Filed under: Parenting, Sports | Tags: attitude, family, horseback riding, Horses, humor, kids, mom, parenting, sports
This weekend, Daughter #2 was in a horse show. For those of you who aren’t barn parents, this means:
- Getting up at 5:00 AM, slurping down 2 cups of coffee and braiding your sleepy child’s hair in the semi-darkness of your kitchen while trying not to wake anybody else up;
- Standing around in a freezing barn as your child gets their horse ready and loaded onto a trailer, which is something akin to threading a needle with a sausage;
- Waiting for the endless number of riders to go around the ring, jumping over flowers, brightly painted poles and other assorted items horses would never jump if there wasn’t something small and annoying latched onto their back;
- Chewing your nails to the quick as you watch your child guide an 800-pound animal over jumps and around ten other 800-pound animals in every class—it’s scarier than driving up I-95 on Beach Saturdays;
- Watching and sharing in your child’s elation or defeat as the numbers of the top six entrants are called;
- Futile quizzing of the trainer to determine what the judges were looking for (the judges sit by themselves across the ring in a gazebo or behind closed glass, staring at the ponies like a police line-up). The sought-after qualities are usually lumped under the murky phrase “how the pony moves;”
- Trying to find a way to justify having a glass of wine or a shot of something by 10:00AM;
- No longer trying to justify, just consuming your lubrication of choice by 10:30AM;
At every show, Daughter #2’s trainer tells the girls she doesn’t care what ribbons they get as long as they ride their best; and, all the girls nod and smile and humor her, saying that’s exactly what they will do, and they know the ribbons don’t matter.
But to the girls, they do. Big, shiny ribbons they can pin on their ponies and hang around their room are like crack to a junkie.
And, invariably, by the middle of the morning at least one or two girls have ridden well, but somehow, they didn’t get a ribbon. Despite reassurances that they did just fine, there are sometimes tears and disappointment.
This weekend, I overheard her trainer ask one of the riders, “Did you ride your best?” The girl nodded. “Then who cares what that judge thinks? She’s just a woman in a box.”
If only we could all remember that.
We can’t control how people see us or judge us, so just do your best. All those people who make us feel small, useless or insignificant are just “a woman in a box.”
Filed under: Parenting | Tags: family, humor, kids, mom, parenting, parents, suburbia, teaching, teenagers, teens
In light of all the awful parenting going on in the news, I thought that maybe a reality check for those of us who live in the cream cheese world of suburbia was in order.
I’m sure my kids could come up with a hundred right off the bat, and even more when they finally end up in therapy, but here’s ten mistakes I’ve made (these are all absolutely true, and the only ones I could think of that won’t have Social Services at my doorstep), that you can laugh at with your coffee or your happy hour mint julep. After all, when it comes to parenting, every day is a chance to screw them up even more!
- Never sit at the kitchen table, having a heart-to-heart with your child about alcoholism, with a giant glass of wine in front of you;
- Don’t try to explain the Cuban Missile Crisis by having your kid watch the X-Men First Class movie (since when did History teachers get so picky?);
- Never show how secretly pleased you are (however discreetly) as your child deliberately kicks another soccer player on the leg or pushes them down–you instantly become THAT parent;
- Leaving your toddlers unattended with a jar of blue paint and a dog is a bad idea;
- Another bad idea: reading “The 3 Little Pigs” right before Christmas. We had to leave a note on the front door and call Santa every year to ask him not to come down the chimney so he wouldn’t get burned;
- Never tell your second child she’s just trying to get some attention when she says her tummy hurts, too–OR, go ahead and tell her, and know you’re going to be on your knees with a bottle of Resolve in twenty minutes;
- (This one is Hubby’s, but it was too good not to pass on) When your child says you shouldn’t be driving because you had a beer, think before you say, “It’ll be ok, we’re not far from the house;”
- Think before you speak: when noticing a zit on your teenager’s forehead, don’t ask “Hey, who’s your friend?” Your best friend may be able to handle a snarky comment like that, but not your teenager.
- Never teach your children the art of “crop dusting” (being silently flatulent as you walk past them). It will come back to bite you;
- Never tell your kids the real reason you won’t go see Foreigner in concert is because you had your first French kiss (ewwww, gross!) to one of their songs–they can do the math.
Feel free to post yours, if your kids will let you….
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Parenting, Sports | Tags: anxiety, family, kids, mom, parenting, parents, soccer, south, southern, teenagers, teens
There’s the old saying that you shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve. There’s another one that says teens wear their hearts on InstaGram (#need40likes). My heart has been running around in either a pair of soccer shorts or a pair of horseback riding breeches for the last several years, and in diapers and training pants before that.
A year or so ago, I watched from across the soccer field as Daughter #1 desperately tried to suck in air during an asthma attack. It was a terrible feeling, knowing what was happening, but unable to help. My heart was lying on that field, and there was nothing I could do to make her stop being scared or keep her from hurting. Now, we know to watch for the telltale signs, and even her coaches say, “Go take a puff so you can get back in here.” But this past weekend, after the pollen cloud descended upon us that could have come straight out of a Stephen King movie (think “The Fog”), I listened to Daughter #1 reach a new height of coughing and hacking. After a couple of long nights, we went to the local kids’ Doc-in-a-Box.
When Daughter #1 asked why she still had to go to the pediatric doctor, I said, “I think it’s cleaner, and we’ve probably had most of the germs floating around in there anyway.”
Daughter #1 was not thrilled with that explanation.
Her opinion sank even farther as we walked in and stood in the full waiting room, watching toddlers and preschoolers run around with green noses and tired parents clutching smeared wads of tissues and half-eaten bags of Cheerios.
“I’ll stand,” she muttered.
