Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, cicadas, family, humor, insects, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern, teenagers
The other day over the rising din of the cicadas, Daughter #1 commented that they don’t have much of a life—they sleep and grow for seventeen years, eat themselves silly, mate, and die after leaving a new generation to come forth seventeen years later. Now I wasn’t touching the mating part of it with a ten-foot pole, but the more I thought about it, I realized we really aren’t that different from those red-eyed, bug freak shows.
For the first seventeen years, we humans sleep and grow in our rooms. We morph and change in our childhood shells, protected form the world, often only emerging for basic sustenance, especially in the latter portion of our incubation. When we do crawl out from our teenage lairs, we eat…and eat…and eat…and mate (or try to). Some of us bring forth the next generation right then. Others never find that mate despite our best singing. The only difference between us and the cicadas is that we don’t die immediately afterward. We go through the cycle at least two more times, with slight variations.
For the next seventeen years, we sleepwalk through college and grad schools, finding that first job, hating that first job, and changing jobs. We try to sing, but we aren’t developed enough yet to find the right mate. Then, somewhere in our mid-thirties, we wake up again. That biological clock begins to tick, pushing us out of our sleep and into the world. We begin to sing in earnest. Many of us find our mates, procreate, and feel like a part of us is dying afterward as our toddlers get their tenth ear infection (a part of us is—the single, care-free part that slept through our twenties).
Seventeen more years of unconsciously suppressing our own desires and needs as we care for our kids (a.k.a. sleeping) passes, and suddenly the children are gone. We are in our early fifties. We emerge again, this time with less desire to mate, but just as much desire to sing. Sometimes our singing does result in mating (hooray—the kids are gone!) and the occasional new generation, or mating occurs with a subsequent divorce, but mostly we just want to sing—and we do, as we travel, go out to restaurants that don’t have crayons on the table, and look at all the pictures on the wall, wondering where the time went.
So, before you step on that crusty shell, or flick that gross-looking cicada off your towel at the pool, remember—we’re a lot like them, only cuter.
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 | 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: Middle Age, Spring Break | Tags: Atlantis Resort, Bahamas, clothing, Dancing, family, fashion, humor, Middle-Age, parenting, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel, Victoria's Secret
Ahhh…the human mating ritual, commonly known as Spring Break, has begun. For those high school seniors lucky enough to be able to flee the cold and go somewhere warm, bathing suits are agonized over, spray tans are purchased, and cheesy, I-think-this-is-what-grown-ups-wear-at-night-in-bars-clothing is packed.
I recently spent a week at the Atlantis Resort for my teenaged daughters’ Spring Break. While my kids are not even close to being eighteen and they weren’t eligible to drink, I saw many who were, and it made me realize one very, very important thing:
There is NO WAY my kids are going to a resort for Spring Break when they’re eighteen, at least not without my being there.
I also learned several other things:
- Spring Break at a beach resort is a Victoria’s Secret marketer’s Nirvana. Everywhere we looked during the day, there were bathing suits and cover-ups from the catalog, as well as the requisite Aviators and Ray Bans. At night, herds of 18-20 year-olds wandered through the casino wearing in-style shorty-shorts with super-high heeled wedges, looking like preschoolers playing dress-up. However, unlike the models in the catalogs, most of the teenage girls were not an emaciated 5’8”; they were pasty white (or white with red sunburn blotches), and lurched around like giraffes in those ridiculous shoes.
- I have no desire to wear anything from the Victoria’s Secret catalog ever again.
- I am proud of my ability to manage a buzz (after years of practice). In years past, I would have watched with perverse admiration as a guy upended a Grey Goose bottle and chugged away. This time, all I could think was, “Dude, you’re just gonna hurl on the next girl you dance with. Good luck with that.”
- I enjoy the fact that I can walk into a casino and out of it again without blowing a ton of money on the tables, or my dinner on the carpet.
- The amount of material that passes for a bikini these days could be purchased in the Band-Aid section of a pharmacy. Before we left, I spent some time outside the Target dressing rooms, waiting for my girls to find something we could agree on. I eventually buried my hypocrisy, realized there aren’t any bottoms that cover enough to make me happy, and choked back a “Hell no, you’re not going out like that!” I shouldn’t have worried. Compared to many of the girls I saw at the resort, my daughters and their friends looked like nuns.
- I have new appreciation for the tankini, especially when riding in a tube in the Lazy River. Those who are brave enough to wear a bikini top risk becoming the newest super hero: UnderBoob, as the top tends to ride up unexpectedly. There is also less risk of leaving a layer of sunburned skin on the tube when you’ve been in it for as while.
- Hip-hop music is addicting, no matter how old you are.
- Bourbon is a great lubricant for dancing–however, 40-year-old knees don’t bend as much as 20-year-old knees, and it IS possible to get stuck.
- I am not the cougar I thought I was. I used to say I wanted a guy with a 40-year-old brain in a 20-year-old body. But there’s a reason a 40-year-old brain is the way it is–we’ve learned all the things 20-year-olds are still toddling through, and it makes us more interesting. Ok, that was a load of crap. The truth is, any 40-year-old who has a 20-year-old’s body spends WAY too much time in the gym, and wouldn’t have any time left for me.
10. I don’t want to be eighteen again. Twenty-five? Now that I could do, at least for a weekend.
Subourbon Mom 