Steel Magnolias and Hitchhikers

"Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." ~ Truvy, Steel Magnolias

A few months ago while I was still at home and recovering from my accident, the enormity of what had happened became a bit overwhelming. I looked around and took careful inventory of the reality of my life at that point.
I was using a walker.
I needed a raised toilet seat to ensure I could take a leak without injuring my leg.
It was St Patricks Day, 84 degrees out, and I was stuck at home.
I shuffled to my bedroom and had a mini, sadness-filled breakdown.
Or, as I like to call it, a Pity Party for One.
Luckily my friend Jill (who lives in California) happily took my phone call and patiently listened to my whoa-is-me speech. As usual, she murmured agreement in the appropriate places and offered fantastic advice. She's always had this uncanny ability to make me feel that whatever I'm thinking or doing is completely normal and acceptable.
"Oh really? You murdered a door-to-door salesman and disposed of his body? Well, who reads hard covered encyclopedias nowadays anyway? You did the world a favor."
During this particular phone call, however, she just listened carefully and acknowledged my frustration. She told me I had a perfectly good right to feel sorry for myself, and assured me things would get better.
The next morning I checked my email and there was a message from Southwest Airlines. "Jill has sent you a gift card for $500."
Within that email there was a personalized, simple message from Jill: "Come see me. Let me take care of you."
And of course, I cried the rest of the morning after reading that.
So a few days ago, I packed my bags and got ready to fly out and see her. It almost didn't even happen.
First of all, I told my dad the wrong terminal. Then, after he dropped me off at the right one, I walked in to see the longest security line I've ever seen in my life. It wrapped through lines, over a sky way and down an escalator.
I had less than an hour before my plane took off. This was going to be a nail-biter the entire way; I could tell.
Finally, I was next in line to be x-rayed. I glanced up at the clock: 6:33 am. My flight was supposed to take off at 6:40.
After I hurriedly shoved my boarding pass at the ticket agent a few minutes later, she looked at me and said in a slow, southern drawl: "Honey, you better RUN."
Yeah, with a recovering hip injury.
I did a pathetic shuffling, trotting move that I think may have resembled a run. I finally boarded the plane with seconds to spare. Yikes.
Several hours later, which included a plane change, a shuttle ride and an uncomfortable moment when a homeless person next to me picked things out of his beard while I was waiting at the shuttle drop off place - Jill arrived to pick me up. Talk about a sight for sore eyes.
We spent the next several days just talking, anywhere and everywhere. We chatted around a bonfire, over the kitchen counter and while walking near the ocean. We talked over lunch (and laughed like a couple 16 year olds when we saw the restaurant's sign advertising their "Blackened Snapper") and while we had our nails done.
We talked even more after I had a visit with a psychic.
The psychic told me I had had an unlucky past year, but that was going to change. She announced I had already met my next soul mate and I would be getting married again.
Jill and I furtively tried to figure out who my next "soul mate" was.
Could it be the date I went on where he casually mentioned to me that he owed so much in back child support that he was forbidden to get a passport? Could it be the date where I offered to treat for a cocktail and a shared appetizer, and he proceeded to order walleye, steak and several shots?
Dear god, I hope not.
We spent hours discussing how our kids were doing, and the ever tricky navigation of a mother-daughter relationship with our teen girls.
Yesterday we took a road trip to Big Sur. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
At our first stop, we parked the car and got out to take pictures.
"Now be careful," she said nervously, as she watched me back up toward the edge of the hill. "I'm scared you're going to fall back over the cliff."
"You're right," I agreed. "That would be freaking tragic."
We carefully made our way down the side of a hill, and realized we both needed to go to the bathroom.
Now.
Here's the thing about Wisconsin girls: we can pop a squat just about anywhere. And we do. We're fast, efficient and discreet.
At least, we think we're discreet. As we made our way up the steep incline, we noticed a group of Japanese tourists taking pictures.
"Jesus," Jill said. "I hope we don't end up on some video that goes viral."
After a day of sightseeing and lunch, we headed toward her house again. We noticed a hitchhiker on the side of the road.
Jill turned to me. "Hey, should we give him a ride? I've never done that before."
I stared at her incredulously. "Are you kidding? No we should not. I've never taken a homeless person home and spooned with him before either, but that doesn't mean I think I should."
I think we do a good job of balancing each other out.
Later on we decided to watch "Steel Magnolias." We made our dinner, poured ourselves another cocktail and settled on to the couch for one of our favorite movies.
Yeah, liquor combined with a movie about a daughter dying did not make the best combination.
At one point I had tears streaming down my face. I couldn't even look at Jill because I knew she was reacting the same way. When the movie was finally over I turned to her, eyes practically swollen shut and snot running down my nose. "Don't you EVER make me watch that movie again. I mean it."
She agreed and promptly put in Comedy Centrals "Roast of Charlie Sheen."
Ahhh...much better. Nothing like plain old raunchy humor about hookers and cocaine to take the edge off.
So today I get ready to board my plane. I am sad that the vacation was over so quickly, but more than that - so very grateful I had the chance to come.
And in the end, Jill did exactly what she promised:
She took care of me.

