It’s Prom night for Big Brother.
Due to a multiple-schedule conflict, I am unable to attend “Promenade,” the two-hour-plus pre-prom event at his school. I was not invited to stop at the house where the bus that his group of friends rented would be picking them all up.
So I have no pictures. I wasn’t even here to see him leave.
I hope he remembered the flowers–the ones I had to order yesterday because he hadn’t remembered the flowers.
I was hoping to be able to show up at his school around the time that the prom bus did, so I could at least see him and his friends as they headed in the door.
For that, I have to depend on a text message from my son regarding the timing of said arrival. I haven’t gotten that text yet. And I have to go get Little Brother at his friend’s house in 15 minutes, get him and Middle Sister fed, and then take Little Brother to the cemetery where the Cub Scouts will be placing flags to honor veterans, in advance of Memorial Day.
Big Brother doesn’t seem to care that I’ll be missing this. He seems to prefer it. And I can understand that, because I’m like him, playing many things close to the vest–especially big rites of passage.
However, now that I’m on the other side of the fence, I know just how hurt my parents were when I excluded them, in whatever way, from my own rites of passage.
Growing up is tough. Even when you’re 44.