On Point, Linda McCarthy
My baby turns 16 next week and all I can say is, "Hallelujah!"
Clearly I’m not happy he’s getting old because by the laws of nature I am too. And I could live without the fact that he’ll be driving soon. I’m dreading having to repeat that scenario where we draw straws to see who gets to play instructor. By the way consider this your warning on that subject: Stay inside, lock your doors.
The fact that he only has two more years of high school left is unnerving; soon he’ll fly the nest and I’ll miss him. I think. No, the resounding "Hallelujah" is based solely on the fact that he was born male.
What is with these sweet 16 parties? Granted it has been almost 100 years since I turned 16, but I still remember it. As I was leaving for work my father handed me five bucks and told me to pick up an Entenmanns on the way home. These days my sons have attended such spectacular birthday bashes that in comparison my wedding looked like the hoedown on Hootenanny.
One year my middle son was asked to be in the court. I misunderstood and immediately hit speed dial for the juvenile lawyer. But what he meant was the honoree was the princess and she needed attendants with escorts. I was intrigued so I went along with it. Little did I know I’d have to mortgage the house to pay for his participation.
We had to rent a tuxedo because the one we have sitting in the closet didn’t match the ones worn by the other seven guys in the court. We chipped in on a limousine because no one had a license yet. We chipped in $100 on the gift and, incidentally, I never even met the girl.
But here’s the topper: as part of the court commitment, every Sunday for three solid months prior to the event my son had to attend dance lessons.
To be honest, that was almost worth the price of admission. Seeing my son clod around in his size 14 shoes while trying to keep count was quite a sight. The instructor had absolutely no appreciation for the humor of a room full of 16-year-olds. And he obviously has no children because the angrier he became the more ridiculously the kids behaved. The instructor must have been fantasizing he was choreographing a number for Broadway, but the sad reality was these kids wouldn’t have made it onto "Sesame Street." On the bright side, the girls in the court were gorgeous and looked at least 21 so, needless to say, my son happily skipped to the lessons every week.
My oldest son was invited to one of those theme parties. Everyone had to wear something either black or white. Of course he neglected to mention that until five minutes before his departure. Please realize the child owns nothing but jeans and T-shirts.
When he handed me the invitation and I saw it was at the ballroom of the Ritz I wanted to kill him. These are things a mother must know. Holding onto the invite until the day of the party benefits no one. We compromised. I gave him a pair of my husband’s tightie whities and we dug out a pair of old black sneakers. As far as I’m concerned that covered the protocol. Hey, I never met that girl either.
My friend recently held a party for her 16-year-old daughter. It was simple, low key and the kids had a blast. My friend’s only concern was that the dance floor was going to be too small for the number of kids she invited. Luckily the theme for the party was apparently "Wear-a-high-powered-magnet-in-an-inappropriate-place-on-your-person." Although easily 90 kids attended, it turns out it could have been held in a phone booth. They danced so close to each other they made Patrick Swayze look like the pope.
Linda McCarthy resides in Robbinsville with her husband and three children.