Tag Archives: funny mom

Advice My Mother Gave Me

What she should have told me was, "bad things can happen if you eat too many carbs."

What she should have told me was, “bad things can happen if you eat too many carbs.”

People will talk periodically about some knowledge that a parent bestowed upon them.  You especially see these little snippets of wisdom come out of an actor’s mouth as he is accepting his Oscar.  And I immediately wonder if I bestow enough wisdom on my own child.  What would my daughter say she learned from me?  “Don’t buy anything that isn’t on sale?”  Probably.

My parents were young parents.  My mom was 25 when she was done birthing her three children.  She seemed to be preoccupied with keeping us all alive.  You know, keeping me from tossing my baby brother off the balcony, remembering to take me in from the snow, figuring out ways to prevent my youngest brother from cracking his head open (long stories).  Truth be told, I don’t remember much in the way of wisdom.

Except this:  “It Builds Character.”  This is what I remember most.  It builds character.  I used to get so frustrated.  “Mom, Danny said I’m flat chested.”  “Well, it builds character.  “Mom, Maria wants to beat me up.”  “It builds character.”  “Mom, I dropped out of high school and want to join the Peace Corps.”  “It builds character.”  (I actually did not do this last one, but you get the picture.)

What the hell did she mean?  “It builds character?”  This is what it meant, to me anyway:  Life is rough at times.  There isn’t going to always be someone there to pick you up.  You really need to figure crap out for yourself.  These difficult experiences toughen you up.  Give you confidence.  Teach you to be strong and forge ahead.

Did it work for me?  I think so.  Well, mostly.  During those moments when I’m fighting the Blue Haired Brigade during Can Can week at Shop Rite, her words come to me.  And I forge ahead.  Every Monday morning, like clockwork.

As for The Kid?  Seriously, don’t buy anything if it’s not on the sale rack.  Saving money builds character.  Or, at the very least, your bank account.

Mama’s Losin’ It
 

Cold vs. Hot

COLD HOTPart 3 of My Reader’s Suggestions.  This one is about Cold vs. Hot.  And what I prefer.  Well, I like my wine room temperature…oh wait.  I don’t think that’s what she meant.

I know this is a really dumb time for me to bring this up because everyone from Timbuktu to the North Pole are freezing their asses off, but what is best?  Being hot or being cold?

Personally, you know, for me?  I’ve always thought hot.  I have had this conversation with myself before.  For years, I’ve been having this conversation.  And even though it can get pretty damn hot around here in August, I feel like there is some way to cool off.

You can take off your clothes and run through a sprinkler.  Jump in the lake and blow a fan on yourself (well, I wouldn’t recommend doing them together because you can electrocute yourself and probably die).  You can take a cold shower and run an ice cube on your face (this you can do together – you will not probably die).  Sleep on the basement floor and sit under a shady tree drinking soda pop (that’s what I do, don’t you?).

I don't know.  I look kinda miserable cold.  Don't you think?

I don’t know. I look kinda miserable when I’m cold. Don’t you think?

When it’s super cold out?  Well, you can stay inside and hide under a down comforter all winter.  You know, hibernate?  But when it’s super cold outside and you have to actually go outside?  I don’t care if you are an eskimo, there is no trick short of duct taping every inch of whatever to keep the dang cold out.

I can put on three layers of wool socks and my snow boots that promise to keep my feet warm in below freezing temps and my toes will still feel like they are suffering from hypothermia after 10 minutes.  My parka is awesome, but on those freaking bone chilling days, even that doesn’t work.  Forget about gloves.  Those mothers are just useless.

The cold permeates through every window.  Under every door.  When I’m in my car and I lower the temperature a smidge, and I mean a smidge, my car feels like the inside of an ice ball after 3 minutes.  Of course, if you know what the inside of an ice ball feels like.  I happen to know because I LIVE IN ONE!!!

I'm feeling pretty damn hot here.  Phew.  But sure do look happier than when I'm cold.

I’m feeling pretty damn hot here. Phew. But sure do look happier than when I’m cold.

