So… this is fun.
…and by fun, I mean TERRIFYING BEYOND ALL BELIEF! I promised to talk about the driving. Yes. The DRIVING. The bane of every parents existence.
I admit, my son got a later start then most, because I simply wasn’t ready. I know I talk a big game about not punishing my kids for my own fears, but sometimes you just can’t help it. Thing was, my husband had looked forward to this part of his son’s education, wanting to much to teach him how to drive. Having a teenage son that he loved with all his heart, and got along with, was his biggest dream, as he did not have that with his own parents. He passed away when the boy was 13, and every time we discussed some of the big milestones that Kevin had looked forward too, it broke my heart a little bit.
Thus, when his friends were getting their permits at 14, The Boy waited. When he hit 15, he waited some more, only mentioning it once or twice. I always had the excuse that he hadn’t studied the book, despite the fact he said he was ready. Finally, just before his 16th birthday, I gave in. I was positive he’d fail the test the first time.
He passed.
Dammit.
So, for the past six months, it’s been all about driving. Back and forth to work, one terrifying trip to The Sister City Of Actual Traffic, random excursions here and there. He’s done pretty well, all told, and I’ve only narrowly missed a having a heart attack about 125301237123 times. (And then there were the bruises – not that I’d ever punch my kid in the leg to give him a charlie horse for scaring the shit out of me or anything. Because that would be wrong.) The ‘oh shit!’ bar has certainly gotten it’s workout, that’s all I’m trying to say.
Now it’s September, and in just 2 weeks, he’ll be eligible for his provisional driver’s license. I know. I’m scared too. He’s practically giddy with the thought, and has been getting ‘his’ car up and running and ready. His car would be his daddy’s 74 VW Super Beetle, which means it’s a standard, and we hadn’t worked on that yet, as he wanted to practice and learn on another vehicle, and save his own transmission. Hah.
He got the bug running, and I finally broke down and took him out last weekend. I took him to the same school parking lot where I learned and showed off a bit because I could drive it and he couldn’t. (We just won’t talk about the hysterical-ness that was my fat ass shoved into that tiny car..)
Then it was his turn, and oh! The laughter! There was frustration too, but watching him try to get his big ole feet working those tiny pedals just right, learn to feel the catch in the clutch, couple that with the press of the gas, and hey! remember to steer too! – it was the most fun we’d had together in oh, at LEAST a week.
He’d pop the clutch and slam my head back into the seat, where my hair clip would dig into my head and make me swat at him. He’d stall and shake the steering wheel and cuss, as I would chuckle, and go through the steps again. He’d get it, crow in delight – and forget to slow down before rounding the end of the parking lot, and we’d all be leaning against one side of the little car – hoping it wouldn’t just topple over. He finally made a few passes that were satisfactory, and then I took it for a little spin around the neighborhood before heading home.
His friend, Z, also came over and took the bug for a spin and gave the boy a few more lessons, too. That’s them in the picture, headed to the school for more lessons. As I watched them go, and tried to get pictures without the boys completely diving out of site, I had the curious sensation of my heart sinking and flying all at once. My boys were off into the world (…down the block…) without me, striking out on their own without my presence right there to make sure things went well. Sure, he’s been riding around with his friends for months, but this was different. This time, I knew that in just a couple of weeks I could no longer stop time, I couldn’t hold him back. Soon, it would my son at the wheel, taking his life and his destiny in his own hands.
I’m terrified, yet exhilarated for him at the same time. I can only hope that I’ve taught him well, that he’ll remember, that he’ll do the same things he’d do as if I were right there, hiding in his glovebox. I hope that he behaves as well as I did when my parents set me free to drive on my own.
Damn. Now I’m REALLY glad that there isn’t a back seat in that bug.
(Just kidding, mom!)
Tired…
Today I am tired. So tired my snark isn’t in full working order, and my furrowed brow’d confusion is much more the facial fare. It’s nights like last night that give wrinkles – fortunately my fool proof wrinkle solution is till fill them up with fat – round and wrinkle free! Whooo!
Anyway.
Part of being mom to my kids and all their friends, is being available to them in an emergency. Last night I received a phone call from B. She was tentative, and hesitant, and I knew right away something was wrong. She made sure I had gas, before asking me quickly if I could take her and her roommate to the emergency room, because said roommate had swallowed the rest of her pain pills.
My heart stopped. I won’t lie – I broke some speed limits to get to them. I made it to their place in less then 5 minutes, and to the hospital from there in less then 10. And thus began my 7 hour stay in the Emergency Room with one of my daughters of the heart rather then blood, and her newly inducted-to-the-mama-worry-club friend.
As we waited, I gathered the rest of the story – or what we knew. She’d taken the rest of her pain pills, 21 of them, because “no one cared”. She had heard some things through the grapevine that originated with family and what they were saying behind her back. Fortunately, she decided to text two of her best friends – B included – to tell them what she’d done. She found out quickly that people DO care. B called me, I came to get them, and the text messages were flying as people checked on her, and tried to figure out what happened and why.