Our Filter-less Family

"Seriously, Vanessa...I think you're missing a filter when you speak." ~ spoken too many times by too many people to accurately quote

I don't know if it's because I'm usually in a hurry but I tend to do everything fast:
I drink fast.
I eat fast.
I talk fast.
I especially talk fast. And when I am lucky enough to carry on a conversation with another fast talker, it's like the heavens align perfectly. We can get so much in during our conversation. When most people would be carrying on a normally paced conversation and doing pleasant introductions, me and the similar fast talker are already swapping phone numbers and adding each other as Facebook friends. Ta-da! So efficient we are.
However, one of the negatives of being a fast talker is that sometimes I speak before I think. I just blurt it out. It's like I don't always have time in my head to think about possible ramifications of my words.
There are people in my family who don't say anything without careful deliberation. They choose their words and reactions to words with thought and concern.
Not me.
I'm definitely a blurter.
And sometimes I even try not to be. I try to chose my words carefully, but it doesn't always work. I feel like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when he finally gets the opportunity to tell Santa what he wants. He panics and yells out: "No! No! I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!"
He looks just as shocked as anyone when he utters those words.
Then Santa kicks him in the face and shoves him down the slide.
Now that I'm a parent, I have discovered that filterless parents have filterless babies. And those filterless babies grow up to be filterless children.
When my daughters were born, I literally said a prayer: "Dear God, please let my girls grow up to be strong and independent and spirited and don't let them take shit from anyone."
Deep sigh...
I think we can safely say God was definitely listening to that prayer.
While all three girls have different personalities, not one of them is afraid to speak what's on her mind. I don't think it even crosses their mind to think about what it might sound like when they repeat something.
A couple days ago my kids had come home from a long day at the city pool. We were all in the kitchen and they were sharing who they saw at the pool and who they played with during the day.
"Do you know what one boy said to me at the pool today?" Chloe, my 10 year old, said.
"No, what?" I asked her.
"He said 'I'll give you a nickel if you tickle my pickle.'"
Instantly my mom and I burst out laughing.
My dad, however, was not amused. He had that look on his face that I recognized from childhood. His eyebrows cinched together and his nostrils flared a bit.
I tried to motion to Chloe to quit talking about it, by motioning a zipper across the mouth. She either didn't see it or chose to ignore it. It's safe to say that not only do we not have a filter for our mouths, we lack a zipper as well. She went on and on, and it didn't help that I continued to laugh.
"I don't think it's appropriate," my dad said.
He was right...it wasn't appropriate. I asked Chloe, "So what did you say to the boy who said that to you?" In my head I imagined a guy in a leather jacket, standing outside the chain link fence by the pool...wearing sun glasses and smoking a cigarette.
She shrugged. "He was about 10, so I told him he was disgusting and then I swam away."
I nodded. "Wise move."
Inside I tucked away that pickle saying, and wondered if there was any way I could use it on a future date.
And it's not just my girls who say whatever pops in their brains. My son does it, too.
A couple weeks ago we all went out to eat at a local restaurant. As we were leaving and walking out through the parking lot, I automatically reached for my son's hand. He looked up at me, "When we get home and go to bed, do you want to lay in bed and talk about stuff with me?"
I smiled. I knew what he was up to. Ever since I got an iPhone, he became obsessed with playing games on my phone. In his little 8 year old brain, he was thinking that if he got me to lay down with him, I would be so tired that I wouldn't care if he played games on my phone.
"Well," I asked him. "What kind of stuff did you want to talk about?"
"I don't know," he said. "But just not, like, sexual stuff. I don't really want to talk about that with you."
I rolled my eyes, stopped walking and looked at him. "Well that makes two of us. Why in the world do you think I'd want to talk about sexual stuff with you anyway?"
He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking.
Seriously, I would have died before I suggested talking about sexual stuff to my parents when I was eight.
It didn't seem to bother him in the least.
But then, an incident last weekend happened that made me realize how hereditary this lack of filter issue really is.
My friend Nicole and I joined my mother and Grandma Tillie for lunch at Red Lobster. Nicole loves my family, and especially loves hanging out with Tillie, because as Nicole says, "You just never know what's going to come out of her mouth."
True. Once in awhile Grandma Tillie will reward us with a verbal gem that keep us smiling for years. And last weekend was no disappointment.
Before we had a chance to order, Grandma Tillie turned toward Nicole and said, "Do you want to see my pacemaker scar?" Nicole murmured in agreement and turned toward her. "Wow," she said. "But it's healing really nice."
Grandma shook her head. "That's nothing, wait until you get ahold of this..."
And then I knew what she was going to do. It's like it all happened in slow motion.
My mom did, too. She hid her face behind a menu and said, "Mom, not here. We're at a restaurant..."
I just tried not to smile because I knew what was going to happen.
Grandma lifted up her shirt and showed us the purple bruising on her bare boob. "Check that out," she said.
Nicole nodded approvingly and gave me a look, suppressing a smile.
I knew that look and exactly what she was thinking:
Jackpot.
But hey, I gotta hand it to Grandma Tillie. She's still got a decent rack.
And when I turn 89, I'll probably be whipping out my bare boob at a Red Lobster too.
My kids will be hiding behind menus, and I'll laugh and catcall over to the waiter, "Hey, if you give me a nickel..."

