Through fire, flood, and swarms of locusts

Every spring, Hugh's middle school sponsored an extravagant Grandparents' Day Garden Party (followed, of course, by the annual fundraising campaign, featuring pathetic appeals to all the grandparents who had noshed at the school's expense). Hugh has no living grandfathers and both his grandmothers live too far away to attend. So, in his first year, I substituted as his guest. And no one noticed. I just blended in with all the other old people.

I had no idea what a Big Deal it was for Hugh that I was to be his guest at the Garden Party until that morning after I showered. I walked into my room and on my bed I found, all laid out from blazer to shoes, my Outfit for the Day. When I matter to Hugh, he dresses me.

He never selects clothing that I would choose. On this particular day, the Outfit featured a white linen cutout lace blazer that I had bought only because Hugh was with me and liked it so much. My closet actually features a number of such items--Hugh Items. Tops, belts, shoes, scarves, jeans. . . .all bought not because I thought I would actually wear them, all bought knowing I would probably never wear them, all bought to please Hugh. Plus there are his contributions. The designer handbag that he convinced my sister I had always wanted. (How could I want something that I didn't even know existed?) The designer wallet that he purchased for me with his Christmas money, because he was so embarrassed by the wallet I was using. The boots he decided I had to have.

I'm such a disappointment to him. I've turned out so badly. I've utterly failed to be the Mother he hoped I would be. I'm like the mom who's constantly in detention, who has to go to summer school, who must take remedial mom classes. I am not stylish. I have panty lines. I do not like granite countertops. I hate SUVs. I do not lust after Hummers. I've never really figured out the whole accessories thing. I do not have a long mane of thick straight black hair. I'm mystified by stiletto heels. And Vera Bradley, geez, do not get me started on Vera Bradley.

I love my son. Desperately. Completely. Hopelessly. So I buy the occasional sparkly top or lacy blazer. Penitential offerings. Sacrifices to the gods. Please. Bridge the gap. Fill the void. Oh my darling. For you I'll run through fire and flood and swarms of locusts. In stilettos. And thong underwear.