Only at the end of the visit did I manage to find the “hanitizer” as someone called it.
While we waited to be seen, I theorized to myself what a brilliant business model these places are. They perpetuate their business by opening on off-hours (when most kids do stupid things like shove raisins up their noses); they charge outrageously (I assume to attract doctors willing to work off-hours) and parents are willing to pay in order to get some relief for their child; and they are such a Petri dish of fluid, germs and general grossness that you are bound to return in a few days with new symptoms.
Four prescriptions and one breathing treatment later, I was marveling at the wonder that is better living through chemistry.
Last week, my heart was on the soccer field again, racing around in the form of Daughter #2. A fearless goalie, she took a hard shot to the face with a few minutes left in the game. Her head snapped back and she dropped like a stone. By the time I got on the field she was up and saying she was fine. In fact, she made two more saves, wiping away a nosebleed in between. But something wasn’t right. She was shifting from foot to foot and looking “off.”
After the game, she was evaluated by her trainer, who said she could have a concussion (using the proper disclaimer that he isn’t a doctor). The evaluation was disturbing: Daughter #2 answered everything in a monotone, had little balance, was dizzy, and couldn’t repeat numbers back. She didn’t remember the hit. Again, there was nothing I could do except watch and trust in the people there to help. The next day, feeling like there had to be something I could do, I took her to the eye doctor to make sure it was ok (it was). Beyond that, there was nothing to do but rest and wait.
No “better living through chemistry” with this one.
Anyway, we got through the weekend, everyone is coherent, breathing normally, and getting back on track.
Everyone except me.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, lying in bed with my heart racing and every muscle tensed like I was walking on a tightrope.
It took me a while, but I finally realized that my heart had been so busy running around the soccer fields, getting banged up and bruised, that it didn’t know what to do when it could finally settle back inside where it belonged, if only for the night. In the morning it would be outside again, racing toward the goal, fending off balls, riding horses, walking to and from class, or even driving to work (Hubby has a piece out there, too).
So I did what any mom having an anxiety attack at 2:00AM would do—I grabbed a couple of PMS pills (the symptoms are eerily similar) and read my book until my heart relaxed enough for me to fall asleep.
No one told me that parents wear their hearts on their children. (They also didn’t tell me that children can take their diapers off and play with their own poo, but that’s another story.) Would I have done anything differently had I known? Of course not; but now I know where the phrase “mother’s little helper” comes from. For some of us it’s pills, for some it’s meditation, and for others it’s prayer. For the rest, it’s probably that great anesthetizer of the southern masses, bourbon.
PS–this is in no way a solicitation of parental advice. I’m a firm believer in making my own mistakes, which are as many as the chiggers Hubby attracts every summer.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Misc. Humor | Tags: bourbon, family, Food, humor, Kentucky Derby, Mint Juleps, south, southern, sports, Spring, tailgate
Spring has sprung in Virginia, and for those of you not living here, let me enlighten you as to what that means. In Virginia we go straight from sleet to 90 degrees in three days. As a result, daffodils and hyacinths pop up like whack-a-moles in every suburban garden, and all the trees bloom at once, leaving the air smelling vaguely like shrimp.
Pollen (which I used to think of as some powdery fairy dust that sticks to bee’s feet as they flit from flower to flower) becomes a yellow miasma hovering over our town like mustard gas from WWI. It covers the cars, sidewalks, and driveways so thick that my black SUV looks like a Van Gogh painting—a blurry, black and yellow bumblebee bouncing from one sporting even to another. I pop Allegra-D pills like and Oxycontin addict, and suck on my legal crack pipe, er, inhaler, just to go to the gym.
But, spring also heralds certain rituals, which I forget about each year until they happen: stinky soccer uniforms lay in heaps on the bathroom floor; there are new packs of gum in my car to chomp on during games (a last-ditch effort to keep from being THAT parent); fold-up chairs litter the trunk; saddle pads reeking of horse sweat (which daughter #2 swears is one of the best smells in the whole world—others beg to differ) lay forgotten on top of the chairs; Gatorade and white wine bottles fill the garage fridge. (That fridge is solely for the purpose of housing the many beverages we must have on hand for those days when “it’s just to nice to____________________. Let’s sit on the deck.”)
The final, end-of-spring symbol is The Kentucky Derby—that glorious first Saturday in May where 3-year-old horses come pounding down the backstretch as millions of fans and gamblers scream and cheer them on. It’s a day of joy (the bookies and winners) and tears (the unlucky gamblers and owners). It’s a day of silly hats, bow ties, and even more important, Mint Juleps.
Before I ever even liked bourbon, I knew the Mint Julep was a sacred beverage, one to be savored and evaluated each year. That golden nectar, poured over ice in a silver Jefferson cup and decorated with a mint sprig, meant the older folk weren’t watching what I was doing, and I would probably be able to steal an extra ham biscuit (or three). It also meant time stopped for a full two minutes as we watched the race.
Time stopped.
These days, I catch myself hoping time will stop, sometimes so my girls will stay the way they are, safe at home with me, and sometimes so I can just catch my breath. So this year, I’m going to hose the pollen off the porch, watch the Derby and pour myself a (second) Mint Julep. Then, I’m going to turn off the t.v. and enjoy the hum of the bees on the azaleas and the interminable drone of the neighbors’ lawn mowers.
And as I fall asleep (bourbon does that to me), time will stop again.
My personal recipe for them is a little different, modified from another recipe I got out of Southern Living (I’m sure their mixologists would be horrified):
1 tsp brown sugar
2-3 oz. bourbon
Splash of ginger ale to taste
Mint leaves
Muddle brown sugar and mint on bottom of Jefferson Cup. Add ice. Pour in whiskey, then add ginger ale to taste. Stir. Repeat.
Subourbon Mom 