Rules Schmules

"If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." ~ Katharine Hepburn

Not that I necessarily fancy myself some Rebel-Without-A-Cause, James Dean type...but I do think I have a tendency to buck authority now and then, and not always do what I'm supposed to. My kids are not the only ones in this family to blurt out "You're not the boss of me!" when frustrated with authority.
For the most part, I think I follow society's expectations of what a mother is supposed to be like.
I take care of my children ~ they're enrolled in activities, they're grounded when needed, and they don't show up with drugs in a Ziploc baggie to share at show and tell. Although in full disclosure, Chloe DID one time in bring two box cutters to school to show her class. The principal called me and explained that the school had a zero tolerance for bringing weapons to school and normally Chloe's actions would dictate an immediate three day suspension. However, since she was only in first grade, the school wasn't going to enforce it.
"Well, I can assure you Chloe had no intention of bringing in a weapon to cut someone," I tried to explain. "I think she just liked the designs on the outside of them."
Needless to say, we had to check Chloe's backpack a little more closely on show and tell days after that.
So when it comes to making sure my kids are being taken care of, I would say yes - I do follow the rules.
But when it comes to me, I guess I just don't like being told what to do and what to believe.
I like hip hop and really inappropriate dirty rap lyrics. I like doing shots at the bar. I like swearing. A lot.
I'm not proud of all of this, but in the words of Popeye: "I am what I am."
Not all my rule-breaking should be considered bad. When it came to getting a divorce, I knew that I didn't want a typical post-divorce antagonistic relationship with my ex-husband. He's my children's father and I will have a relationship with him until we are dead. I've seen too many couples go through a lot of unnecessary drama after a divorce and we didn't want our kids to feel that sort of conflict.
So sometimes we all have dinner together, or go bowling together, or attend their conferences and activities together. I'll post pictures of us on Facebook and once in awhile I'll get a message from someone: "Are you guys back together? You seem awfully friendly." No, we're not back together. I've even met his girlfriend and she seems lovely. Who says ex-spouses always have to spiteful with each other? As one of my girlfriends said wisely last year: "There are no rules in divorce, Vanessa. Do what works best for your family."
I'm not a rule breaker in all aspects of my life, however. When it comes to personal safety, I tend to be a stickler. I wear my seat belt all the time...it's automatic. I watch my kids like a hawk when we're at a beach, even though they're all incredible swimmers. I'm a sunscreen Nazi with them during the summer. I don't even like going in go-karts too much because I'm always afraid I'm going to crash.
A few nights ago I was on a date in Minneapolis. We met up in a parking lot in Uptown, and we were going to decide what to do and where to go.
My date showed up on a motorcycle. "Do you have your sunglasses with you?" he asked. "Let's go for a ride."
"But I don't have a helmet," I told Motorcycle Guy. "Do you have one for me?"
Motorcycle Guy shook his head. "Vanessa, no one on a Harley wears a helmet."
"That's not true!" I told MG. "My dad rides a Harley and HE wears one."