Then we had a surprise – a nurses aid walked in, and said she was C’s grandma. This is where the confusion began for me. She knew what had happened, she read the chart, she got our stories, she patted C’s hand, made vague accusations about C and her ex-roommate that were completely false, and then… she left.
She left.
I’m sorry, but that makes zero sense to me. C wasn’t even mine, and I was there, helping her get undressed into her gown, helping her answer questions to the nurses, the doctor, holding her hand as she cried when the Vampire Lady drew blood for toxicology. I brushed her hair back, I let her know I was there, I told her where I was going when they kicked us out so she could talk to psych, I checked on her often from the waiting room…
and her grandmother left.
Not only that – she called her father, which was something C didn’t want to happen as these family stories that set off this episode originated there. (C is 18, and the hospital didn’t call anyway by her request.)
Her dad arrived, asked at the check in desk if she was there, and the receptionist pointed him to me. As she is his daughter, I filled him in on what had happened, and what we knew at the time – her blood tests had come back normal, she could sleep this off without doing irreparable harm to her body, but we weren’t sure she’d be coming home until she was awake enough to talk to psych. He mumbled something, then paced a bit, then went out for a smoke, came back, and looked worried – and pissed. And bored.
When C was released, they gave me her paperwork. She hugged her dad, then faced him to give him a general why/what happened. Then she came back to me, so that I could take her and B come around 4am this morning. Once there, I made sure that she knew she could call me to talk anytime, that I cared, that I was there if she needed me.
I gave Dad and grandmother my number, in case they needed to find her and couldn’t, as I have access to their friends. But I didn’t expect the call I got this morning – grandma made arrangements in C’s behalf – without C’s knowledge – to move her out of state with family she hardly knows, in order to escape the problems she’s had here. I promised to pass the message along, but she’d woken me up and I wasn’t about jump to her bidding right then. I passed it on, yes, but not until I was awake, and I did not call her back with B’s number, leaving the choice of contact up to C.
I just don’t understand some parents. I don’t do the helicopter hovering thing, but I certainly don’t ignore them and their needs either. Every one of my kids knows that I will drop EVERYTHING to get to them if they need me, no matter the time of day, no matter the cost involved, no matter what else is going on. My kids need me, and I’ll be there.
If you’re not willing to do that for your kids, why the hell did you have them in the first place?
ETA – 9/1: Thank you guys for your comments. I wanted to let you know that she’s been in contact with me several times since that night. She texted me this morning, thanking me again for being there, and promising that she’ll remember I’m always here for her just as I am for all of my ‘kids’. She was going dress shopping with her cousin for her cousin’s homecoming -she sounded better, and is doing OK. Thank you for keeping her in your thoughts and prayers. We appreciate it!
Affirmations
Because I’m good enough, smart enough, and GOSH DARN IT, people like me!
Ahem. Being as I’m not your ‘normal’ mother by oh so many standards, sometimes it’s nice to find out you’re doing something right from a completely anonymous source. It’s even better when that source happens to be a teenager themselves, and they talk about how to parent them. Even better when you realize that hey – I already DO that – when they issue a challenge to parents everywhere.
Its nice to know that I totally rock.
Zen, over at Teens On Parenting, has a very interesting take on parents. She and her friends are open and honest when they give their parenting critiques and tips. After all – who better can tell you what your teenager is thinking then another teenager? Their blog was born out of an irritation with their peers’ constant complaining about how parents just don’t understand.
(And that’s SO not a new complaint, ya’ll… it existed even before DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince made it immortal with a fresh beat.)
(…what do you mean “DJ WHO?” Fresh Prince! You know, that oh so hunky Will Smith, back when he was still a geek…)
(..stop looking at me like that. I am not old.)
They are correct – it’s helpful to hear what kids their age have to say about parenting. One of the keys to understanding our kids is to listen to them, and their peers. And also, as Zen points out, to complain with them.
I’m good at this one. Take the other day, for instance. I pick up my son from work, and he kicks me out of the driver’s seat, because he’s practicing for his driver’s test next month and all. I give in with nary a fight, because he bribes me with a large diet coke. (Or rather, his manager does, because they love me. Whatever. I had caffeine!) He puts the car in gear, and takes off, and I already know. It’s been a LONG day at work for him. So I wait.
Boy: F’in M. (his other manager.)
Me: Rough day?
Boy: Dude. Corporate is coming. We had to clean stuff I didn’t even know EXISTED in the store!
Me: Oh man.. I know! I hated Corporate raids…
Boy: Hands and knees, mom! I was on the floor on my HANDS AND KNEES!
Me: Toothbrush or minibroom?
Boy: …you had to use a toothbrush?
Me: Dude. I know, right? Tile grout, behind the backwash sinks.
Boy: (smirks, laughing) I had to clean the oven beneath the oven. I didn’t even know that oven EXISTED until they pointed it out.
Me: Red light. Red light. RED LIGHT!
Boy: I see it! Gawd, mom.
