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.
Filed under: Spring Break | Tags: Bahamas, clothing, family, humor, Middle-Age, mom, resorts, south, southern, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel
Spring Break at a resort in the Bahamas—what a great place to people-watch! And, like anywhere else, there are stereotypes galore. Here are a few I enjoyed watching as I sat by the pool, turning my skin into leather and racking up more dermatologist bills:
UnderBoob: The woman who wears her bikini top on the water rides, and unbeknownst to her, it rides up
Aqua-Velva Man: Sixty-year-old men who consistently try to pick up 20-year-olds in the casino
Flash More-Mom: Mom whose bathing suit is too small for her augmented breasts
SliderMan: The guy who slides his way in front of you at the bar and gets served first
Fatman & The Toy Wonder: The fat, Eurotrash guy who has a trophy wife/girlfriend on his arm; the toy is usually blond and significantly younger.
EnvironMan: The granola tree-hugger who walks around the resort in recycled flip-flops and a t-shirt that says “Save the (fill in the blank),” but drinks from a Styrofoam cup
Narrow: Named for the narrow strip of banana-hammock (man-thong) occasionally seen on European men, which only makes other men and women narrow their eyes to reduce the sight as much as possible, without looking openly grossed out.
Dumber Woman: Can be pretty or not, often has a high-pitched squeal of laughter, orders champagne because it’s the only drink she can remember, and wonders why other women avoid her like the plague
The Incredible Bulk: The fat, pasty-white guy/girl who sweats all over the lounge chairs by the pool, and leaves a film of sunscreen in the water
Octopus Prime: Club dancer whose hands roam so much it’s like there are eight of them
Selektra: The teenage girl who, like, must agonize over which, like, lounge chair to sit on, which, like sunscreen to use, and, like, which frozen drink to order;
Green Banter: The jealous men and women who viciously make comments about the others at the resort; when it’s not about you, it can be funny
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: clothing, demons, ghosts, humor, Middle-Age, mom, Pat Robertson, possession, religion, shopping, south, southern, teenagers, teens
The other day, television evangelist Pat Robertson said demonic spirits can attach themselves to some objects. “I don’t think every sweater you get from Goodwill has demons in it,” he said, “but it isn’t going to hurt you any to rebuke any spirits that might attach themselves to those clothes.”
Well, that explains a couple of thongs and bras I wear that have minds of their own.
The idea that demons can attach themselves to objects isn’t new. I saw The Amityville Horror, so I get the whole haunted house thing. And Stephen King’s Christine was pretty creepy, even though the premise was a little weird. But really—clothes? And why did he mention clothes that are second-hand? What about clothes that are new? Can demons attach themselves to those, too?
Clearly, I’ve got to re-think my shopping strategy…no longer can I just peruse the stores and buy what I need as soon as it goes on sale. Now I’ve got to carry a small vial of Holy Water and a crucifix. I would love to wave any of those items in front of a pair of jeans I want to purchase and watch what happens. The pockets might turn into demonic eyes, glowing red, and the zipper would slide open, becoming a talking mouth, spewing curses and projectile vomiting on the sweaters carefully stacked below. I’ll bet I could get a really good discount after that! Just imagine strolling through the mall in your possessed jeans, as they rant and rave at all the other people walking by. Now that might even make shopping fun for those (like me) who somehow didn’t get that gene.
If what Mr. Robertson says is true, it would explain a lot of things in my life. I don’t necessarily think whatever possesses my thongs and bras are “demons;” I think they must be some kind of nomadic spirits, because these items seem to wander around my body of their own free will. In fact, I would venture a guess that these spirits are recently-passed Floridians, travelling north when the heat and humidity gets to be too much. Pantyhose spirits would be Snowbirds that migrate south. They would also be male spirits, because no female would make something already uncomfortable even worse.
Sports bras are probably more likely to be possessed by actual demons. They look innocuous enough, but the minute you try to take them off after a workout, they curl up and cling to you like a succubus from a bad science fiction movie. To remove one, short of sprinkling it with Holy Water, you have to contort yourself into a pretzel, nearly dislocating a shoulder in the process.
There must also be a whole troop of young, playful spirits that think its fun to move things from room to room. They are especially fond of concealing reading glasses, socks, earrings and t.v. remotes. For them, it must be a never-ending game of hide-and-seek.
There are teenaged spirits as well. These you could probably call demons, if, like, the mood is right. They favor, like, electronic gadgets, and, like, computers. One minute, these gadgets are like, entertaining, helpful and cooperative; the next, they, like, go dark for no reason at all, refuse to help, and skulk around with one glaring, electric eye.
So maybe Mr. Robertson is right. But I would rather have a family of “demons” in my things than face the fact that I can’t remember where I put anything, I’m technology-repellant, and my body is changing so much these days that nothing fits anymore!
Subourbon Mom 