I’m a “what-iffer.” The kind of irrational, illogical person who has trouble being in the moment. What could happen next? What will the repercussions be? What if it’s this? What if it’s that?
So, my twelve-year-old has been in high school for, like, five minutes and everything is, like, a simile and a question? Even stuff that’s, like, a metaphor or a statement is, like, a simile with a question mark? It’s, like, driving me insane!
Half a century on, it strikes me there’s not much difference between the modern woman and a 50s housewife. My husband walks in from work and routinely finds me whipping something up in the kitchen (usually a blog entry, sometimes a corporate workshop, occasionally a chapter for the vampire-free young adult sci-fi romance – today, this comparative exposition about modern women being like 50s housewives).
Dinner is waiting.
Ashamed though I am today confessing, I once hated cheerleaders. Actually, once is too small a word because it was truthfully decades and hate is too strong a word because I have never really hated anything except peas and brussel sprouts. As second of five girls growing up in the era of budding feminism however - I definitely was not a fan. Why, if it was so important I wondered, didn’t boys cheer for girls? The disparity caused me to view cheerleading on the whole as suspect and their forced smiles in particular as degrading to our gender. Then God, in all his wisdom, gave me daughters…
It’s no secret that I have an appreciation for good wine and cold beer, particularly when I am socializing or unwinding from an especially trying day. This practice has never been a great concern for me because I know my limits and listen to them…that is until recently when all the news started taking on this Jeff Foxworthy approach to diagnoses: “If you have 1 drink a day, you might be an alcoholic. If you drink before 5pm, you might be an alcoholic. If you drink to relieve stress, you might be an alcoholic. If you drink to make your family more tolerable”…and so on…
As I was getting my kids ready to venture into the great northeastern November outdoors this morning, and dreading our mere 500 yard trek to the bus stop, I said the phrase no “good parent” ever says.
When our daughters were in the sixth and second grade, my husband and I committed the most egregious of all possible sins - we moved them mid-year to a new city. My eldest daughter returned home from the first day at her new school sobbing, and thus confirming that - lest I suffered any illusions to the contrary - I had indeed ruined her life.
A new school year has begun and with it confirmation that few things are more jarring to the human psyche than seeing children - who were grade schoolers kicking balls in the street yesterday - driving.
"Mom, HURRY!" My daughter screamed, "Simba's stuck!" Assuming the role of the "calm" parent we are required to be in such circumstances, while simultaneously fearing the worst, I walked quickly into her bedroom. There was her ten week old kitten, head inside the wrought iron magazine basket....body on the outside, with a one inch opening surrounding his two inch neck.
Why are your clothes all over the floor? Pick up your trash! What is your bike doing in the front yard? Stop picking on your brother! Get your wet butt off my couch! Don't scratch that, it'll spread! Ahh, the sounds of summer..
We're only into the second week of vacation here and it's feeling like I've lost control already.