Me: So – you the only one stuck on hands and knees?
Boy: Nah. All of us worked our asses off. M even cleaned.
Me: So, really can’t be too pissed at him then, right?
Boy: (glare, smirk) Shut up. I still hate him.
Me: Yeah, and? I hate kids. But I have this dirty oven at home….
Boy: (laughs) Shut up.
Me: I win.
Boy: I know. Dammit.
That’s a minor example, but you know – it works with all kinds of things. Kids don’t want us to FIX things, not right off, and especially not the little things. If we hover in helicopter style, we never give them the chance to work out issues on their own. This is why they complain to their friends – because their friends will complain with them first, then maybe offer a solution later. Why can’t we do the same? It wasn’t so long ago that we had teachers that pissed us off, things that we thought were unfair, co-workers that drive us insane (one of the MANY reasons I love working from home – no co-workers!) and even grownups that piss us off. We just need to remember that, find some common ground, and throw an understanding complaint their way. Our kids are smart – a gentle – subtle! – nudge at times is all that’s needed to help them find their own solution to any problem.
We’re not here to FIX things for them, as much as we want too. We’re here to help them learn to fix things themselves. Otherwise they’ll never leave home, and who wants THAT?
But, before he goes, since I know he knows how and all… I gotta get that not-so-little brat to clean my oven for me.
*&%!@ and stuff
When my kids were little, one of the things that drove my mom nuts (among the OH SO MANY things that drive her insane about me) was that I refused to censor my language around the kids. I’d bust out with a swear word, and she’d tsk at me – one because “I taught you better then that!” and two because “little pitchers have big ears!”
Granted, she did teach me better, but when you were a teenager, was there ANYTHING better then slipping out a cuss word on the sly when Mom wasn’t looking? It was a tiny rebellion, not even really enough to get you grounded or in BIG trouble, just enough to light the little flame of rebel that lives in all of us. Then, of course, once I moved out – it was no holds barred. I could say what I wanted, when I wanted, and @#!@ anyone who thought different! Even then, though, I didn’t really let loose in front of mom, not for years yet. (Meaning now? I don’t censor at all. My poor mother…)
Then I had kids. There’s a lot of things that change when you have kids – you’re supposed to wait till they’re sleeping to have a beer, and until they’re walking to teach them to GET your beer and make sure they can properly mix your margaritas but not until at least five. You’re supposed to child proof the house, cover the outlets, pull the knobs off the stove, pad the sharp corners, protect them from every little bump and bruise, lump and obstacle in their way. I guess I was still in my rebellious stage when I decides I wasn’t going to censor my mouth, because #@$%#$!@$ I was an adult, and @!$#%!@ what anyone thought about it! I can’t tell you how many times I got dirty looks from complete strangers as they slapped their hands over their preshush beebees widdle ears, while my mother continued to tsk.
Friends of ours took a different approach then we did – though we couldn’t understand the difference. They altered the words, so that they were more acceptable, but in doing so, they still taught them to cuss – which was almost worse. Words like “sheeppoker!” could be just as embarrassing when your three year old calls it out to that giant truck driver, as an actual cuss word would be. I never understood that – I figured it was a do or don’t situation. We chose the ‘do’ approach.
We made a point to teach our kids that there are ‘mommy/daddy words’ and ‘kid words’ and that they could curse when they were mommy/daddy themselves. Sure, they slipped sometimes, and there was that stage where my oldest daughter’s little girl voice made the words “Stand up!” sound like “Dammit!” and she chimed up with that in the middle of an award service at a very conservative church… oh my, but that was funny! Even mom laughed! But they learned, and they didn’t mimic (much), and they grew.
Into teenagers.
With potty mouths.
You’d think this would mortify me, right? Wrong. It amuses the hell out of me, truth be told. They are respectful about it, and don’t use such words in front of people in authority, their teachers, or their Nana. (Though the Boy has a habit of flipping off any camera that points his way… the last time it was Nana, and oooooooohboy. Not good. And don’t think I didn’t yell at him for it, Nana! I did!) They save it for people who they are comfortable with – their friends, me.
This is not to say that other approaches are wrong by any means. Every parent has to decide on their own what is ok, what is not, and what level they are comfortable with having in their home. My point was that the kids would hear it anyway as they grew up, so they may as well hear it from me, and learn how to deal with hearing it, or speaking it.
I think part of the growing experience when it comes to language is in it’s proper use, just like your everyday English. There is a time and place to let the profanity fly – and because I never taught them that it was wrong, but instead the times that it was inappropriate – they don’t cuss half as much as I did when I was in high school. They’ve learned to find other words to express their displeasure when the situation demands it, and that makes me fuckin’ proud as hell. (grin)
Though it still makes mom want to wash my mouth out with soap.
Sorry, Nana.
(Not really.)
Btw!
I know, I know. I didn’t post about the results of everything recently – Mark won, Craig was the Mole, so on, so forth.
I may post on occasion over here, but not until after Big Brother is over. *L* Come on over and play!