So, I guess I like being hot better.  Five months until August.  Let’s have this conversation then, shall we?  If my memory serves me right, I’m pretty sure I was cursing up the sun and wishing for winter.  I may have even done the Winter Dance.

Oh sorry, my bad.  Don’t worry, I can start doing the Summer Dance.  Oh wait.  Look where that got us.  Never mind.  I’ll just sit here with my room temperature wine, down comforter and cable TV until the sun comes out and melts all the snow.  See you in June.

I Beg Your Postpartum?

“Holy crap.  I just pushed a human being out of my vagina, my nether area, my unmentionables.  A freaking living, breathing human being.”  That was my thought after I gave birth to my 8 pound sweet baby girl.

I ripped stuff that doesn’t seem natural to rip (when I was in my way early twenties, a woman told me about this happening and I walked around with my rectum clenched for a year.  It traumatized me so much that I prayed to the birthing gods for 9 months for this to NOT happen to me, but alas).

What happened next?  Nothing.  As soon as that last bit of after-birth fell onto the hospital floor, my feelings were as cold as one of those sub-zero freezers.  I assume (I never was professionally diagnosed) I had what the experts would call Postpartum Depression.

I pretty much self-diagnosed myself.  But not until months later, after I felt better.  How do I know I was suffering from this condition?  It was really just a guess but here you go:

  1. After they handed her to me, I nearly dropped her on the ground.  As if she were a piece of luggage that I carried across the country and just couldn’t go another step with.  I actually hallucinated “Samsonite” written across her forehead.

    samsonite

    See her forehead? I knew it.

  2. When the nurses wheeled her in my room at 2am, I ripped their heads off.  It’s true because they were nice and round and rolled like a couple of bowling balls.  Strike!
  3. I would cry on my sitz-bath while speaking to my pediatrician every day for 2 weeks.  Yes, my pediatrician.  Hey, it saved me a hell of a lot of money on therapy bills — I highly recommend it.
  4. During middle-of-the-night feedings I feared that her head was going to spin on her shoulders like Regan in The Exorcist.  That’s normal, right?
  5. Besides breastfeeding, I didn’t have a desire to hold her.  I had a full out temper tantrum when DH went back to work.  Seriously.  I behaved more like a baby than my baby did.
  6. I had The Kid in June.  It was a hot summer so I rarely left the house.  For nearly 3 months.  It was hot.  Besides it meant I would have had to have gotten dressed.  And clearly that wasn’t happening.
  7. I wore the same clothes for 6 weeks.  Except my underwear.  I changed them at least weekly.  Well, someone did anyway.

    This is what I wore for weeks.  No lie.  Notice the attractive milk stain?

    This is what I wore for weeks. No lie. And my boobs were always leaking.

No one seemed to notice, especially me.  DH thought I was a little off, but no one told us about this possibility so it didn’t enter our minds.  Maybe we thought it was normal?  Well, I remember thinking it was normal.  I felt sad.  But don’t all new mothers feel sad?  I mean, our bodies were practically ripped in half and we had to take care of these people.

Luckily, after about 3 months, I got the spring back in my step.  They really should tell you about this stuff in Lamaze class.  Or somewhere along the line.  I mean, geez.  I was pregnant for 9 months.  There was plenty of time for a warning.  Although, I do have an extremely short attention span so maybe they did and I missed it?

I doubt it.  Anyway, my sweet baby girl is pushing the ripe old age of 16 and all is well.  I fell head-over-heels in love with her in spite of it all.  But I stopped there, at one child.

Would I have done it again?  Sure.  If you take out the blood, ass ripping, blood curdling pain and Cruella de Vil emotions.  Maybe.  But no one could promise me anything so it didn’t happen.  And I’m a better person because of it.  I’m sure.

This Helicopter Needs to Go Down

Have you ever seen that movie “Terms of Endearment?”  It’s on my top 5 list.  I laugh (you can’t actually see me, but I am laughing) because you know that scene where young mama Aurora checks on baby Emma with a mirror to see if she is breathing?  That was me.  Okay, that is me.  Still.  Well, only sometimes.

