I moved to Texas from Hawaii just before my freshman year of high school, and talk about culture shock. There were plenty of things I didn’t understand about my new home, but one of the strangest had to be the homecoming mum.
The first time I saw one, I genuinely thought it looked like something you would put on a prize heifer at the State Fair, not on a human being, and certainly not on me. There were enormous flowers, ribbons hanging everywhere, bells, stuffed animals, glitter, and heaven knows what else. Apparently, someone had looked at a perfectly reasonable corsage and decided it simply wasn’t trying hard enough.
I wanted no part of it.
But by the time my senior year rolled around, there I was wearing a homecoming mum in all its ridiculous glory, complete with ribbons, stuffed animals, bells, and probably enough weight hanging from my chest to cause a minor orthopedic injury. Somewhere between freshman and senior year, the thing I had once thought was completely absurd had become something I was excited to wear.
I certainly didn’t know then that homecoming mums weren’t finished with me.
Years later, I had kids of my own, and eventually fall once again meant homecoming mums. Except this time, I was the one making them. There were ribbons spread across my table, trips to the craft store, school colors, bells, glitter, names, charms, stuffed animals, and all the little details that had to be just right. I knew the mums were a big deal to my kids, so they were a big deal to me too. I wanted them to be perfect. I wanted my kids to look at them and know that I had made something special just for them.
What I didn’t understand at the time was how special those moments were for me. I was so focused on being a part of their excitement that I didn’t realize how much it meant simply to be invited into these little pieces of their lives. Homecoming was theirs, not mine. Their friends, their dates, their plans, their memories. But for a little while each fall, I got a seat at the table. I got to help make the moment special.
And then we’d do it again the next year. This year, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t have a homecoming mum to make. It’s funny because I don’t remember ever thinking, This might be the last one. I doubt most of us recognize those moments when they’re happening. Life doesn’t usually tap us on the shoulder and announce that something ordinary is about to become a memory. You make the mum. You take the pictures. You send them off to homecoming. Then you clean up the ribbons and glitter and go on with your life.
Until one year, there aren’t any ribbons to clean up. I don’t think I’m really going to miss making the mums themselves. Although I might miss having an excuse to buy an unreasonable amount of ribbon. What I’ll miss is what making them represented. For all those years, I had children at home who were excited about homecoming, and I got to be part of it. I got to fuss over the details, make things special, take the pictures, and watch them walk out the door.
Maybe that’s why something as ridiculous as a giant flower trailing in ribbons, bells, glitter, and stuffed animals can end up meaning so much. At fourteen, I looked at my first Texas homecoming mum and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want one.
By senior year, I proudly wore one.
Years later, I made them for my own children.
And now, for the first time, I get to miss them.
Funny how something I once thought belonged on a prize heifer managed to find a place so deep in my heart.
🧸 Charlotte