Pomp and Circumstances I forgot to anticipate

I just didn't know that it was going to be such a big deal. It's eighth grade, for God's sake, not high school.

The story goes like this:

A week ago my mother-in-law informed me that her grandson's graduation ceremony would be today. Her grandson. My son. I told her I didn't think so. It was a "step up" something or other, when the kids prepare to go from middle school to high school. Step up, not graduation.

No, she said. I called the school. It's graduation. 9:30 at the high school.

Good enough. Middle school graduation. No big deal.

David couldn't make it to the "graduation," but Wolfgang said he didn't care. It's not a big deal, he said.

Grandma asked me what she should wear. I told her that if I wasn't going to work immediately afterward, I'd be wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It's casual - not a big deal.

But I forgot that this is the trophy generation, and EVERYTHING is a big deal.

We arrived at the high school to find custodians directing lines of traffic of parents and grandparents, dressed up and carrying arms full of flowers for their grads.

Whoops.

The 90 minute ceremony was actually quite nice, and quite full - speeches, awards, music, diplomas. Add caps and gowns and you'd have the exact same ceremony that's going to take place on the exact same stage tomorrow night when the seniors graduate high school.

Don't get me wrong. The whole thing was all very nice, and I'm proud of my kid and his friends and all they've accomplished. I'm only grateful that there wasn't a standing ovation at the end of it all. That would have been more than I could handle.

They like me, they really like me!

I was interviewed yesterday by a freelance writer for Trinity's alumni magazine, The Reporter. The quarterly publication is just like every other alumni magazine out there - it focuses on two different types of alums -

1) rich types who give lots of money to the school because they've got some messed up nostalgia about the college years

2) mega-accomplished types who build HIV clinics in Africa when they're not climbing Mount Everest or finding a cure for cancer.

Now clearly, I am not rich, obsessed with Trinity or curing cancer. So why would they want to talk to someone like me?

Because in celebration of 40 years of coeducation at Trinity, they wanted to write an article focusing on "real" women, women who face the daily stresses of work and family - not killer viruses and high altitude.

Alright, that's worth something. I might not be important, but "real" isn't a bad alternative. An article that celebrates the rest of us is a noble idea, right?

And so we spent an hour and a half together, this freelancer and I. In that time, I'm quite sure I confused her with my philosophies on parenting (benign neglect is easily misunderstood) and feminism (remember my rally against the whole 'time for yourself' notion?).

Still, confused or not, she did a good job of trying to make me feel special, even arguing with my long-held notion that I'm essentially unremarkable, in the most literal sense of the word. By the end, I even started to feel just a little bit ... important.

Like I said, she did a good job. And I almost bought it.

But, apparently, my remarkable real life experience is only worth 300 words.

I should just send her this blog.