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Nothing is quite as character-building as being a parent, especially during those moments when your kids think you can solve any problem, and you think you should be running away down the road and you hope they can keep up.
On an excursion through the back roads of Wisconsin we had one of those little character-building episodes as we were meandering our way through the countryside with the windows down and the radio up.
Piled three across in the back seat were my daughters McKenzie and Mallory, 10 and 14, and my very young sister Amanda, 15, who was visiting from California, and as I chauffeured them along we were all laughs and life was good.
Then something strange happened. Freakishly strange. Horror movie strange.
Something flew in the window, hit Mallory in the chest and disappeared between the mash of legs and purses in the back seat. It was small, like perhaps a dragonfly or a twig or something, and after a curious look around no one paid it much mind.
About a half-mile later, all hell broke loose.
In the rearview mirror I saw Mallory, bewildered, brush off her chest. Then Amanda did the same, and then the girls started to scream.
But they weren’t just screaming, they were screaming words that make my blood run cold. “HELP! I’m covered with SPIDERS!”
More screaming. Now McKenzie’s screaming too, and I’m trying not to crash on the tight bend of the narrow country road that doesn’t even have a shoulder to speak of. Oh yeah, and I’m screaming too.
Anyone who has followed my columns knows I hate spiders, they are like Kryptonite for Superman to me. And now I have a few hundred of them in my car.
In the most unsafe fashion possible, I screech to a halt in the middle of the bend, two tires still on the road and the other two on the edge of a deep ditch.
Completely hysterical, we fight the tangle of seatbelts and scramble out of the car. Two of the girls end up in the ditch and Amanda, her foot caught in the seatbelt of my two-door car, ends up sprawled in the middle of the road with her I-Pod player, the only thing she saved from the car, skidding across the road into the other lane.
I wish I could have a movie of us just then, running around the side of the road frantically brushing off what turned out to be literally hundreds of tiny spiders.
After a couple of minutes we calm down, we catch our breath, and we start to laugh. And laugh. Almost as hysterically as we were with spiders on us. It was just so crazy, and after it was over it seemed awfully funny.
But then we realize, with dawning dread, that it’s not really over at all.
The car.
“I’m not getting back in there,” the three say in unison. I agree with them, wondering abstractly how we will make the last hour of our trip home now that we have to abandon my vehicle forever.
Reluctantly I accept the fact that I, the grownup, will have to be the soldier who goes back into the car to fight the spiders, and I wonder how I’m going to do that without any bug spray or at least some vodka.
A pleasant teenage girl stops to see if we need some help. I’m tempted to ask her if she kills spiders, but I decide it’s time to pretend I’m the grownup these three girls think I am.
On the floor in the back seat I find the apparent culprit, some sort of bright yellow and black grub that came in the window absolutely covered with spiders.
Fascinated and horrified at the same time, I couldn’t tell if they were attacking it or merely riding piggyback as it mysteriously flew through the air, and I wondered for a minute how exactly a worm flies anyway.
But with itsy bitsy spiders still all over the back seat and floor I didn’t really have time to care, working frantically to smash them all lest they find good spots to hide only to crawl on me later.
Several minutes go by. I’m sweating and twitching, quite certain I’ll have nightmares for a long time. But at last I am convinced that the spiders are gone.
After several more minutes of coaxing I manage to convince the girls to get back in the car and we are off again with lessons under our belt.
My daughters learned that I am willing to be brave when I have to be, and they eye me with new respect after our little episode.
Amanda has learned that the Midwest is a really freakish place, and she is silently wondering about moving up her flight home.
And I have learned, with the windows tightly shut, that country breezes are overrated and that air conditioning is worth every penny no matter how nice it seems outside.
Posted May 20th, 2007. 1 comment
Every year when I teach my College For Kids newspaper class, I crack up at the things kids will tell me that would probably make their parents faint.
I hear all kinds of sordid details about daily life in little Timmy’s or Suzie’s home, from who was throwing up to what mom forgot to where the dog did what.
But never fear if your child is one of my graduates, because the truth is I don’t believe most of it, and with good reason.
See, I have a daughter who has told a tale or two, and that reality has left me listening to everything now with a healthy grain of salt.
