My mom's turn to be a hero

My story yesterday was about my dad being a hero, today I'll write about a time my mom was my hero.

When I was growing up we went to youth conference at BYU in the summer.  You had to be fourteen to go so for the two years that Marianne went before I could go, we'd gather in the living room when she arrived home and she'd tell us all about it.  She told us about staying in the dorms, eating in the cafeteria, the speakers, the dances.  It all sounded so magical and grown-up that I couldn't wait until I would be fourteen and could go myself.

So then it was my turn.  I was at youth conference too.  I was excited for the big dance.  And it was a big dance.  It was held in the Wilkinson Center Ballroom packed with teenagers from youth conferences and Especially For Youth camp and probably sports camps too.  I was impressed with the large gathering of Mormon kids and felt fairly confident that some handsome boy would see past my huge glasses and braces and want to dance with me.

Me (irresistible at dances?) at 14 with my cousin Leslie.  Awesome.

I would stand in a group of friends.  One by one they'd be picked off by boys asking them to dance and I'd be left standing.  Humiliated.

Youth dances.  A barbaric practice.

Luckily for me, my mom was one of our chaperones.  I either told her how miserable I was or she just witnessed it, I don't remember.

I do remember that she took me for a walk around the Wilkinson Center.  She showed me different places where she used to spend time when she was a student at BYU.  She wondered if I wanted to go bowling. (I didn't.)  She wondered if I wanted ice cream. (I did.)  We sat at a table, ate our ice cream and chatted...not about my pathetic reception at the dance but just about other things.

She made me feel like it was not the end of the world to be a wallflower.  She made me feel loved.  At fourteen, I was not too old to have my mother fix everything for me.