Not My Son, You . . .

As I have mentioned previously, my Tweener is an obsessive Harry Potter fan, counting down the seconds until we see the new film. It has been quite the topic of conversation among his age group lately. Oddly enough, such conversations have had me relating to the Potter character of Molly Weasley in more ways than one.

Molly, for the uninitiated, is the matron of the large, but poor Weasley clan. Molly represents the ideal earth mother, providing a simple but safe home, always keeping tabs on the kids even when they aren't home, dispensing tough love as needed (try talking back to a screaming letter chewing you out in public for crashing the family car, as Ron endured in The Chamber of Secrets), lovingly sewing hideous sweaters, and cooking hearty feasts for any friends and family who drop by. But Molly has her penultimate motherhood moment in The Deathly Hallows, the series' final installment. STOP READING HERE IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS.

Okay, you've been warned. After evil villainess Bellatrix Lestrange gets away with killing one of the Weasley boys and starts to go after daughter Ginny, Molly springs into maternal action, screaming: "NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!" She orders everyone else to back off as she and the wicked sorceress duel it out. The moment is both shocking and rousing for Potter fans, whom I anticipate will cheer loudly when actress Julie Walters (who plays Molly in the movies) gets to shout the words in the final film. As a writer, I appreciate author J.K. Rowling's well-chosen use of profanity to make a point. So much modern literature and film overuses profanity to such an extent that the words lose much of their power. Molly is not a character prone to such vulgarities in everyday speech (nor, for that matter, are most of the characters in this series geared towards young readers). For that reason, when she shouts the words they express the full power of her righteous anger. Bellatrix learns it is not smart to incur the wrath of a protective mom.

When my Potter-crazed son first read these words on the page, he was shocked because, as he told me "that's one of the worst words!" He also knows what I would do to him if I ever heard the term coming out of his mouth, even repeating the line from the book. But he understood what it conveyed about Molly's feelings.

So it was that I felt a sisterhood with Molly while listening to one of my son's conversation about Harry Potter. You see, for the past couple of weeks Tweener has been participating in a "Rock Camp," as in "rock 'n' roll." Musically, it has been a great experience for him, but his band's lead singer is tiny diva in the making. On day one, she came across like a Leann Rimes Star Search wannabe, hitting the high notes and trying to "work the crowd" even if it meant moving from her assigned mark. Since then she has insulted audience members whose reactions don't seem enthusiastic enough, channeled her inner Janis Joplin to brag in a gravelly voice about getting her coffee fix between sets, and basically made it clear that she intends to be rich and famous someday. Hubby describes her as one of those children who usually require a visit from Supernanny. She's something else.

She is also a Harry Potter fan, thus she and Tweener have engaged in numerous discussions about all things HP, forcing visions into my head of him one day bringing such a girl home for dinner. Pardon me while I shudder . . . Okay, all done. Yesterday provided a moment of sympathy for Tiny Diva. Upon arriving to pick up Tweener, I brought along a special treat that I had picked up while running an errand on the way. Tiny Diva (who is always picked up by a babysitter) wished somewhat pathetically that her mom would bring her such treats. I felt sorry for the kid for about 30 seconds, until, during the day's final discussion of Harry Potter, Tiny Diva felt the need to shout Molly's infamous line, unedited and disregarding any adults and small children within earshot. As Tweener shot me a glance that indicated he knew exactly what I was thinking, I declared that it was time to leave.

Inwardly, however, I was repeating an edited version of Molly's declaration. Sorry, Tiny Diva, but my (unspoken) reaction should you ever show up as Tweener's dinner date is likely to be, "Not MY son, you . . ." It is not smart to incur the wrath of a protective mom.

Yours in Sisterhood - VB