I thought I’d stumbled upon the Watergate story of the Parenting World, complete with an anonymous source. But there are no break-ins, wiretaps or tapes. There are no cloak and dagger-style espionage or late night meetings in semi-dark parking garages where my informant is wearing dark glasses and a trench coat. It was simply through solid investigative journalism that I cracked this story wide open.
In the spirit of Woodward and Bernstein, I will protect my confidential source. You can subpoena me, make me pay fines or throw me in jail like Judith Miller.
Because I’m not talking.
I will tell you that I call my secret informant Smart Girl. And that won’t narrow it down one bit. Because as far as I can tell, there are a whole lot of them in this valley.
While I will not reveal her identity, I will share the intel I obtained on that fateful cloudy day. It was so shocking, as a member of the Parenting Tribe, I knew this information could not be dispensed on a need to know basis. Because parents You. Need. To. Know.
Smart Girl told me Middle Schoolers are Going Out. That’s right, they’re dating.
Sensing this story was Big News, I remained objective as a good reporter should and asked a well-reasoned line of probing questions. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY ARE GOING OUT?” I shrieked hysterically. “YOU ALL ARE TWELVE AND THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. NONE OF YOU CAN EVEN DRIVE YET! WHERE ARE YOU GOING AND, MORE IMPORTANTLY, HOW ARE YOU GETTING THERE?”
I’m glad I was driving so I couldn’t see her roll her eyes.
Without giving Smart Girl time to answer, I continued my careful inquiry. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?” I screeched at a windshield rattling volume. “AND BE STRAIGHT WITH ME, IS MY KID GOING OUT?”
That was about the time that Mango Melon SoBe hit the windshield. Smart Girl was laughing so hard it shot out her nose.
When she regained her composure, Smart Girl asked me, “What do you think Going Out means?”
“It means that you Go Somewhere, like to dinner and a movie,” I replied. “You know, like a date.”
Smart Girl remained remarkably poised although it was clear she was trying hard not to spray the windshield with SoBe again.
But she continued. “It’s not like that at all,” she explained.
“YOU HAVE TO TELL ME,” I loudly blathered on, “WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”
Thanks to my line of razor-sharp questioning, I had her exactly where I wanted her. “It means they sit together at lunch and don’t talk to each other,” she said matter-of-factly. I can’t confirm or deny this but I’m pretty sure there was another eye roll at this juncture.
So nothing has changed since I was in 7th grade.
Except when I was in junior high, there was one boy who really could have gone out. Elvis Ray James flunked 7th grade so many times by the time I landed there he had already voted in a presidential election. He routinely inquired when they were adding a student parking lot.
Elvis Ray was every mother’s worst nightmare.
So on that day with Smart Girl, I’m glad I didn’t overreact. It was a relief to learn that the Middle School version of Going Out story wasn’t even worthy of the National Enquirer. But I remain on Red Alert for the Next Big Story. You never know where Elvis is going to turn up.
When I looked in my rearview mirror and saw flashing lights, I wasn’t concerned. I did what law-abiding drivers do – I eased over to the side of the road so he could quickly proceed with pursuing a wily suspect. My mind concocted scenes from CSI, The Wire and Law and Order. Was it a jail break? Felony in progress? As I waited for the cruiser to pass, I realized it hadn’t. Another glance in the rearview revealed the spinning lights were sitting behind my truck.