I know.  I’m nuts.  I have gotten better over the last couple of years, but I do periodically check on The Kid to make sure her blankets are going up and down with her breathing.  When she was a baby, sometimes I would poke at her while she lay sleeping in her crib.  You know, stir her.  If she woke up, it was okay.  Because I knew she was alive.  And I would breathe a huge sigh of relief and go to sleep.  You know, for at least 20 minutes.

I was a young child in the 70’s.  A time when our parents didn’t worry about child snatchers or concussions from falling on a bike without a helmet.  Damn, if I cut my face open, my mother’s response would be, “get up, brush it off and go outside to play.”

Once when The Kid was about 4, she fell because she was running on cement in flip flops.  I knew she was going down.  I got that weird prickly feeling in my shins.  You know what I’m talking about?  Well, I swooped her up and ran her to the first aid station in complete hysterics.  I had one finger on my phone to dial 911.  What’s the matter?  She scraped her knee.  And there was blood.  What did you expect?

I was neurotic (you know, in case you haven’t figured that out yet).  “Don’t run too fast, don’t walk backwards, don’t skip, don’t climb on that, don’t jump on the bed, don’t look at the sun too long…”  I could smack myself just listening to that me.  I was secretly happy when she didn’t quite get the concept of riding a bike the first time DH tried to teach her.

I’m not totally afraid of too much.  Most of the time anyway.  Like you won’t catch me dead on a pair of skis because I like my appendages where they are.  But I have no problem driving to places I’ve never been, or doing something I’ve never done (except skiing, sky diving and heroin), tasting food that is off the wall and going on roller coasters with the double loop-de-loop.

So, why am I such a nut job?  Overprotective and overbearing at times?  Is it because I only have one child? People always told me to have another.  That my neurotic behavior would lesson.  But that’s hard for me to believe.

Now, she’s getting ready to learn how to drive.  I thought I was worried before.  What the hell?  I guess I am the quintessential Helicopter Parent.  But I don’t want to be one of those.  I make fun of those people.  There’s no way I am.  So I looked it up:

A parent who takes an overprotective or excessive interest in the life of their child or children.

Oops.  Well, I’m the first part anyway.  Because taking an excessive interest in the life of your child?  Well, that’s just plain, old, dang nuts.  Pffft.  And that car thing?  Does anyone know how to pull out some wires so it doesn’t start?  Inbox me with instructions.  Thankyouverymuch.

Linking up with Shell

School Is Cool. Unless You are Me.

Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop Writing Prompt:  What was your least favorite subject in school?

Mama’s Losin’ It
 

I was not a student.  I’m still not a student.  While I will praise school and push the importance of education until the cows come home on my daughter, I did not continue education for myself.  Because I hated school.

What was my least favorite subject?  Let’s change that question to ask what was my favorite subject.  Actually, let’s change that question again to ask what was the only subject I liked.  You know, in the interest of time.

The only subject I liked was English.  Because it was the only subject I was good at.  And the only subject that interested me.  Being that I’m turning into a quasi-writer, I guess that’s a good thing.  At least I know where the some commas go.  And the difference between their and there.  And too and to.  And I know what a run-on sentence looks like although I always break that rule because in my head a run-on sentence gets my point across better even though everyone probably thinks I’m a dope and knows I’m making a major faux-pas. You should probably not start a sentence with “And” either but I do that because this is my blog and I can.

I did not like Math.  I still don’t know all of my multiplication tables.  Don’t test me because I will fail.  I love and appreciate History now but not so much back in the day.  I could give or take Science.

I absolutely abhorred gym because I was insecure and hated the way my legs looked in shorts.  I was scared to death of Dodge Ball.  (They finally banned that, didn’t they?  See, I knew what I was talking about.)  And I was so happy when I contracted Mono and my doctor said I had to sit out for gym for the remainder of the year.

I didn’t go to college.  I tried.  For 2 semesters.  When I was 20.  The company I worked for was giving me a full ride.  Guess what?  Hated it.  Even free.  Not only that, but I sucked at it.  Big time.  DH and my parents would say that I didn’t try.  But I did.  I just sucked at it.  Or maybe I just sucked at it because I didn’t take any classes that interested me.  I don’t know.

