Filed under: Parenting, Sports, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Beer, Colorado, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, parenting, Rafting, sports, teenagers, travel
The Family Rafting in Colorado
Occasionally, no matter how much it pains me, I have to admit that Hubby was right about something; and sometimes, there are many parenting lessons that can be taught/learned in one single event—family trips are rife with both of these opportunities.
Last week during a family trip to Colorado, the girls and I agreed that white water rafting would be a great family adventure. Hubby was skeptical, but, the day before we had spent hours watching candy being made by hand in a factory and panning for gold at an abandoned mine.
Lesson #1: Children don’t need to have the mystique of where candy canes come from destroyed by bulky men in hairnets;
Lesson #2: Pointing out that panning for gold is a lot like washing dishes does not help your cause at home.
These excursions were fun, but we all realized that Colorado was an outdoor wonderland beckoning us east coast explorers. So we picked up the white water rafting brochure and began discussing which trip we should take. There were two options: Beginners aged 5 and up, and a trip for Intermediates, or “Aggressive Beginners.” Since the last Beginner rafting trip Daughter #1 and Hubby took was like floating in a pool, Daughter #1 felt we were definitely ready for something more exciting. Hubby was doubtful, and tried several times to persuade us that the Beginner level would be fine.
We didn’t listen.
So, we paid $60 bucks each to cling to a rubber tub in raging, 40-degree waters.
Lesson #3: When a brochure says wet suits and helmets are mandatory, it would be wise to consider the reasons for this, and that the brochure was made by 20-year-old college students who think they are invincible.
Suited up, we fell in with the other mostly middle-aged businessmen, looking like a bright yellow SWAT team on the way to a bumblebee convention. Before the guides would let us put the raft into the water, there were cursory explanations about where to put your feet, and that each guide was required to pay “Sin Beer” for the multitude of rafting sins occurring during the trips, like guests falling overboard, missing stopping points, and losing oars. Volunteers for the front were solicited. Hubby bravely took one for the team and hopped in, having been informed that the front people have the greatest chance of falling out. I opted for the back, thinking the girls would be hemmed in by the others, and that I was closest to the guide, who could pull me in if I fell out.
Lesson #4: Unlike the mini-van, the back seat is NOT the safest place to be in a raft.
Within minutes we realized we were WAY out of our depth. Spinning round and round, we plummeted into holes of water and bounced out again, only to begin the cycle over. After bouncing out of my footholds twice, I finally lost my grip completely and tipped over backward into the swirling water, banging my hip on a rock.
Lesson #5: Panic can supersede parenting.
I would like to say I would have made Bear Grylls proud and hauled myself back in, but in reality, I panicked and grabbed Daughter #2, who is 90 pounds wet. With the guide yelling at her to pull me in, she yelled back and tried not to be pulled in by her own mother. Somehow, the guide managed to steer the boat and haul me back in at the same time. I was clearly never going to be the hero I thought I was. Cost: 1 12-pack of beer.
For the next half-hour, we struggled to keep the raft upright as we surfed, spun and tumbled in the Class 3 and 4 rapids. We lost another of our team in a Class 4+ rapid, plummeting into a hole that folded the raft in half. The young woman in front of Daughter #1 tumbled ass over elbow for a full minute in the frothing water (another 12-pack) and lost her paddle (another 6-pack), until hubby was finally able to pull her back in. She landed on top of him, in shock, and the only soul left rowing on that side was Daughter #1. I will never forget the look of panic on her face, which remained glued there until her feet touched dry land. We missed a mandatory eddy and had to continue on (another 6-pack).
Lesson #6: Remember to praise the bravery and outspoken nature of the children you have raised.
Daughter #2 made sure the guide knew she was in trouble when she couldn’t pull me in, and Daughter #1 never gave up, rowing for all she was worth, even when she was scared to death.
The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful (we even sang “Under the Boardwalk” while we paddled), until the final five minutes. Under dire warnings that if we missed the next eddy we would involuntarily go down the Advanced Rapids, we paddled for all we were worth toward the waiting rafts. We hauled heaved and shoved at the water, until we hit one last hole. In went Hubby (another 12-pack). Thankfully, he was close enough to shore that he could make his way to the other rafts and get hauled in.
Lesson #7: Sometimes it’s okay to let Hubby say “I told you so” as much as he wants after a day like that. He earned it!
