Grateful for a mom who gave me space to figure things out in my own peculiar way | Opinion
I have a strong recall of numbers. This stems from a darkly funny episode that I recall as if it happened yesterday, and a mother who always knew I could handle more than I thought I could.
My family moved from Massachusetts to Virginia in 1978, just as first-grade was ending for me. Up to that point, my school commute had been as idyllic as a Norman Rockwell painting.
Julia, my best friend, and I would saunter down the sidewalk from our homes to our school. With a fair maiden on my right and my NFL-licensed lunchbox swinging insouciantly at my left, I was a prince of the Bay State. But in Virginia, I’d be riding the bus.
I learned this from my mom the night before school, when she told me as an afterthought where my bus-stop was. The opposite of helicopter-parenting, this was something — trust — I’d soon learn she’d always place in me.
While a bit apprehensive, I didn’t unduly sweat it. I’d read enough Richard Scarry books to know that the school bus would be big and yellow, and I should probably board when everyone else did. So far, so good.
It was when we arrived at school that the worry began. A dozen identical-looking buses queued in the front parking lot. As my seatmate, an older kid, got up to exit, my voice quivered a little as I posed the critical question.
“How are we supposed to know which bus is ours after school?” I asked. Though big for my age, he looked at me as if I were a kindergartner, and not one destined for academic greatness. “Easy,” he scoffed, “just remember the number on the bus.”
What Magellan had failed to mention was that he meant the simple number on the sign attached to the first-row window on the bus. You couldn’t miss it as you entered, but you could as you exited, which is what I did. As I reached the curb, I frantically scanned the bus from top to bottom. All I saw was “553” painted on the front bumper.
This complex sequence, I assumed, was what I had to commit to memory, lest I end up on the wrong bus and delivered to points unknown. I didn’t learn much in school that first day. I only recall repeating “553” to myself all day long, the mantra that would ensure a safe journey home.
Mercifully, the same sign stayed affixed to the bumper on bus No. 553, so my indirect system worked. The next day I saw the number in the window, realized I was on bus No. 7, and never looked back. But that first day of second grade is when my preternatural ability to recall random numbers was born.
Which brings things back to my mom. I didn’t always learn the ropes the easiest way in my youth. I did learn them, though, often on my own, and generally well. To my mom’s way of thinking, giving me room to fail was a feature, not a bug, of her parenting. Less sometimes is more, for a little fear can cultivate a lot of courage and, ultimately, self-reliance.
I’m grateful that my mom gave me space to figure things out in my own peculiar way. I’ll be sure to send her a nice gift this Mother’s Day. If it gets lost in the mail, I can easily fire off the tracking number.
Mike Kerrigan is an attorney in Charlotte and a regular contributer to the Opinion pages.