I used to be embarrassed when the inevitable question came up at play group…”what college did you attend?”  I had a speech for this.   I felt the need to explain myself.  Every time.

Now?  The answer is, “I didn’t go to college.”  Period.  End of story.  It’s taken me years to get to this place.  My daughter said to me a few years ago, “You know mom.  You can go back to school.  You aren’t too old.”  It made me realize that I had no interest in going back to school.  And that I shouldn’t be ashamed of my choice.  It’s my choice.  And I have to live with it.

My daughter doesn’t seem to have much of a choice.  It seems that these days you need a degree if you want to be a Professional Ass Wiper (that’s not what she wants to be, I’m just saying that you would need a degree to be one).  But I digress.  Wow.  I just realized that I really digressed.  A lot.  Geez.  Sorry about that.  What was the question?

Oh, right.  So, that’s my answer.  Math, History, Science and Gym.  I didn’t mind Recess.  Oh, that’s not a subject.  Or the answer to the question.  I forgot.  Never mind.

Demagnetization Belongs In the Toilet

hotel key

I am not a public pooper.  If I am out and about and it happens to come on me, I’m thrown into a bit of a bind.  This has been a problem with me for forever.

If I were home, it would be no problem.  Of course.  But if I go into a public restroom, my sphincter tightens up as if it were a boa constrictor sucking the life out of its prey.  It’s like my bowels are on center stage.  With bright lights and an audience.  Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it but my digestive system and I suffer from serious stage freight.

I went away on a girl’s scrapbook retreat this past weekend.  In the middle of scrapping my 2010 vacation to the Outer Banks, I felt the urge.  It was strong and it was sudden.  And I wasn’t home.  Obviously.  Thank God for hotel rooms.  Because I was gonna be needing my private stage, err, bathroom.  Pronto.

With a sense of relief, I made it to the door of my room and swiped my “key.”  Instead of the welcome light of green, I got red.  I swiped again.  And again.  And a-freaking-gain.  Red. Red. RED.  After a few expletives, I speed walked to the elevator, climbed on and made my way to the front desk.

There is nothing worse than standing there telling the front desk employee that you need a new key while doing everything in your power to not accidentally let out any bit of why you so urgently need to get into your room at 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon.  This is the one time you don’t want them to be so friendly.  No, I don’t give a damn about the wind outside.  I’m more concerned about the wind inside.  Please give me my new key before you need to call the janitor.

I know why my key didn’t work.  I started to put it in my pocket with my cell phone.  Started to.  Which means I had it in my hand, surrounded by my fingers and palm.  When I felt my phone with the back of my pointer, I knew it meant “danger.”  And I immediately retreated.  I took it out before I let it go.  Because I know the damage it can do.  It’s happened to me before.  A lot.  But I was pretty sure I stopped the process of demagnetization.  Apparently, I did not.

metal hotel keyI miss the good old days of a plain, old metal key.  I really do.  Sure, it’s not as easy to carry.  It doesn’t slide into your wallet without a snag.  Or can’t be put into the back pocket of your jeans without you getting poked.  So what?  It also doesn’t run the risk of demagnetizing.  I would hang that friggin’ piece of metal around my neck if it meant I didn’t have to make umpteen trips to the front desk.  Every dang time I stay in a hotel.  Every dang time.  No lie.

Demagnetization.  It’s a bad, bad word.  Please don’t use it around me.  And by the way, I made it.  By the skin of my…never mind.  I wouldn’t want to give you too much information.  You know, some things should be sacred.

The Bookless Book

My mom texted me the other day.  Here is how it went:

Mom: I have a book question.  Is “We Are Water” better than other Wally Lamb books or on par?

Me: Geez, I don’t remember.  I know it was really really good probably one of the best books I ever read.

Mom:  We Are Water is his newest book.  U finished it?  I was asking cuz I was looking for a recommendation as to which of his older books I should read next.