As we waited to get on the bus, we stood in the sun and tried to warm ourselves by placing shaking hands on rocks and shedding our life jackets. Our legs trembled with fatigue from the waist down, and after several minutes, our eyeballs returned to normal size. We paid our guide well in tip money and “Sin Beer” money (we figured we owed him for at least 2 cases of beer).
Lesson #8: Show your children it is right to reward excellent service.
Without brave and “invincible” guides, we would never have made it—they earn their tips every time they step into that raft with a bunch of “Aggressive Beginners” like us.
Will we ever do it again? Only Hubby and Daughter #2 say they will. She maintains it was fun, and has blown up a picture of her sister’s terrified face and now keeps it on her phone. Was it a priceless experience? Absolutely!
- The Family Rafting in Colorado
Filed under: Food/Drink, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, family, Food, humor, kids, mom, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, turkey
Ah, the end of the school year approaches, and with it comes the total loss of control over my schedule. Along with drooping peonies and humidity that makes me move around like an amoeba, comes the inevitable barrage of end-of-the-school-year-things-to-remember: sports banquets, teacher gifts, coach gifts, graduations, overlapping sports teams’ schedules, and the ever-popular “We-Must-Get-These-Done-Before-Exams-Projects” that require a dozen trips to the craft store and something called foam board. Add to that the end-of-year-things-to-remember as a teacher, and my brain just about exploded. (Even the hyphens are on overload this time of year!)
So, I did what any normal, southern mom would do.
I lost my mind on my family.
I’m a big fan of the phrase “control what you can control.” Apparently, what I decided I could control this week was the distribution and consumption of deli turkey meat in our home.
Historically speaking, every time I’ve bought it in the past, the family might eat a little of it, then leave it alone until it turns an odd, greenish hue, roughly the same shade as the sky before a tornado. Even The Dog turns her nose away. For months, I have refused to purchase anymore deli meat, and for months my loved ones would periodically remark that I never buy the “good turkey” anymore, and they would LOVE to fix more meals themselves if only I would provide them with the means to do so—the magic ingredient? Deli Turkey.
The other day, in a fit of generosity and optimism, I bought the Magic Turkey and announced that it was awaiting their pleasure in the fridge. Two days went by and I made another announcement. On the fourth day, the Magic Turkey still lay there, neatly wrapped and taped. Nobody touched it.
Finally, Hubby pulls out the Magic Turkey and decides to use it on a BLT, exclaiming, “Hey! I’m going to use this turkey. Does anybody else want to?”
Then he sniffed it.
“Are you sure you want to eat it?” I asked, arms crossed, a dangerous glint in my eye. “It’s been in the fridge for FOUR days. I know how you feel about leftovers.”
Hubby looked puzzled. “This is the first time I’ve seen it,” he said.
“Seriously?” I snapped. “I’ve been announcing that it’s in the fridge for the last four days, and no one could be bothered to use it.”
Sensing he’d messed up but not sure why, Hubby wisely went quiet.
From the couch came Daughter #1’s helpful voice: “You only told us two days ago. You never said four.”
And from Daughter #2: “You’re under-exaggerating it.”
I stomped around the kitchen, thinking how ungrateful they all were, how thoughtless when I was trying to work within a budget, and arguing out loud with them over when I informed them the Magic Turkey was purchased.
Trying to smooth things over, Hubby asked, “Does anyone else want some turkey on their BLT?” Daughter #1 raised her hand, and Hubby commenced making her one.
As I cleaned and wiped and slammed things around to make myself feel better, I heard Hubby say, “There’s only one piece left—anyone want it?”
I stopped and spun around and shrieked, “You can’t eat it all at once!”
There was a moment of silence—only Carson Daly from The Voice could be heard in the background.
Finally, Daughter #1 peeked over the couch and said, “What’s wrong with you? Do you want us to eat it or not?”
Daughter #2 chuckled, and the absurd moment was over. I still felt vaguely put-upon, as my mom would say, and swiped at the counters some more. What was wrong? Nothing. I was just overwhelmed and chose the wrong thing to try to control.
I recently told one of The Daughters that you can’t control what other people think or say about you—you can only control how you react to them. Next time, I think I’ll try to take my own advice and control my temper. After all, they’re the people I love the most.
Bless their hearts.
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.
Subourbon Mom 