Parents Weekend Redux

Parents Weekend creates an exciting atmosphere on campus, but for many freshmen there’s an uncertainty about it, too.

The turf has changed, the rules have changed, the balance of power has shifted a little. Freshmen become hosts to the very people who made it all possible, and the notion of a true home-away-from-home becomes real. Students who’ve always had an effortless bond with their parents probably don’t think twice about this first visit, but for the rest of us — as in pretty much all of us — navigating the new territory is not so easy.

Like most high schoolers, my parents and I had our differences. Patricia was completely unreasonable; extended curfews and school night sleepovers were out of the question. Chuck insisted on sporting leather pants and had an affinity for decorating our lawn with large stone Buddhas — and we don’t practice Buddhism. Both put him in the “embarrassing parent” category.

Nevertheless, by the time my senior summer rolled around and the BU stickers were on the cars, my parents and I were getting along well. So when it came time for me to leave for school and as excited as I was to live on my own, it was hard to go. Six weeks later, my mom couldn’t wait to come, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for Parents Weekend 2007.

My dad and stepmom didn’t come because we decided four parents was a bit much, so it was Mom and my stepdad arriving bright and early on Saturday morning.

I showed them around campus and convinced my mom that no, the dining hall really wasn’t that good, and we should eat lunch in the GSU. Actually, I liked the food there, but how often do you see parents hanging out in dining halls? Bringing my mom and Gary would have been social suicide; I didn’t want to take the chance of seeing anyone I knew.

Scrambling to keep them occupied for the day, I led them in the wrong direction for more than an hour to get to the Head of the Charles. We eventually found it — if you count watching boats from the BU Bridge finding it.

I found myself uncharacteristically quiet. It was weird to have them visit me somewhere I was adjusting to on my own. My mom wanted to hear all about my new life, but I didn’t have much to tell her yet. I was embarrassed that I wasn’t more at ease on my turf and annoyed that suddenly she was so interested in my life. Of course, she noticed: as we were eating dinner that night at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the North End, she leaned in and asked if I was okay. I was quiet, acting withdrawn, she said.

We’re WASPs from Connecticut. Feelings are not high on the conversation list. Caught off guard, I assured her I was fine, just sort of tired. After all, she had arrived at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m.

Sunday morning we headed to Newbury Street, and I saw a boy from my COM101 class. He waved and smiled, and we stopped to chat. As he walked away, Mom leaned over with a suggestive glance and mumbled, “He was cute!”

I explained that we were just friends, to which she quickly responded, “Oh! Are there any other boys who you’re — friendly with?”

Boys were another topic my mom and I didn’t broach often, and frankly, I wanted to keep it that way. What was going on? Why was she so desperate to break new ground all of a sudden?

I let her in on a secret most BU girls discover: if I wanted to find a datable guy, I would have to leave the confines of campus. BU has notoriously slim pickings. Seems like half the boys on campus are interested in other boys. Of the straight half, a third date their high school sweethearts, another third are enjoying the unjustifiably high number of girls who fall all over them, and the last few stragglers are single for a reason. No thanks. And besides, didn’t she want me concentrating on my studies? She let out a defeated sigh and kept walking.

On Monday, after a relaxing brunch in Harvard Square — neutral turf, so we were all a little less tense — my mom and Gary headed back to Connecticut. I felt guilty for being relieved as I watched them drive away.

That night at dinner in the dining hall with girls from my floor, my cell phone buzzed. It was a text message from my brother.

“Mom left the dinner table crying. It was weird. I think she misses you.”

After spending all weekend wishing my mom would stop invading my space, I found myself wishing I could sit at the dinner table in hers.

Brittany Rehmer can be reached at bmrehmer@bu.edu.