Now, you wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with that text exchange, right?  Except I am currently reading “We Are Water” by Wally Lamb and I am about an eighth of the way into it.  And it is new.  My memory is bad, but come on.

Why didn’t I know she was talking about a book I am currently reading?  Because I own a Kindle.  And I don’t know any freaking book that is on that thing because it doesn’t have a cover.  If it doesn’t have a cover, then I can’t be reminded every ever-loving day and night when I pass by my nightstand.  It’s a problem.

That looks like a cover but it's an ad for another book.  See what I mean?

That looks like a cover but it’s an ad for another book. See what I mean?

So, if it’s possible to be embarrassed by something you said to your own mother, the answer is “yes.”  I felt like an ass and had to explain myself.  Also, because she is a book worm and can read 2-3 books at one time.  Me on the other hand cannot do that.  Because I have ADD/Squirrel Brain.  Not possible.  No way, sista.

Anyway, she recommended I read this Wally Lamb book.  I didn’t realize he wrote another book and he is one of my favorite authors ever so I was glad to hear this.  But my mom has a habit of asking me how I like books she recommended.  Like from the moment she recommends them.  Okay, so I may be exaggerating a little.  But just a little.  (It’s okay mom, I don’t mind really.  Kind of.)

Here’s my other problem:  Lately it takes me weeks, sometimes months, to finish a book.  Mainly because I am absolutely obsessed with this blogging gig I started for myself and also because I can no longer read a book for more than a page or three without my eyeballs doing the back-of-the-head roll thing.  But I digress.

The Kindle.  I’ve owned it for a year or two.  Maybe longer.  I don’t know because time marches as if it’s being chased by a one-eyed monster on methamphetamines.  Two years is really ten.  Get what I’m saying?

I was looking through photos the other day and I swore a vacation we took to Boston was only about 4 years ago, but it was more like 8.  How can that possibly be?  But I digress.  Again.  I am the Queen of Digression.  Called me Queen D.

Do I like my Kindle?  I’m not sure.  The jury is still out on that one.  I’ll write a pro/con list like I did in high school when I wanted to break up with a boyfriend.  Okay, I actually didn’t do that because that would have required too much work.  But I had friends who did.  I think.  Whatever…

Pros:  1) I can download a sample. So I can check it out later.  This way I can’t forget.  Which is a problem for me.  Well, the forgetting part isn’t the problem.  It’s the remembering part that gets me every time.  2) I have a bookstore at my fingertips.  3) It fits in my pocketbook real easy-like.

Cons:  1) No cover.  But I already said that.  2) It’s a pain in the ass to charge the darn thing.  3) I can’t get used to that little percentage number in the bottom right hand corner that tells how much of the book is left.  4) Sometimes I think I’m just scrolling back a page but then realize that I scrolled back, like 10 pages.  What???  5) I miss holding a real book.  And smelling a real book.  And seeing a real book.

So, I guess the answer is “No.”  No, I don’t like my Kindle.  But I think I do.  Did I ever tell you I also have a problem with making decisions?

Love,

Queen D

 

Oh Pool Boy, Another Margarita Over Here…I’m On Brain-cation

Look, I know I’m not alone when I say that I am so damn sick of this ever-loving winter that seems to be droning on and on and on.  I can’t seem to look out the window without seeing a flake fall from the sky.  And the piles of snow?  Really.  Where are we supposed to put it all?  Is there a snow dump we don’t know about?

The sky just keeps vomiting snow.  We are in some serious danger of drowning in the shit.  Shit.  Yes, I said it.  Because that’s what it looks like after mere hours after it stops.  The white turns brown and gets all over our cars, our boots, our pants.  I have permanent snow shit on the back of a brand new pair of slacks I recently splurged on.  I even tried getting out the snow poo with OxyClean.  It didn’t work.  I may send Mother Nature the dry cleaning bill.  And charge her extra for pain and  suffering.