MG took a deep breath. "How about we just ride around the area? I won't go crazy fast, I promise."
I stood there, debating. I had my purse on one shoulder and my arms crossed in front of me.
"I'm not even sure how to get on one," I told him.
MG showed me where to get on, and where to put my legs.
"But what about the hot thing?" I asked him. "I think the last time I was on a motorcycle I burned my leg on some hot pipe."
He pointed it out. "Try not to touch this right here. If you keep your feet where I showed you, you should be fine."
I took a deep breath and said, "Ok, I'll go on a ride without a helmet. Just don't go too fast."
"Vanessa, the speed limit is like 25 miles an hour."
I tossed fear and caution to the wind and swung my leg around the bike. Instantly I felt a piercing pain on the inside of my lower leg.
"Mother trucker!" I yelled out. Or at least something close to that word. "I touched the hot thing!"
MG pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep breath. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I guess," I replied. "Don't you have a bitch bar for the passenger seat? So I don't fall off?"
"Not with me," he said. "You'll be fine. Just hold on to me. The back seat slopes back a bit, so you might feel like you're slipping a bit, but you won't be."
That made me a more than a little nervous. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but I would like to point out my rear end is a bit bigger than average. You don't think the sheer velocity of us going down the road will cause me to fall off the back?"
MG assured me we'd be fine, so off we went.
Our first ride was six city blocks to a gas station, so my date could buy some gum.
I was terrified the entire time.
Once we stopped, I asked him how I did. "Well," he said carefully. "Be careful how you hold on. I don't want my guts filleted with your finger nails. Let's head over to Lake Calhoun. I'll stay off Hennepin so you're not so nervous."
For the next several blocks I was convinced death was imminent. Every oncoming car was a soon-to-be collision, every other motorcycle was a head-on threat.
Once we reached the beach, I was finally able to fully exhale.
"I think the last three blocks went pretty well, don't you?" I asked him. "I only screamed twice and I leaned the correct way on that turn."
MG nodded. "You did better, that's for sure."
"I have to confess something though," I told him. "My ankle also touched that hot thing, but I don't think it's as burned as my calf."
MG took another deep breath.
"Don't worry about it," I assured him. "My last date ended with me in Regions for 4 days, with surgery on a dislocated and fractured hip. As long as I stay out of the burn unit tonight, I will consider this date a success."
And we did have a very nice evening. At one point I asked him, "Are we always supposed to get on a motorcycle from the left side? Is it like getting on a saddle with a horse?"
He nodded.
"Have you ever been on a horse?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "No. Because that's like taking something as powerful as THIS," he said, pointing to his motorcycle, "and giving it a brain."
That made me laugh.
So even though I wasn't able to initially follow my personal safety rules with wearing a helmet, no one ended up in the back of an ambulance. We had a nice time, and my leg burn should heal within a week.
As much as I'd like to think of myself as a bad-ass soccer mom, I'm still wary of things. I don't think I'll be getting my own motorcycle anytime soon. But if I did, it would probably look like this:

