published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on February 25, 2011
This is the second in a three-part series of columns.
My teenaged son, whom we shall refer to by the mysterious name of “Fred,” and his canine companion whose name I have obscured to “Letty Boo” were walking up the neighborhood when two seemingly rabid Pekingese dogs bounded into their yard. My son relayed the events to me afterward, because something along his walk had prompted a neighbor to visit our home and complain about “Fred’s” behavior. I got home later to hear my teenager’s account of this same walk. In his version of the account, he was, of course, innocent of any wrongdoing.
The owner of the Pekingese happened to be in a state of gravidarum, which, in case you didn’t know it, is the medical term for pregnancy. By using obscure terms, it is my intention to either confuse or impress you. (Isn’t that an effective technique in many fields that use arcane terms? And shouldn’t I be getting paid more if I am impressively confusing?) The owner of the dogs had opened her front door, but she was then unable to coax her pets back indoors.
So, here is the Freddian version of events:
Letty Boo began snapping and lunging, Fred admitted. Regardless, Fred knew he had everything in consummate control. Or so he said.
He stood restraining his hound and fending off the two smaller dogs when suddenly, out of nowhere, a nosy and interfering neighbor came dashing across the street and told my poor, darling, child to get Letty Boo and himself to the other side of the street to minimize any potential, illegal, and as yet, un-betted upon, dogfights.
Fred, in his kindest and most civil manner, apparently told this nosy neighbor that he was in supreme control of the situation and that she could very kindly attend to her own affairs. Or something to that effect, but dripping with politeness and civility.
That’s not exactly the version of events that was relayed by the neighbor, who as a mother of four children herself, thought that the parents of Fred might be interested to know of his behavior in the great outdoors. She had come to our door, and since I was not home at the time, the matter had been deferred for Mommie Dearest to hear about.
I got to hear about this later that evening when I returned from the school in Reston where I was working last year. After some discussion with Fred, I insisted that he go up the hill to apologize. Fred balked. I want to warn you: Don’t balk with me. I am the Mother of Balkers, so if you try, you will be balking up the wrong tree. I described more and more elaborate reasons and ways in which the apology could or should be executed. Finally, I settled on the one below.
Many apologies are delivered with eyes rolling upwards, body and shoulders slouching downward, and a disgusted “sorry” muttered and mumbled to the offended party. The one who offers the apology conveys with everything except his words that the wounded one is probably some sort of oversensitive sissy, and most likely in error anyway. Such apologies are meaningless until any deeper feeling is attached. Often times, the best feeling to attach to apologies is pain. For Fred, pain usually involves lack of food and/or money.
This was going to have to cost him, I decided. Suddenly, I had one of those ideas that renews faith in my own abilities and intelligence, despite the children’s efforts to outwit me at every turn.
What would happen to you in the REAL WORLD if you were to mishandle matters? (Notice how we make our children feel they live in some alternate plane, as if the reality of their school and friends and daily pressures don’t amount to real life.) There might be legal and financial consequences. We had a joint little savings account, did we not? We had access to this savings account online and through the boy’s ATM card, did we not?
With dramatic flourish, I announced that such egregious behavior was going to have a price tag. It would cost Fred enough to hurt and to remember, but not so much as to maim and embitter him. The price tag for offending a “nosy and interfering neighbor” was going to be $ 25.
I called Designs by Teresa in Old Town because I’ve met the owner and SHE READS MY COLUMN. Whoa! It was too late in the evening at this point, and I wanted an immediate resolution and retribution.
We settled on making a transfer of cash from accounts online, handing Fred the cash, and whirling out to our local Safeway. The instructions were simple: take your $25. Spend it all on some tokens of your sincere gratitude and remorse. Flowers: $ 15. Two boxes of chocolates: $ 8. That left about a dollar on hand. Where best to spend a dollar but at the store with the eponymous name: Dollar Tree. One blank note card later, and it was a done deal. His money was spent, and so was his anger. Would it be tacky if I said, “Priceless” here?
Stay tuned for the final part of this series.
