Even though I'm guilty of doing it shamelessly, I often apologize for bragging about my kids. Boasting parents can be extremely obnoxious. I preface whatever accomplishment Tom, Dick or Harry have scored by demurring slightly, then plunging into the proud mama pool. Likewise, I don't restrain criticism when my children screw up. There's probably some Zen bridge calling for humility between these two poles that I'm still struggling to cross. I never sported a bumper sticker declaring My Kid Is An Honor Student, or placed an "ad" in the back of a school yearbook lavishing praise and gushing about my shining star. But after twenty-two years of applauding my sons' various feats--cautioning them to keep egos in check--and cheering uncontrollably at one too many athletic events, I've hit a parental "personal best."
My firstborn has been accepted for a graduate school full ride at an Ivy. Part of the most famed triumvirate of The League, it shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say when I learned of this coup I wanted to buy time on a cable news channel to announce the news. Post a sign in the front yard. My hand is somewhat numb from grasping cellphone and land lines to spread the word. I had to wait 48 hours to post it as a Facebook status, while my circumspect son withheld the info from cyberspace for personal reasons. Had there been a megaphone handy, I would have climbed a ladder to the roof, shouting loudly enough to be audible throughout one of the largest subdivisions in our county. I was a woman possessed, a mother obsessed.
My husband is walking around with a satisfied grin on his face. But Dad's understated glow is no match for my manic joy and raging glory. Because hubby enjoys the recognition that accompanies his healthy career, while I back-burnered mine once Smarty Pants arrived. Smarty and his Bros are my career or have been, to one degree or another, for two decades. Which is why I feel (that dreaded psychobabble term) validation over this fortuitous turn of events. Now I've earned the right to a new career...writing one of those ridiculous books: "How To Raise An Ivy Leaguer, from Birth to Baccalaureate and Beyond."
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As a Dad, and once for many years a son, my solace saying, "Guess to whom they always will first come showing their accomplishments, the one who so fervently gave them the fire for the machine Dad helped you build." - Congratulations on his attainment of the high hills of your heart and the strong shoulders of his Dad; and to your modest, yet meaningful expressions of deserved pride.
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