To the Rescue

There are a million things I should be doing right now. I've got sunglasses and shorts to buy for Jare's field day tomorrow. He's competing in the the broad/long jump and the hula hoop contest. I bought shorts. I thought they were a size 14. They are a size 18, not great for a boy who'll be jumping tomorrow and has sincere hopes of NOT jumping right out of his pants in front of a stadium crowd. Nod's shoes have developed a crater the size of Lake Michigan in the sole. He wore his church shoes to school today, along with a major frown at his mother's inability to force Target to open before school started. Tomorrow he may wear the same shoes and a frown at his mother's inability to make it to Target before they close. It's Teacher Appreciation Week, and as the De Facto President of the PTA, I have a bajillion things to do so that our teachers feel mildly appreciated. The remains of homemade pizza linger on all the surfaces in my kitchen, and the Mount Everest of dirty clothes has dwindled, but only to a Mount Kilimanjaro status.

But I have a story to tell about motherhood, so those things will just have to wait.

I was fifteen, and so utterly alone. My best friend for the last several years had abandoned me and the rest of my high school marching band for a much cooler crowd. I would have followed if I had possessed a lot more courage and been less driven about my goals for the future. But instead, I remained behind, friendless, in a sea of polyester band uniforms.

I could muddle through most days. After all, there wasn't much time for socializing during rehearsals. Our director was determined to turn us into a well-oiled machine in time for each Friday night performance...and looming in the back of every band member's mind was the upcoming contest season with it's Saturday trips.

Band bus trips are the sauerkraut on the sandwich of a lonely band member's life. (Or some other sentence that means that band bus trips really stink when you don't have any friends.)

So the first Saturday bus trip of the season found me sitting on a curb in the parking lot of my high school with my band uniform garment bag, hat box, clarinet, and a backpack full of items that I hoped would get me through a desperately long day.

My dad had dropped me off early on his way to a job, so I had the further honor of arriving before the directors, the bus drivers, and even the drum line.

Yay, me.

I wallowed in my self-pity as I watched more and more excited band members show up. People began choosing seat partners and dividing into bus groups. I was terrified that there wouldn't be enough seats and I'd end up sitting next to someone who was forced to sit next to me.

I was in luck, though. My bus seemed to hold mostly sophomores like myself, and there were plenty of seats. I staked my claim midway back and began to arrange my belongings, waiting as the directors checked the last details of our trip. As the excited chatter around me began to rise to a fevered pitch, the loneliness weighed down on me even more. What was I doing here? What was wrong with me? I should be home in bed. I should be on the phone with my friend planning out a Saturday full of fun. I'd never make friends. I'd never fit in.

Tears were overwhelming my eyes. I had to get off that bus.

Leaving my stuff, I jumped down the steps and walked out into the parking lot. I wanted to walk home. I wanted to walk anywhere, but at that moment, I saw my mother's car turning off the highway to drive the street in front of the school.

My mom worked nights as a nurse, and at 7:30 in the morning she was coming off a long night filled with sick patients, snappy doctors, and worried families. I saw her car driving towards home and my heart ached even more. I knew my mom would understand. I knew she would know what to say. I knew without a doubt that her wisdom could help. But I just waved goodbye as she approached.

Then at the last second, she turned into the parking lot. I was confused. Had she thought I was signaling her? I walked towards the parking space where she was now parked. She rolled down her window.

"I didn't think I'd catch you in time," she said breathlessly.

"Did I forget something?" I wondered if I'd remembered my ruffle bib and cummerbund, integral parts of my super-snazzy uniform.

"No, I just thought you might need something for the bus trip. I got enough for you to share with the other kids."

She opened up a brown paper grocery bag. I looked inside to see piles of every kind of candy I could think of. I could barely lift the bag as she handed it to me. Then she pressed two five dollar bills into my hand.

"I know it's not much, but it should by a small souvenir."

Then she looked at me seriously and said, "There are adventures waiting to happen for you. Grab the ones that are good and let go of the ones that are bad. You'll remember these days as some of the best you ever had."

Then, it was time to go. I walked back to the bus thinking about what she'd said, and wondering how she'd know that I needed her in that moment. There were tears again, but of a different type.

As I climbed the steps to the bus, everyone wanted to know what I'd forgotten. I sheepishly showed them the bag of candy, and made instant friendships of the enduring kind that only chocolate can create. I had conversation for the entire trip, and that bus trip became a turning point in my ability to make and keep friends.

My mom had rescued me.

I'm a mom today, and I'm called in for search and rescue despite the fact that I rarely feel competent in my ability to help. There are so many times when I'm at the end of my day, on my knees, praying for the ability to have more, do more, be more. There are many rescue attempts that just plain fail.

But then I think about my mom. I know there were a million times when she wasn't able to make it all better...at least not right away. But those memories are foggy and distant to me. The moment that I remember...the memory that floods my mind when I hear the word "mother" is the one of my mom dressed in her nursing scrubs, driving her maroon Chevy Impala. pulling in to a parking space at my high school, and saving the day at the moment when I needed her the most.

I can't guarantee that I'll be able to soothe all the hurts of my kids. In fact, I can guarantee that I won't be able to fix everything. Honestly, that's probably a good thing. I hope they find treasured memories like I have...simple ones where I was able to help them. I think they will.

And my mother's words then, still ring so true.

I think of them when I feel the need to be rescued again, as a grown-up, and a little farther from Mommy's comforting reach.

"There are adventures waiting to happen for you. Grab the ones that are good and let go of the ones that are bad. You'll remember these days as some of the best you ever had."

Yes, mommy.

I've learned just how true that is.

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