I can see you all rolling your eyeballs at me.  “Shut up already.  We know you are annoyed.  You’ve said it a thousand times in the last month.  Embrace it, lady.”  Well, guess what?  I don’t want to embrace it.  I’m done embracing it.  Besides, I’m not a hugger.  Okay, well that’s not entirely true.  I am.  Sometimes.

Which brings me to my next thought…vacation.  I want one.  I don’t care what I have to do to get myself one.  I’m not talking about a weekend in Maine.  Or 4 days in the Poconos.  I’m talking full on Caribbean island I don’t care where as long as there are 80 degree days, trade winds, white sand, the ocean and a drink boy.  Or drink girl for that matter.  As long as he/she is capable of carrying a margarita on a tray without spilling a drop.  I’ll tip generously, I promise.  The only ice I want to see from here on out is the ice in my drink.  Or I may lose my mind.

Am I going on vacation?  No.  There’s school for The Kid.  Work for DH.  And me?  Well, I’m kind of free but no one is available to take me.  The only vacation I’m going on is the vacation inside my head.  It’s not that bad.  If I sit in the window facing due West at about 2:26pm with a pair of sunglasses on I do a pretty good impression of the summertime me sitting on a beach.  Accompanied by palm trees, salty air and seagulls.

Except that would be a margarita and I would be glasses of the shaded kind.

My brain-cation sunny spot.  Except that would be a margarita and I would be wearing glasses of the shaded kind.

Unfortunately, the sun has to be out so my mind vacation doesn’t happen often.  But when it does, boy is there a party up in there.  Who wants to join me?  I’ll bring the tequila.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  The word “Vacation”… 

Mama’s Losin’ It

Snow Day Fun In a Handbasket

When did I start to hate snow?  Like really, really hate it?  Probably yesterday.  Seriously.  I complain about the stuff, but secretly I enjoy a good snow day.  I mean, if I don’t have to go anywhere.  Or shovel it.  Or play in it.  Or stand outside.  Or touch it.

All was fine and dandy with the world, until DH had the bright idea to help him shovel the 200,000 pounds of snow off of the deck.  Some crap about the weight blah blah collapsing blah blah blah.  If you’ve been to my house and had the pleasure of enjoying a margarita on my deck when it is a balmy summer evening, then you know that my deck is just about as big as the smallest island of Hawaii.  What’s it called?  Kahoolawe?  Yeah, I just looked that up.  And I am exaggerating a little.  Obviously.  But it is big.  My deck.

A teeny of the deck from hell BEFORE the big lift

A teeny portion of the deck from hell BEFORE the big lift

You know that expression that you bit off more than you can chew?  Yeah, well, I just took a huge chunk out of Antarctica.  And it wasn’t going down.  DH was helping me.  Then he left to rake snow off the roof so we didn’t have another episode of ice damming.  And he raked the snow off the boat.  And he snow blowed the driveway.  And he snow blowed the walkway.  And shoveled the front stoop.  In other words, he was busy.

When I realized I was probably going to have to finish the job alone, I started to cry.  Not the “I’m sad because my goldfish just died” kind of cry.  It was the “holy freaking hell, this is the most frustratingly awful thing ever and I want to just throw myself over the edge of this deck and put myself out of total and complete misery now this very minute” kind of cry.  And I was dropping the “F” bomb every 30 seconds.  I might have to go to confession to wash my soul.

This wasn’t fluffy, fun, nice, sweet angel snow.  This was something the devil sent.  The top 5 inches was ice.  And a shovelful of snow felt like I was lifting half a car.  Every muscle in my arms were screaming.  My back felt like it was going to split.  And both my knees were starting to crack under the pressure.  Yeah, my good knee too.  And when I looked around, I felt like I hadn’t accomplished a thing.  Not a damn-friggin’ thing.  True story.

To make matters worse, I realized half way through it (at about hour #2) that I never stocked up on wine.  I had no wine.  Not that I NEEDED wine.  But  I WANTED wine.  And I deserved it dammit.  So, it was at that moment that I was going to brave those deadly snow plows and ice balls and crazy wind-blown tree branches and walk my butt down to my neighbor’s house to borrow some (I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for some wine today).  The walk there and back is probably close to a half a mile.  I didn’t care.  And I knew she had it because they are prepared for an apocalypse.  Or in this case, Snow-mageddon.

