I’m now officially a Trophy Mother. A few months ago, after HS graduation, I was a cruise goddess when I took him to the Caribbean (I liked being a goddess, that worked for me.). But, at the university’s “Parents’ Weekend,” one of those weird pluralities that is no longer a plural in my life, I was put in my place: I am a Trophy Mother.
Now I know how Trophy Wives must feel!
As a Trophy Mother, you do not have a name of your own and it is not necessary to introduce you to anyone. It is enough for you to stand by your kid and smile at everyone you haven’t met. A Trophy Mother is not unlike the discarded childhood items on the top shelf: the stained T-ball trophy, the picture books and the cheap plastic award topped by a music note with an imitation brass plate and a misspelled name.
There was no cheerful, “Hi, Mom!” because the college rules say Trophy Mothers do not require greetings from their offspring, just an official university name tag that says “Parent of…” So the conversation was more like, “When did you get here? Can you take me to the mall later? Hey Mike, this is my Mom.” And then he went back to conversations with friends or posting on Facebook or sharing videos with kids I didn’t know (because I hadn’t been introduced to them). It was just like when he finger-painted in kindergarten with other kids, all bent over and absorbed in the pretty colors, only now they were on their iPads. We didn’t even eat a meal alone, there were always other kids invited to join us. I didn’t get introduced to them, either. They were there to chaperone me. (Okay, that was a little awkward for me, being chaperoned with my own son.) I was simply an accessory. A badge-wearing accessory to a college-man’s life.
Understandably, I am still processing the lessons of the weekend, but I think my main reason for being there was to prove that he wasn’t spawn of some sort–that he had human DNA and that said DNA unit would pay $35 to be ignored and then take him to the mall.
Much as I tried not to be annoyed, to assure myself that this, too, was just a phase, a learning experience, a necessary part of separating the rocket ship from the parental booster unit, I still got all up in my stuff and bought two gallons of Navaho Red paint on the way home.
Now, I’ve been considering painting my living room a jazzy color for almost a year, but hesitated because I wasn’t sure how he would feel about a burnt-pumpkin red living room. Now, thanks to the “parents’ weekend,” my hesitation has vanished. Grief always has an upside.
I can’t wait to pour that juicy red paint into a roller tray and slap some new color on my life. My motherly self is now thoroughly reassured that my son is just fine and dandy and well taken care of and being fed (in all senses of that word) at college. My not-really-sure-who-I-am-now-that-I’m-not-a-mom-or-wife-or-daughter self is looking forward to lounging in her red living room by a blazing fire and pondering her future with a nice glass of red wine and a good magazine.
I’m starting to get pretty darned determined about finding my own post-motherhood and post-widowhood life and, after this weekend, I think I’ll paint it bright red!