I was a storyteller from the time I could talk, crafting fanciful tales that were as fun to listen to as they were to believe.
For example, I convinced my kindergarten class that the wooden giraffe and elephant I brought to show and tell had come to me by way of my Grandmother’s safari to Africa. And yes, thank you, she had a wonderful time.
So while I’d be hardly the person to chastise a little girl with an imagination, I never suspected that my demure daughter had a blackbelt in storytelling.
It’s just that she has always been so shy, and I’m talking about really, really shy.
Seriously, this is the same child, upon hearing me say she didn’t know how to talk until she was two, said to me rather indignantly, “I knew how to talk. Maybe I just didn’t know you that well.”
Which made me laugh for a month. But I digress…
So when she was in kindergarten her teacher stopped me one day and asked in a hushed voice, “Can I ask you a question? Did you just have a baby?”
I, of course, repaid her for the question with a dumb, blank stare, wondering if I looked like I’d just had a baby. “No.” I responded quizzically.
She started to laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
It seems my darling daughter had been fantasizing about a baby brother, so much so that she created him. Right out of thin air.
And her kindergarten teacher had swallowed it hook, line and sinker, although she had lingering doubts only because (I’d like to think, anyway) that I never actually appeared to be pregnant.
So we had a little laugh together there in the hallway, and I told her another story, the only real experience I’d had with my daughter’s “storytelling” up to that point.
She used to go to a wonderful in-home daycare for half the day before she started school, and we loved it except for one thing.
I was mildly troubled that I’d pick her up in the early afternoon and she’d say she didn’t have lunch.
At first I’d feed her and wonder if the morning just got away from the daycare lady, but then I picked her up a few times and actually saw her eating lunch, only to have her tell me later she hadn’t.
Now, mind you, this is by no means an underfed child, so what the whole lunch thing was about was a mystery to me.
Maybe she just liked what I was making for lunch better, I mused.
Then I found out she apparently liked what the daycare lady was making for breakfast better.
It seems that most days my daughter was telling the daycare lady I hadn’t fed her breakfast, something the daycare lady eventually brought up. “That’s okay,” I told the daycare lady, “She tells me you didn’t feed her lunch.”
We both had a bit of an uncomfortable laugh about it, feeling wiser and probably thinking a little bit more of each other.
So anyway, I’m standing in the kindergarten hallway having a good laugh again about the story as I relay it to the teacher.
But she’s not laughing.
“Does she eat breakfast?” she asked me.
Now I admit, I laughed really hard just then, but I was pretty mad when I talked to my daughter about it later. I can earn a Mommy Dearest reputation on my own, thank you very much, I told her.
And so for the record for anyone out there left wondering, my daughter eats breakfast, I never had another baby, and I know that at least half the stuff your kids tell me probably isn’t true either.
Okay, and my Grandmother never went to Africa.
It’s not easy to be cool when you’re 13. But it’s even harder to be cool if you’re the parent of a 13-year-old.
Granted, I don’t spend much time worrying about how to impress my kids’ friends, but I was really determined to throw my daughter a cool 13th birthday party. Kewl, I mean.
Thirteen is kind of a mystery age, when I bounce between my daughter’s adoration and being considered the stupidest person on the planet.
Part of that label depends on my up-to-the-nanosecond understanding of precisely what is kewl on any particular day.
The other part of that label stems from my ability to not embarrass my daughter in front of her friends, it turns out.
Bowling, it seems, is still an acceptable activity when you’re 13, so armed with cake, treat bags and almost a dozen adolescents, we descended on a local bowling alley.
My first mistake was thinking it was a good idea to bowl in a lane next to my daughter and her friends. Or really to bowl at all.
With hip hop music pumping over the speakers, we bowled side by side, me and this sea of hormonal coolness, and oh yeeaahhh, I was pretty good.
So good, in fact, that apparently I figured I didn’t have to think about things like lane oil, sticky soda pop and the laws of physics.
Beautiful approach, steady swing and…. uh oh.
From wiping up pop spills my hand was ever so slightly sticky, which didn’t seem like a big deal until it made the ball stick to one of my fingers.
What happened after I instinctively took an extra step forward with the stuck ball is kind of a blur, but I know it involved lane oil, flying arms and legs and a bowling ball.
