Sudden burst of coolness for Mom

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Katie calls it my random act of coolness.

It was exceptional, I have to concede. Buying concert tickets to send my two high schoolers and four friends to see the band Switchfoot is something I normally would not consider even if the girls had asked (OK, begged).

In that case, I may have used the promise of concert tickets to promote better cooperation around the house, such as cleaning up the disaster zone known as their bedroom or taking showers that use less that their typical reservoir of hot water.

But they didn't ask for Switchfoot tickets, and I didn't use them as a behavior-modification incentive.

When the e-mail advertisement came from Ticketmaster to my "in" box, I didn't click "this is spam" as I usually do, either.

Instead, I followed the links to a ticket purchase for a rock concert slated to take place on a college campus, on a school night, no less.

Out of character? Totally.

My plan was to keep this secret purchase to myself until just before the concert date. I imagined that the publicity about Switchfoot coming to town would prompt a flurry of desperate requests, including the odd promise from Katie and Betsy to make their beds and be on time in the mornings or to speak more kindly to their younger siblings. ("Odd promise" here means "unlikely transformation.")

In my mind, I could see Katie and Betsy approaching this negotiation, believing in their hearts I never would actually agree to let them go (much less pay for it). They would pitch it to me on the moral high ground of Switchfoot's many Christian-themed songs.

They would hope, because hope and unrealistic expectations spring eternal when you're in high school, to catch me in an uncharacteristic moment. This would be a moment when I would act, for once, like "everyone else's mother."