Saturday night was the big fundraiser for the younger kids' elementary school. Lots of folks dressed up and a few likely felt up on the dance floor by people other than their spouses. It's not my kind of thing, socializing, so I don't know that I could give an unbiased assessment of the level of time had by most. I worked the gig, so I didn't take part in the boozing or dining or dancing or chit-chatting.
I did get to observe quite a bit. Lots of blog fodder. Or "blodder" as I call it and as I now hereby proclaim as an original word created by moi. [Pardon me as I now Google it to see if it's already in use. Listen to the music while I place you on hold.] [No, there really isn't any music, except that which you imagine I would have. Namely, Bruce Springsteen playing something like "No Surrender" or "For You."] [Cool. Blodder has no definition as far as Google is concerned. Google, I now inform you that "blodder" can be defined as blog fodder or good material to relate to readers of one's blog.]
Since I'm surreptitiously writing this as the kids nod off to sleep, I'll relate the quickest blodder from the other night.
After everyone gets their dinner and is seated at their tables -- all 250 folks or so -- a DVD montage of photos and brief video snippets of the students is played. Set to heart-tugging music, including Natalie Merchant's "These are the Days," the DVD is clearly aimed at us realizing what a wonderful school our kids go to and, in light of this realization, opening up our checkbooks to make sure the school remains utterly fabulous.
My thought as I watched the DVD? I tried to imagine women of my mother's generation feeling the same emotional tug so clearly felt by nearly everyone in attendance. Could they have possibly needed to record and be a part of even half of what these mothers feel the need to today? Would they have wept with the realization that their little baby will be headed to middle school next year? First grade? Fourth grade?
That would be no. A big, fat, bold-faced, emphatic NO. I'd challenge any mother in that room Saturday night to be a better mom than my mom was. What is it about us now to feel the need to insinuate ourselves so much into the lives of our children? What harm are we doing them? What harm are we doing ourselves?
And why am I not excluding myself from this indictment of uber-involvement and ultra-entanglement? Because I am as guilty as charged. Only I didn't buy a damn thing Saturday night.
Random blodder brought to you by the inventor of the name. Now, who out there knows if I can get this word trademarked?
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