This is the second in a three-part series of columns.
My teenaged son, whom we shall refer to by the mysterious name of “Fred,” and his canine companion whose name I have obscured to “Letty Boo” were walking up the neighborhood when two seemingly rabid Pekingese dogs bounded into their yard. My son relayed the events to me afterward, because something along his walk had prompted a neighbor to visit our home and complain about “Fred’s” behavior. I got home later to hear my teenager’s account of this same walk. In his version of the account, he was, of course, innocent of any wrongdoing.
The owner of the Pekingese happened to be in a state of gravidarum, which, in case you didn’t know it, is the medical term for pregnancy. By using obscure terms, it is my intention to either confuse or impress you. (Isn’t that an effective technique in many fields that use arcane terms? And shouldn’t I be getting paid more if I am impressively confusing?) The owner of the dogs had opened her front door, but she was then unable to coax her pets back indoors.
So, here is the Freddian version of events:
Letty Boo began snapping and lunging, Fred admitted. Regardless, Fred knew he had everything in consummate control. Or so he said.
He stood restraining his hound and fending off the two smaller dogs when suddenly, out of nowhere, a nosy and interfering neighbor came dashing across the street and told my poor, darling, child to get Letty Boo and himself to the other side of the street to minimize any potential, illegal, and as yet, un-betted upon, dogfights.
Fred, in his kindest and most civil manner, apparently told this nosy neighbor that he was in supreme control of the situation and that she could very kindly attend to her own affairs. Or something to that effect, but dripping with politeness and civility.
That’s not exactly the version of events that was relayed by the neighbor, who as a mother of four children herself, thought that the parents of Fred might be interested to know of his behavior in the great outdoors. She had come to our door, and since I was not home at the time, the matter had been deferred for Mommie Dearest to hear about.
I got to hear about this later that evening when I returned from the school in Reston where I was working last year. After some discussion with Fred, I insisted that he go up the hill to apologize. Fred balked. I want to warn you: Don’t balk with me. I am the Mother of Balkers, so if you try, you will be balking up the wrong tree. I described more and more elaborate reasons and ways in which the apology could or should be executed. Finally, I settled on the one below.
Many apologies are delivered with eyes rolling upwards, body and shoulders slouching downward, and a disgusted “sorry” muttered and mumbled to the offended party. The one who offers the apology conveys with everything except his words that the wounded one is probably some sort of oversensitive sissy, and most likely in error anyway. Such apologies are meaningless until any deeper feeling is attached. Often times, the best feeling to attach to apologies is pain. For Fred, pain usually involves lack of food and/or money.
This was going to have to cost him, I decided. Suddenly, I had one of those ideas that renews faith in my own abilities and intelligence, despite the children’s efforts to outwit me at every turn.
What would happen to you in the REAL WORLD if you were to mishandle matters? (Notice how we make our children feel they live in some alternate plane, as if the reality of their school and friends and daily pressures don’t amount to real life.) There might be legal and financial consequences. We had a joint little savings account, did we not? We had access to this savings account online and through the boy’s ATM card, did we not?
With dramatic flourish, I announced that such egregious behavior was going to have a price tag. It would cost Fred enough to hurt and to remember, but not so much as to maim and embitter him. The price tag for offending a “nosy and interfering neighbor” was going to be $ 25.
I called Designs by Teresa in Old Town because I’ve met the owner and SHE READS MY COLUMN. Whoa! It was too late in the evening at this point, and I wanted an immediate resolution and retribution.
We settled on making a transfer of cash from accounts online, handing Fred the cash, and whirling out to our local Safeway. The instructions were simple: take your $25. Spend it all on some tokens of your sincere gratitude and remorse. Flowers: $ 15. Two boxes of chocolates: $ 8. That left about a dollar on hand. Where best to spend a dollar but at the store with the eponymous name: Dollar Tree. One blank note card later, and it was a done deal. His money was spent, and so was his anger. Would it be tacky if I said, “Priceless” here?
Stay tuned for the final part of this series.
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