“Will you go to prom with me?”
Long ago and far away I said those words and had them said to me. Yes, two proms, the jackpot of adolescence. I was young, thin, and pretty. By society’s standards, my life was the opposite of the bittersweet Janis Ian song “At Seventeen.”
However, I cringe when remembering those two dances-of-all-dances, neither of which delivered upon the romantic promises made by movies, teen fashion magazines, and fantastical daydreams.
There was drama about finding the “perfect” dress (which wasn’t), and distractions such as the competition for being crowned Queen (once again, I wasn’t), an escort in a sky blue tuxedo–the popular color in the late ‘70s, with lime green as the runner-up–and the obsessing about whether we’d go to the beach the next day–a sign that your date was interested in a post-prom relationship. (I didn’t go.)
Clearly, none of this added up to a Carrie catastrophe; merely a Pretty In Pink hovering cloud of unmet expectations.
It actually took thirty-seven years for me to finally have my seminal evening, the mother of all dances, if you will.
My 18-year-old son, Luke, is a senior at an all-boys high school in the Bronx. I first heard about the mother/son dance–known as the mom prom–at freshman orientation. I was devastated to find out it was only for those in their final year of school, and I’d have to wait four years for my turn. But when it finally came time to share this evening with Luke, it didn’t disappoint.
It was an event that truly only a mother could love. Although it wasn’t a formal affair, our boys looked handsome, some in suits, others in jackets, ties, and khakis, while the mothers wore cocktail attire. To the outside world, it would have probably looked merely like four hours in a dimly lit school cafeteria with catered food and a DJ playing the expected hits from past and present. To me, it was a night to call ours and ours alone, not a family event, which would have included my husband, Neil, and our 15-year-old daughter, Meg; just my son and me with his friends, some of whom he has known since kindergarten, as well as their mothers, with whom, over the years, I’ve cultivated my own bond.
In this case, the third time was indeed the charm. I could just relax and enjoy the night with Luke, which included another ritual never bestowed upon me back in the day: being presented with my date’s class ring–albeit a miniature replica. All this, plus the satisfaction of knowing I was there with someone with whom I have a relationship with actual staying power, made it not only a night to remember, but one to cherish.
It wasn’t the gift or the way my usually non-dancing son twirled me around the floor that meant the most. It was his solicitousness that made me feel special; the way he diligently detangled the chain that the ring came on because he wanted me to be able to wear it at the dance as the other moms were doing; how he got my coffee and dessert so I wouldn’t have to wait on the buffet line; and how engaged me in a tête-à-tête to make a joke about the class slideshow or share a story or bit of gossip about something in our midst—aka letting me in.
As we headed back to Manhattan, my mom friends and I admitted to being keyed up yet exhausted at the same time, confessing that we were up way past our usual bedtimes. Many of us did a shoe-change into more comfortable footwear, as all the booty shaking had taken its toll.
By the time my head hit the pillow, I drifted off knowing I’d have sweet dreams. Although there were other places an 18-year-old boy would have rather spent a Thursday evening, when there was no school the next day, Luke went out with me and did so for no other reason than because he knew it was important to his mother.
In life, we’re not often given second chances. I’m grateful for mine and that I could share it with someone who mattered.
Lorraine Duffy Merkl is a freelance writer in NYC and author of the novel, FAT CHICK. Learn more about her writing at lorraineduffymerkl.com.