Lying on my back about four feet into the lane I could feel my elbow, butt and kneecap throbbing. How all three of those things could hurt from one fall is beyond me, but it must have been interesting to watch.
And see, there is no graceful exit from four feet into a bowling alley lane, because it is covered with oil, of course, which is great for bowling but bad for standing erect.
With no other choice, I scoot on my butt until I am out of the lane and can stand, while the party next door watches me with mouths agape. All, of course, except for my daughter, who is mortified and has her hand over her eyes.
Limping and trying to salvage any semblance of dignity, I turn my attention to party duties like cake and treat bags instead of bowling, which now felt very uncool.
At first when I told my daughter I was making treat bags I got the requisite eye-roll. “Mom, I’m thirteen,” she said in total disgust.
But I had wracked my brain on these things, and they were going to be kewl treat bags with gum, little decks of cards, candy and bottle coolers.
A few of the bottle coolers had drawstrings and the rest had zippers and her friends loved them.
But my smugness turned to horror when I watched a couple of the kids try to shove their 20 oz. sodas into them.
My bright, fun bottle coolers were for beer bottles.
Woohooo kids, let’s all head out to the trunk and grab ourselves a cold one…
The problem is that 13-year-olds today are smart, and they knew what I’d done before I did.
I tried to explain, I tried to take them back, but there was really no saving the situation at that point.
My daughter’s friends thought it was hilarious, and told her what a kewl mom she had to hand out beer coolers as a party favor.
Oh yeah kids, that’s right. I’m the kewlest…with a big ring of oil on my butt and beer coolers for all the kiddies.
I’m not positive, but I think my daughter, if she was speaking to me, would disagree.
But one thing I can say for sure is that I’m pretty certain we’re done with that birthday party thing.
Now I’m just waiting for the phone calls from parents, who I’m quite sure won’t think it’s half as funny as their kids did.
After six months of teeth-gnashing and a little wild-eyed hair-pulling for good measure I think I can say it’s official: I don’t smoke.
And while I’d love to boast that I quit out of resolve to be healthier or to have my clothes and hair smell better, it wouldn’t be true.
The truth is that I did it because of my daughters.
Oh sure, I knew it was bad for me. That it probably killed my father. That it probably cost me a uterus. That if I kept smoking the odds of my dying from it someday were staggering.
But those things seemed so nebulous compared to the pure joy of a cigarette in the morning on my front porch.
For the taste of that cigarette I could forgive the premature pucker wrinkles around my lips, that not-so-healthy sounding cough morning, noon and night.
And I would congratulate myself on how conscientious I was smoking outside instead of in the house, even forgiving myself that half of the conversations my children had with me took place on the front porch.
“Don’t smoke,” I’d always tell my kids. “It’s bad for you and I wish I didn’t but I’m addicted and it’s really hard to quit.” I convinced myself that those words somehow held more sway than the sight of Mom always stopping to smoke, always structuring her life around the next cigarette.
Oh sure, it was embarrassing sometimes to be a smoker… like the time my daughter, fresh off of a D.A.R.E. lesson, said, real sad like in a crowded ladies bathroom, “Mom, why do you have to do drugs?”
I swear you could have actually heard hair grow it got so instantly still and quiet in that bathroom as a half dozen women tried to steal a glance at me and the mournful child.
But still I was cloaked in the belief that it was only about me and I was somehow being a responsible smoker, so I kept right on. Thirty times a day or so.
And then I saw the report that made a cigarette go stale on my lips.
It said daughters of women who smoke are three times more likely to try cigarettes, and as likely to be smokers themselves by almost the same margin.
All the front porch smoking, all the words of wisdom in the world weren’t going to make a bit of difference.
Yes, my mother smoked, although I would never consciously lay my 25 years of addiction at her feet.
But was that the legacy I wanted to send forward with my girls?
I could forgive my own coughing and wrinkling and stinking and potential death for the love of a cigarette, but could I forgive myself for passing that life on to them?
No.
So I availed myself of every stop smoking product on the market and I quit almost exactly six months ago.
Granted, it wasn’t easy, and there were times during the past six months when I was a lot closer to Mommy Dearest than Mother of the Year.