I was dripping wet.  Not from sweat although there was plenty of that as well.  But it was sleeting/raining/snowing and my parka was not keeping me dry.  My hair was a mass of frozen icicles and my nose…well, let’s just say it’s hard to tell what is coming out of your nose holes when your face is suffering from hypothermia.  Remember the cart attendant at Shop Rite?  Yeah, that.

That teeny portion AFTer the big lift

That teeny portion AFTER the big lift

So, now I was down to a smallish but biggish ovally mound.  As I was standing there staring at it because I did not have one bit of energy left in my little biceps to lift one more smidgeon of freaking snow off of that deck, DH came around the corner and had mercy on me.

My leftover mound

My leftover mound

It was then that I realized I could not take another step.  Even if it was to get some red medicine that can only be opened with a cork screw.  So, I sat my wet ass in my car and literally slid down the road.  I stood on my neighbor’s front step and eagerly accepted her gift.  Not one, but two bottles of wine.  Thank you.  You are my savior.

When I got home, I took a 150 degree shower, poured that very well-deserved glass of wine, sat on the couch and fell into a deep, dreamless coma.  That is what I did on our snow day.  The End.

snow wine

My borrowed reward

Raising a Person is Like Eating Soup With a Fork

raising a person

Who here panicked upon arriving home with their first child?  I know I did.  As soon as we strapped that kid into her carseat, my first thought was, “wait, how did these doctors and nurses just let us leave the hospital with this person?”  Seriously.

The most experience I had was babysitting a couple of little boys when I was 12.  And I wasn’t very good at it, either.   Most times I played the parent’s Styx album (too too too too much time on my hands…) until there were grooves in the grooves.   I talked incessantly on the phone to my girlfriends and told the boys to go play amongst themselves.  One time one of the kids came home from school with poopy-pants and I took his unders and hid them behind the winter coats in the hall closet.  I’m not sure I really earned that dollar an hour.

Think about what it takes to raise a person.  Just think about it.  It’s a battle of some sort for every single phase of this kid’s life.  These guys come out of our bodies not knowing a single thing.  They can’t even lift their heads, for God’s sake.  We are responsible for making sure they don’t starve to death, or suffocate or freeze.  We have to know what every single cry means.  I remember when I figured it out.  I felt like I had won the lottery.  I even called DH at work to tell him the good news.

And it continues.  One thing after another.  Throw up, pneumonia, temper tantrums, broken bones, broken hearts.  Those stupid questions (where do babies come from, why is the world round, why do cows moo?).  Damn.  No wonder we stopped at one.  This is some hard business.  Seriously, I think people should have to get a degree in parenting before they can parent.  Or at the very least, send us home with an owner’s manual.  I really could have benefited from an owner’s manual.

But through it all, we have to somehow manage to make sure these little people grow up to be respectable, responsible, kind, semi-intelligent, hard working adults.  You know, good people.  People who other people can stand.  Who other people will like.  I’m not even sure I’m always responsible, respectable and semi-intelligent myself.  How the hell am I supposed to teach a whole other person how to be those things?  From freaking scratch?  It’s not like they ever got a crash course somewhere on what to expect before they came to us.  Geez.

Now we are on to the next stage.  Boys, and driving, and parties with alcohol.  Then college in the next blink.  The fear that we did the right thing by her.  That she isn’t spoiled beyond belief and will indeed be able to boil a pot of water or purchase her own bottle of shampoo.  Will she be able to find her way out of a paper bag?  Will she heed our warning about not leaving her drink for even a minute?  Will she be wise about choosing a partner?  You know, for life.  Oh Lord.  Here we go.  Give us strength.

Would I do it again?  You betcha.  Because with all the sleepless nights, the worry, the pain, there is so much joy and love.  Joy and love that goes above and beyond all else.  Still.  I’m kinda glad we stopped at one.  That’s some scary crap.  This raising a person business.

Linking up with Shell