Go Big or Go Home

I was driving my son home from his Beauty and the Beast rehearsal when his friend called him for advice. I could tell by the look in Zavier’s eyes that he felt ill-qualified to give the requested advice, so his friend was now on speaker phone, interrupting my classical music jam on NPR. Yes, I’m now old enough to make the rock sign for a well-played movement. Now back to the young man in need now on speaker phone.

Zavier’s friend needed advice on how to approach his crush. I listened as the boys were plotting an elaborate if “this person tells that person, then they will tell that person who might know so and so” and on and on, until after 50 degrees of separation, the young lady would know she is being crushed on hard. Dear God.

“Boys, boys, boys…stop,” I said. “If you want the girl, you have to go big or go home.”

My son gave me the look he gives me before he says “Okay, Boomer,” but he knew better than to say that today (a story for another day).

I continued, “Life is too short to send a message through 50 other people. Go up to the girl, tell her she looks fine, and ask for her digits, with a please at the end, of course.”

Silence greeted me, followed with a nervous giggle from the other side of the phone. I explained that “going big or going home” was about not being afraid of what might happen if you did what you felt in your heart. I wished I had learned this earlier in life. I was so awkward and geeky that I let myself stay on the sidelines behind the bench, behind the bleachers, and at least 20 safe feet away from the playing field.

“Put your big boy pants on and tell this girl you like her.”

Zavier’s friend asked, “What if she doesn’t like me?”

I answered, “Then nothing is any different than it is right now. Go big or go home.”

The boys repeated the phrase after me like love disciples.

I shared the advice I gave the boys with my husband later that night. He laughed and told me it was the wrong advice, with my son quipping that he thought that it didn’t sound right. Zavier then inquired how I fell for his dad.

“He walked up to me and asked if I wanted to watch Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Right then, I knew it was forever. It was your dad’s go big or go home moment, and I went home with him.”

“Wow, that’s all?” laughed Zavier.

That’s all. It was my guy’s moment. What if I had never watched The Wall six times prior, analyzing every minute, longing for a significant other to stay up all night with having deep conversations about the film? Yet, I did. And, we did.

Go big or go home. You have nothing to lose other than the potential that it truly was your moment, your love, or your time to win.

The Case of the Faint Mustache

Today is a big day for two reasons:

  1. I started my parenting blog adventure.
  2. My son started down the path to becoming a man.

Let’s start with my son. I woke him up as promised to go to our favorite diner for breakfast. I owed him a meal at Good Truckin since October, a belated present for his 13th birthday. Yes, I know it is January of his next birthday year. He understands that the schedule for a family of five does not compromise. He let the excitement build for three months and even took a shower last night in anticipation. He will heal from this.

I was not prepared for his morning greeting though.

I clapped my hands outside his door, turned on his lights, and yelled his name. He sat up 10 minutes later.

“Mom, I have a mustache,” he said as he walked over to me.

I looked closely. I looked more closely. I was in his damn face after a third move closer. Indeed, there was a lightly colored caterpillar on his lip. It wasn’t a young, super fuzzy caterpillar. It was more like an aging, balding caterpillar, but it was there.

“Yes, it looks like you do. Where’s your dad?”

If my boy was looking for some grand wisdom from me about young male facial hair, he would be sorely disappointed. I came from a family of three girls. He was my first and only son. I couldn’t keep my own body hair situated, and I only promised him breakfast today. We left for the diner.

Hanging out with a thirteen-year-old boy is much like parallel play with toddlers. You occupy the same space, glance at each other occasionally, and grunt basic words, which if you are patient enough, communicate ideas. It was the best time I had in months. Even when my kid spilled his water all over his food, himself, and the people next to him because of his misplaced, drunk squirrel boy movements, we had fun. He let me take a picture of him basking in the glory of impending manhood. We drank coffee, black in mourning of boyhood’s exit. We returned home and parted ways.

I did pick up a little nugget of wisdom from my son about the difference between boys and girls on the way home. He cleared his cracking voice and let me know boys proudly fart. Girls hide them. I don’t know how I lived this long without such a clear explanation.

Going back to 1) above, I am looking forward to sharing the ups and downs of parenting and family life on this blog, using a healthy dose of humor. I may share some parenting tips and things we like to watch, eat, use etc. in the Rogers 5 household. As you can see, I use the tagline of “Live. Love. Laugh.” Yes, we have one or two of those signs in our house like everyone in the suburbs raising families. You can’t leave Target without one. I’d like to think we do this trifecta a little differently though, and I’d like to share our funny chaos with you. But for now, I must go research safety shavers and little man face cream for my boy.