said. "How trendy! Like, do you have a problem with color?"
"Which color?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing unnatural. I just thought Mark would look terrific as a blonde."
I said, "Mark is a blonde, Michael."
"He's a drab blonde, honey. I thought we might try a real platinum look, but not solid. Streaky, you know. And a little unkempt."
"Oh, unkempt is right up his alley. I don't have a problem with anything, I guess, except I wonder whether he's a little young to be thinking so much about his looks. I don't want you to pressure him into anything. Let him decide. But use your judgment. And try not to go in any direction that will get me in more trouble with his friends' mothers."
"The earring was not received with acclaim, eh?" Michael said.
"No, it was--among the ten- and eleven-year-olds. Their mothers, on the other hand--."
"Say no more. Uptight. You did the right thing. He looks terrific and he'll love you for it forever."
"He'll love me until the next time I have to say No to him. It is good to have him acting a little more cheerful around the house, though. He was so morose for so long I thought I'd have to ship him off to boarding school."
"You could always ship him off to us if it got to be too much for you. You know we'd love to see more of him," Michael said.
"Are you sure you're speaking for Sam, too?" I asked. Then, repenting of my meanness, "Well, you've got the boys for more than three weeks for this vacation you're taking. Are you looking forward to it?"
"Totally!" Michael said. "I've got a pop-up camper rented, and we're doing the whole nuclear-family hot-dogs-over-the-open-fire sick-from-too-many-s'mores Yellowstone vacation. Completely middle America. Except for the week at the gay dude ranch in Montana."
"That sounds fun," I said. "The boys like horses."
"We'll be spending at least two nights out on the open range," Michael said, "carrying our bedrolls and our grub on our ponies."
"You won't get lost?" I asked.
"There's a guide," Michael said. "A former Marlboro model."
"That's reassuring," I said. "In an emergency, he can strike a pose."
Michael laughed. "I think he was a cowboy before he was a model."
"How'd you talk Sam into it?" I asked. "His idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel with no room service after 10 p.m."
"I can't begin to tell you the promises I made. Dr. Faustus had nothing on me," Michael said. "But I'm going to make it all so fun he won't regret it for a minute."
I imagined the two boys fighting in the back seat, non-stop from Chicago to Rapid City. Sammy would probably get saddle sores from three days on horseback, and both boys have a tendency to motion sickness. I wondered whether I should remind Michael that Mark has a little bit of a nervous stomach and gets the runs whenever he eats anything he's not used to, or that Sammy has nightmares if he eats sugar after eight. But then I decided to let Michael enjoy his fantasy of the perfect vacation. Reality would crash down upon him soon enough.
Ed has similar fantasies. When I told him about Michael's plans for the trip, he said, "Maybe next year it'll be us. You'll have a couple of weeks vacation by then. We could go east, see Vermont and Maine, walk the Freedom Trail, do a little hiking in the White Mountains. Get the boys their first lobsters. Go whale-watching and clam-digging. Watch the sun rise over the ocean. Doesn't that sound nice?"
Motion sickness, I thought. Nervous stomach. Sore feet. Whining. "Nice," I said.
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