The Tripping Point

It’s vague, but I remember as a child once being removed from a violin concert by my hair. The concert was at our church, I was seven, and like most seven year olds, had pressing business to discuss.  My mother had tried everything to get me to stop talking:  the snap and point, angry glares, plenty of shushing.  But it was 1971, Nixon was in office, and violin solo or not, certain things needed to be said.  I thought I was being discreet, thought I was carefully modulating my decibel level.  In fact, that is exactly what went through my mind as my mother grabbed hold of one of my braids and bolted for the exit. 

According to Malcolm Gladwell there’s a tipping point, and according to me there’s a tripping point, at least when it comes to motherhood.  This is the moment an otherwise level-headed mother is so mortified by her off spring that she loses it.   Of course, though I believe in the tripping point, my children have never driven me to it.  Flown kamikaze style past its border, yes.  Driven, no.   They’re all fairly expert at it, but if I’m taking a “trip” down memory lane, there’s one child in particular who needs mentioning, and that is Julia.

Born at the advent of our law school days, Julia was (still is) the epitome of joy.  We called her our little lamb because she bleated like one, but somewhere along the way to toddlerhood she swapped fluffy-fleece-covered-animal for fierce, and she never looked back.  She was two when her daddy put on a cap and gown and filed into the old Provo tabernacle with the rest of the J. Reuben Clark graduating class of 1996 to receive their diplomas.  This was a momentous occasion, a huge accomplishment, and something I decided our children should witness.

So I dressed Julia in her Sunday best and took her, along with her older brother, Sam, and baby sister, Caroline to the tabernacle, found a pew near the back and waited for the dean to hand Rich his diploma.  Of course, Pomp and his friend, Ceremony, cannot be rushed.  You don’t just dole out diplomas like a big order of burritos at Taco Bell.  First, prayers must be said, poems and lengthy speeches read, songs sung, candles lit, cannons fired, doves released…  I may be remembering a few details incorrectly, but my point is the ceremony was long and soon my children were restless. 

Though grandparents were on hand to help, Julia and Sam proved an unstoppable team, squirming, talking too loud (where’d they get that from?) and getting out of their seats.  It was stressful, but I was getting along well enough scurrying after them in my high heels until they decided to divide and conquer.  I took my eyes off of Sam for just a minute, and seizing the opportunity, he rushed up a spiral staircase at the back of the building. Like any good mother, I chased after him and when I emerged from the staircase, gripping Sam by his forearm, Julia was on the stage at the front, traipsing back and forth as the dean of the law school attempted to give his speech.

As she expertly dodged the cloaked dignitaries on the stand swooping at her like old crows after a spry mouse, mortification settled around my ankles like quick-hardening concrete, making it impossible to move.  I didn’t know what to do; she was too far from me to grab by the hair, and I couldn’t (wouldn’t) go up there.   In the mean time, up in the balcony, sitting serenely amongst his peers was Rich.  Warren, a single guy with impeccable grooming skills and a fondness for serenity gardens clucked his tongue in disgust, leaned toward Rich and said, “Whose kid is that!”

Smiling, Rich watched our daughter zig as one of his law professors zagged.  “She’s mine,” he said, “and she’s wonderful.”

She’s is wonderful, and eighteen years later, thinking about this story, I’m smiling too.  That’s the funny about the tripping point—what once made you crazy, in time will make you laugh.  And that laughter is better than Botox at keeping you young.  So give them a hug.  Every time they send you past the tripping point they’re doing you a favor.  Happy (eventually) parenting.