Although, to be honest, once my dad reads this blog and finds out I was on a motorcycle without a helmet, I'll probably be the only 42 year old grounded in Pierce County.

Let the Wild Rumpus begin...

"Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation.  If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you."  ~Erma Bombeck

Three days left.
That's it. Just three more days of school and then summer vacation is upon us.
Ish.
It's every school kid's dream and most working parents' nightmare. Although, this year I'm not worrying so much about what happens during the summer hours as I used to. Due to me moving back home with my parents this year, my kids will be spending the majority of their summer vacation with Grandma and Grandpa.
There will be no Jersey Shore marathons (my parents don't have cable).
There will be no walking to Kwik Trip and blowing their allowance on Pixie Stix and Monster energy drinks (my parents live in the country).
There will be no five hour long Facebook log-in sessions (my parents are helping me impose computer time limits).
There will be no sleeping until noon and leaving bowls of cereal all over the house (my parents are helping me enforce my Chore and Responsibility Chart & Reward System that I started this week).
Luckily, there will also not be any $300 utility bills due to the central air being on non-stop. (my parents don't have central air... as they like to say, the butter needs to be melting on the kitchen counter top before the window units get turned on).
Interestingly enough, my kids are starting to get excited about some of Grandma and Grandpa's "projects" that they're going to work on. Like working in the garden and helping Grandpa up in the shop. And I know my parents...it's not like it's going to be all work and no play. My kids will be taken to plenty of pools and beaches. I think they'd be horrified if I told them how my cousin Jena and I used to have to cool off in the summer when we were kids:
In a cow tank. Yep, that big steel watering hole filled with cow's slobber...where we'd happily sit and play with our Barbies. Seriously, I don't like to remember that too much because it makes me dry heave.
With the summer beginning, it also fills me with a little trepidation as far as the summer wardrobe goes. Now that I'm single again, I need to focus on scaling down my tree trunk thighs and ghetto booty. My trainer, The Tin Man, should probably get a medal in putting up with my whining and complaining when it comes to working out.
One night this last week I met him at Como Park, so we could work out next to the lake. There is a walking path that goes around the lake, and some times people will come up to us and ask him: "Are you a trainer? Can I get your card?"
I guess this time of year makes everyone want to get into shape.
So a few nights ago at the lake, the Tin Man was trying to get me to stretch my obliques from a sitting position. Right away I started complaining: "But my surgeon said I'm not supposed to rotate to the right if my left hip is facing forward and not moving..."
He tried to explain how I wasn't going to be rotating, just carefully turning my upper body. Apparently my ADD was in high gear, because I still wasn't getting it. I could tell he was getting exasperated.
"Like this," he told me, getting behind me. He placed his arm around my neck, so it would stay still and face forward.
"Oh, I get it." I said. "I still don't like it. It hurts my stomach muscles and I'm really tired and kind of hungry..." My mouth went into automatic pilot whine mode.
The Tin Man leaned closer and started talking into my ear.
"Listen to me," he said in a low, even voice. "Right now, all people see when they walk by is a black man with his arm around the neck of a white woman. And that woman is starting to make noise. I swear to god, the cops will be here in two minutes if you don't STOP. RIGHT. NOW."
I tried not to laugh. As much as I wanted the exercise to stop, I didn't want my friend to end up in the pokey.
So now that I think of it... maybe this summer vacation won't be all that bad. My kids will get to experience a summer like what it was "in the old days". I can take them to some of the beaches I used to go when I was a kid, and they'll get to hang out with Grandma and Grandpa... in a house with melted butter on the counter tops and a list of chores that need to be done.
Yep, this summer might not be bad at all.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike...