But if I ever doubted whether my daughters, 8 and 12 at the time, were old enough to appreciate what I’d done, I needed only to remember the day I told them I quit.
It was the first morning and I was in the kitchen trying to make it through my first post-smoking cup of coffee. I was on the verge of tears. “Girls,” I announced, “I just want you to know it’s going to be hard for a while because I quit smoking today.”
And what happened next propped me up like a crutch whenever my resolve waned over these past months, because for all the times I had been proud of them, this time I had done something to make them proud of me.
Wordlessly, my eight-year-old crossed the kitchen and solemnly wrapped her arms around me. Almost skipping, my older daughter followed for a morning hug that for the first time in their lives had the smell of victory instead of stale cigarette smoke.
Posted February 9th, 2006. Add a comment
I’d like to throttle whoever invented the Tooth Fairy.
I hate that nocturnal bicuspid-thieving creature more than any other mythical being I pretend to be for my children, mostly because I’m really bad at it.
Being Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are easy. Holiday shrapnel is all over my house to remind me about the job I have to do. But a tooth is tiny. A tooth is random. A tooth gets buried under a pillow hours before I ever think about calling it a day, and most days I can hardly even remember what I ate for dinner by the time I go to bed.
So Saturday morning around the crack of dawn my daughter is miffed. “Mom,” she shakes me awake, “the Tooth Fairy didn’t come.” Oh dang it, I think, trying to clear the fog enough for a good excuse. “Uhhh, Friday nights are busy for the Tooth Fairy. Maybe she needed an extra day,” I mumble, feeling like a complete heel and hoping I don’t have to explain why Fridays are big tooth days.
My daughter considers the paltry excuse for a minute, weighing it with a frown. “Just keep the tooth right where it is,” I tell her. “If she didn’t get it last night she’ll get it tonight for sure.” Somewhat mollified by this, my daughter accepts the explanation and plods off for breakfast, where she will talk smack about the Tooth Fairy with her sister.
Throughout the day I tell myself to write a reminder note after my daughter goes to bed. Predictably, I forget to do that too, because I am the world’s worst Tooth Fairy.
So there I am sleeping ever so peacefully until I jerk awake at 5:30 a.m. in a complete panic. “Oh no!” I mutter, stumbling to my feet and trying to shake off enough sleep to think fast. But see, there’s one problem: I’m not much of a morning person and that time of day doesn’t even begin to qualify. My idea of early is the crack of 8 a.m. and I’m pretty sure I don’t even have brain waves at 5:30.
When I was little, I always thought the Tooth Fairy was a delicate creature that flitted about gracefully with shimmering wings. But there I was, hair askew, pajamas rumpled, trying desperately just to focus as I wheel through the house in search of an envelope and a dollar.
Bleary eyed, I head for the family room on the floor below, which is a bad idea. With a flit of my graceful wings I fall right down the stairs, like eight of them, arms and legs flailing.
Wounded, I hobble my way back up stairs, clutching the tooth ransom in my hand and a whole lot of curse words in my heart.
Just as I am congratulating myself on not failing again, I realize there is a problem: I can’t find the tooth. Stretched to the tips of my toes, I feel around under the pillow on her loft bed for an envelope. Nothing. Exasperated, I grab a step stool for better reach, which, of course, wakes her up a little. Now I’m crouching under her loft bed, hiding, knowing if my other daughter wakes up and sees me in the shadows she’ll start screaming.
What feels like half my lifetime later she is still again and I give it another go. Finally, incredibly, I run my hand over a tiny little something that can only be a tooth. Being the helpful little thing that she is, my daughter apparently thought an envelope was too confusing for the Tooth Fairy. I’m going to have to tell her that the Tooth Fairy will go insane and never come back if she does that again.
And, sadly, the Tooth Fairy will be expected back.
As I limp around the kitchen the next morning, my daughter regards me with eight-year-old concern. “Mom, what’d you do?”
“Nothing,” I sulk.
“Hey, Mom, guess what. This tooth is loose,” she says, pointing to her matching tooth on the other side. “Should I wiggle it?”
I beg her not to, making up some lie about getting half price if the teeth come out too soon. I know that infernal creature will have to come back, but I’d at least like to let the bruises heal before I have to do it again.