The Mum

Renae Brumbaugh Green

It’s that time again.

 

High school marching bands, complete with loud drums and fluffy white plumes protruding from oatmeal-box-shaped hats. Padded-up football boys praying they score the winning touchdown. Some, praying they get to play at all. Their mothers, praying for rolls of invisible bubble wrap to attach itself to their baby boys.

 

Glittered-up cheerleaders.

 

Sleep-deprived coaches.

 

Overworked classroom teachers, showing up early and staying late to make sure everybody’s passing, so they can play their prospective roles in the game. After all, nobody wants to be that teacher who gets blamed for the losing score, because the star quarterback was benched for a failing English grade.

 

It’s football season in Texas. And in the Lone Star State, the only thing bigger than Friday night football is Friday night homecoming. More specifically, the homecoming mum.

 

Now, if you don’t live in Texas, if you haven’t been privy to the absolute insanity that is Texas football, you might as well stop reading this right now. What I’m about to say will make no sense to you, and it shouldn’t. I’ll make no excuses for it. It’s madness at its finest. But if you live here, and more specifically, if you have a child in school here, it’s either go along, or be pegged as a nonconformist mutant. I’m fine with being a nonconformist mutant, but my kids aren’t . . . so for now I’ve gotta go along to get along.

 

All this to say, the homecoming game is this Friday night. And I have a son in high school, which means if he has a date, he’s responsible for getting the mum. Those of you with really great eyesight read the small print on the previous sentence: the boy’s MOM is responsible for getting the mum.

 

A week and a half ago, I hadn’t heard any rumblings of a specific girl’s name or a specific date for the Homecoming Dance. So I took it upon myself to ask.

 

Me: Do you have a date for homecoming?

 

Him: No.

 

Me: Are you going to have a date for homecoming?

 

Him: Nah.

 

Me: Are you sure?

 

Him: Yeah, I’m sure.

 

Whew. Crisis averted. Or so I thought.

 

Yesterday—as in, two days before homecoming—I got a text from the man-child.

 

Him: Can we get a mum?

 

Me: You have a date?

 

Him: Kinda.

 

Kinda? Kinda? How do you kinda have a date?

 

Now, you’ve got to understand, the florists around here are extremely talented. They’re also extremely smart business people, and they know they value of a homecoming mum, two days before homecoming. And the profits they make during this week in any small town in Texas could feed a small country. Or even a medium-sized country. And if I had an extra couple hundred bucks to spend on a mum, I would. I so would. But I don’t, so I can’t.

 

Fortunately for me, my friend Patti took the time to teach me how to make a mum last year. So off to Wal-Mart I went, to get the supplies I needed.

 

Hot glue gun, check.

 

Poster board for backing, check.

 

Lots of silk chrysanthemums in gold and white, check.

 

Miles of gaudy ribbon in blue and gold, check.

 

Cheap, flashy beads, jangly jingle bells, glitter spray – check, check, check.

 

I spent the entire afternoon crafting the most beautiful, flamboyant, tacky, ostentatious—did I say beautiful? Homecoming mum you’ve ever seen. It is a work of art, all for $30, three hours, and a couple of slightly-painful glue gun injuries.

 

I hung the mum on a hanger in the living room and went to pick up the manchild from school.

 

Me: We have a mum.

 

Him: Oh. I’m not sure if I have a date or not.

 

Me: (Blank stare.)

 

That’s when I heard the full, unedited story of the date that may or may not happen. According to him, he was sitting in a schoolwide assembly next to his buddy Jeff (name changed to protect the innocent) and on the other side of Jeff was a pretty girl who the manchild had seen around, but didn’t know personally. They started talking about homecoming and dates, and she said, “I don’t have a date.” Then she leaned forward and looked around Jeff, directly at man-child. “I sure wish I had a date.”

 

Long pause.

 

Then she said (while still looking at my son,) “Homecoming would be so much more fun with a date, don’t you think?”

 

Another long pause.

 

Then she said, “Who are you going with?”

 

To which the man-child replied, “Uh . . . nobody.”

 

Then she sighed. “I wish I had somebody to go with.”

 

And . . . wait for it . . . he said, “Uh . . . wanna go with me?”

 

To which she replied, “Yes, I’d love to! Thank you for asking.”

 

That’s how he kinda got a date. But later in the day, he saw her in the hall and told her that since he’s an athletic trainer, he wouldn’t be able to pick her up or sit with her at the game. He could meet her at the school after the game, and they could go to the dance together.

 

That’s when she said, “Oh, okay. I’ll think about it.”

 

Now, I won’t even get started on the lack of good manners that seemed to be prevalent in this entire exchange. After all, the minute I criticize somebody else’s kid for their behavior, my own child will inevitably do something ten times worse. I have to credit this girl for having good taste in stalking finding a date in the first place. And I have to admit that, though I’m well aware of the need for a don’t-give-in-to-peer-pressure talk, I’m proud of my son’s good manners and tender heart.

 

So now we have a mum. If it doesn’t get used this year, I’ll cover it in plastic, hang it with the winter coats, and we’re good to go for next year. In the meantime, I guess we’ll just have to live with a mummy in the closet.

 

“My son, if sinners entice you, do not consent,” Proverbs 1:10.