"Life is like a ten speed bicycle. Most of us have gears we never use." ~ Charles M. Schulz


After my accident three months ago, my activity level has been about as painstakingly slow as growing out my bangs. I honestly thought that once I could be weight baring on my left leg again, I would be back to normal. I had this image in my head of tossing my walker off to the side and slipping on a pair of 4 inch wedge sandals.
Yeah, not exactly.
My shoe selection has mainly been relegated to flats, which are not my first choice. There's only so much flair and fashion you can add to a non-existent heel. I look at websites like Zappos and ShoeDazzle and longingly gaze at platform heels, cork wedges and leather flowered sandals like a crack head looks at a pipe.
I have a board on Pinterest that I've named "Foot Porn." I don't think I'll be able to wear most of those shoes for a very long time, but it still gives me a rush to look at them.
And in addition to my recent orthotic choice in foot wear, I feel like I spend so much mental energy every time I start walking, or get up from a seated position. 
It's like a mental flow chart in my head whenever I'm going to step out of the shower:
Is the floor wet outside the shower?
If no, continue to carefully step out.
If yes, assess possible scope of damage, grab the towel bar and  curse silently.
One of the activities I really wanted to start again was riding my bike. I felt that was a good cardio option without putting too much pressure on my leg. So tonight my dad got all our bikes ready. He checked the tire pressure and found every one's helmets.
"This will be so great!" I told the kids excitedly. "I used to ride all the time when I was a kid." They rolled their eyes and asked how long we were going. 
What's the saying? "...it's just like riding a bike..."
Well, there's nothing like dislocating and fracturing your hip to make you question absolutely everything that deals with maintaining your balance and an upright position. I wobbled down the driveway, like a 5 year old without her training wheels for the first time. I don't think I completely exhaled for the first half mile.
Once I realized I wasn't going to face plant into a ditch, I started to enjoy the ride.
My daughters, however, weren't relishing in the miracle of their mother on two wheels.
"This hurts my crotch!"
"My crotch hurts, too. How many more miles?"
"Now my butt hurts."
Good grief. I looked at my 7 year old son, waiting to hear his complaint. He shrugged. "My balls don't hurt at all."
Well, that's good. We continued on our way home. After a few miles, my thighs began to hurt. I kept telling myself it was a good hurt and it meant the muscles were working again.
As we finished our ride, my son announced, "I'm really proud of you, Mom. I'm proud you didn't fall and break your other hip."
He looked at me and smiled, then high-fived me.
Oh, thanks...you sweet talker you.
After I did the shaky dismount in our driveway, I felt a stirring of hope. A hope that things may someday be more normal in terms of my activity levels. A hope that I can eventually hop on a bike and go for a ride without wincing every time I go up a hill. A hope that my kids will want to bike with me too, and not complain the entire time.
And dare I say...a hope that some day I will be able to slide into a pair of heels that sparkle and shine.
A girl can dream.

Where's the Convent? And the bubble wrap?

"Oh, high is the price of parenthood, and daughters may cost you double. You dare not forget, as you thought you could, that youth is a plague and a trouble." ~ Phyllis McGinley

I know worrying comes with parenthood.
I get it. I do.
I've been worried since I've been pregnant, actually. My mom said she was the same way, so in my extended family we call it "nurturing the worry gene."
When I first thought I was pregnant for the first time, I was hung over. I mean, big time. Fantastic, right? Mother of the Year, here I come. I stared at the pregnancy stick, with one hand covering my eye...trying to focus and confirm if I was seeing one or two lines. I thought it was just one, so I tossed it into the trash.
Two hours later I dug it out and very faintly saw a second line.
Wait. What?
I drove to a drug store and purchased not one, not two, not even three but FOUR more pregnancy tests. Excess Vaness strikes again. I drove back home and tried to will myself to pee on a stick.
Not easy to do when you're dehydrated and craving food from Perkins.
Eventually it was confirmed that I was indeed going to be a mama.
And life has never been the same since.
I started worrying about a possible miscarriage. Then, when I was beyond the first trimester and still pregnant, I started worrying that I hadn't felt the baby move. I had an ultrasound and was overjoyed to see that I had a healthy and very active baby growing inside of me. I told the ultrasound tech that I absolutely did NOT want to know the baby's sex. After she printed out photos and gave them to me, I scrutinized them carefully. Based on the images, I couldn't tell if the baby had indoor or outdoor plumbing.
I asked the tech, "So...were you able to tell the sex of the baby and you're just not telling me?"
She laughed. "No, I couldn't tell."
I went home and promptly began to worry. When she said she couldn't tell, did that mean she really didn't look close enough or did she mean she couldn't tell because my baby didn't have any visible sex organs and therefor might possibly be a hermaphrodite?
The mere thought of that kept me awake many, many sleepless nights.
Several months later I gave birth to a baby girl; there was no mistaking it.
Followed by another baby girl less than two years later.
And yet another little girl just three years after that.
Obviously my crazy hadn't hit full throttle, because two years after our last little girl came a little boy.
NOW we were done.
But with each baby came another set of worries...
What if I don't love this new baby as much as the others?
What if they succumbed to SIDS?
What sort of developmental delays could it mean if my baby isn't crawling yet?
What if they have allergies to all sorts of things?
Blah, blah, blah...the worrying never seemed to end.
Then they got older and the worries changed.
What if they don't make friends in school?
What if they end up with a bad crowd and end up in juvie?
What if one of them ends up pregnant and I'm a grandma in my mid 40s?
I used to think that once they could walk, talk, feed themselves and wipe their own butts, I would be able to breathe a sigh of relief. I remember back in the 70s when I was a kid, my cousins and I would disappear for HOURS. We'd play on rusty farm machinery, chase bulls in their pens, try to climb on top of cows and go for a ride, ride our Big Wheels (or in my brother's case, his Green Machine)... we'd come home late in the day, covered in dirt and sometimes fresh scabs. Honestly, I'm not even sure our mothers noticed we were gone half the time. They certainly didn't sit around and worry like I do now.
My son is not quite 8, and is still in the Big Wheels/Green Machine stage. My concerns with him usually center around possible broken bones and busted teeth. My girls, however, are getting older and I have less control over their environments when they're not with me.
Sure, I don't need to wonder if they can wipe their own butts anymore, but I do sometimes worry about other external forces that I have no control over.
What if they drink too much at a party some night, develop alcohol poisoning and choke on their own vomit?
What if some boy gives them the "just the tip" speech in the backseat of a car? And she believes him??
This list could go on and on. Some times I manage to keep the worry monster in check. I tell myself that I can't live with all the angst that parenting gives us. I can sometimes keep the thoughts away.
Then, we have to deal with an event that happened at the end of last week.
One of my daughters' classmates was killed in a car accident, right after school let out. She was riding with a couple friends and the unthinkable happened. I, along with every other parent in our school system, keep thinking the same thing: What if that had been my child?
We can't keep our children wrapped in bubble wrap until they retire.
We can't prevent them from what life throws at them.
We can try to give them good advice so they make (somewhat) intelligent decisions.
We can make sure they know how much we love them.
We can let them take off on their Big Wheels and not worry about skinned knees so much, because in the grand scheme of things...that's going to be one of the least of our worries.

I hate you!

"If you have never been hated by your child, you have never been a parent." ~ Bette Davis

I suppose I should take some comfort in that quote, right?
I suppose I should remember that most kids hate their parents at some point or another, right?
Yeah, I guess.
Still doesn't make it sting any less.
When the kids were toddlers, the discipline options seemed more limited. Time outs and verbal reprimands were a constant in our house. I'd like to say I've never spanked my kids, but that isn't true. I have. And I don't judge parents who DO spank. Personally I never like to judge other parents or other marriages. We have no idea what happens in peoples' homes and we have no idea what makes other parents lose their minds over Pop Tarts in the VCR.
I think we all have those moments, when we have a vein sticking out of our neck while screaming at the kids, that we actually mentally step back and say, "Whoa, Crazy Pants. Why don't you calm down a bit before you end up on the Dr Phil show?"
I wish I can say I've thought with deliberate care and carefully chose the words I've used with my kids when disciplining them, each and every time. But that would be as realistic as Mitt Romney exhibiting empathy to the middle class.
I've screamed, I've yelled, I've swore, I've made them cry. I've said things that I'm convinced they'll be repeating twenty years from now, on some therapist's couch.
And as they get older, and start navigating the tricky years between middle school and high school, I feel like my words need to make an impact. I can't really put them in a corner or make them stand on their "naughty rug." My words need to show that I love them and am concerned, but I'm their mama and I'm not standing for any of their stupid shit.
I mean seriously, their butt cheeks are not allowed to be hanging out of the back of their shorts.
And as gansta as they may try to be on Facebook sometimes, I'm going to have to insist they delete some of their posts. Besides, as soon as they put something questionable as their status, half my friends text me immediately with: "Did u see your daughter's latest FB post?"
Oh great. Can't freakin' wait to log on to see what it is.
Growing up in the 70s in Wisconsin, our method of punishment was universal:
The Wooden Spoon
Our mothers, and sometimes grandmothers, were able to use a wooden spoon with the skill and efficiency that a ninja uses nunchuks. Very rarely did our moms even need to take their eyes off the "Guiding Light" while issuing a swift WHACK on our butts for being sassy. In fact, that's probably how we all trained for Track and Field Day at school; while trying to outrun our moms while being chased with The Spoon.
As much as it seemed to keep us in line, I feel like it's a little antiquated to use on our kids. I feel like I bring a much more severe punishment by just uttering four dreaded words to them:
"Give me your phone."
With the wailing and pleading and begging that goes on afterward, you'd think I had just threatened my daughters with female circumcision. But to them, relinquishing their cell phones is much, much worse. A clitoris or unlimited texting? Hmmmm.....
A couple weeks ago I had a huge blow out with one of my daughters, and I said a few things that I regretted. I was feeling awful about it and was talking about it with some friends at work.
One of them shook her head sympathetically and said, "Vanessa...teen daughters are the worst. Remember how awful we were to our mothers? One time when I was 13 I got into a fight with my mom and she was so mad SHE BROKE A WOODEN SPOON OVER MY HEAD."
I looked at my friend silently for a minute and then burst out laughing.
We all just need to remember to not be so hard on ourselves when it comes to this parenting gig. To paraphrase a quote I saw online, no one looks at their newborn baby and thinks to themself "Boy, how can we screw this kid up?"
Years ago one of my friends, whose boys are grown, gave me some great advice. She had mentioned that she was always a little afraid her boys would remember the times she thought she punished them too severely, yelled too much or spanked too hard. She said they assured her they didn't remember nearly as much as she had dreaded.
"But I will tell you this," my friend told me. "They don't remember the yelling as nearly as much as they remember when you do or don't show up for school events."
Very wise and interesting words indeed.
So in the meantime, I'll keep threatening with the removal of electronics and phones, and keep showing up at their school events. I might even keep a wooden spoon in the kitchen for when things get really out of control.
Because when it's time for punishment and our kids say they hate us, I guess it means we're doing our job.