A Day in December

You hear about it, you read about it and instinctually you know about it, because you did it. People joke about it at parties, friends pat you on the back as they blow out their birthday candles and family members say things like: “Just you wait…”

Teenagers. You know it's going to happen but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach and believe.

I know my mouth is moving, but the words that are coming out, are not what I really want to say. I feel like the Mom puppet. With big bulging eyes, dangling feet and some seriously noticeable frown lines. With someone’s arm up my ass.

“Sneak 2 bags of chips” comes out sounding more like “Did you pack any fruit in your lunch?” (Hey, at least I make them pack their own lunches)

“Wear just a t-shirt to school today, you’ll be fine” automatically edits to “Please don’t forget your jacket, it’s freezing out.”

“What ever I own, is yours for the taking whenever you need it” sounds as if I just yelled “Where the hell is my flat iron!”

As I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, being a teenager trapped in adult’s body, with all of the perspective of looking in the rear view mirror, sucks…big time. Especially when your kids are now...well, YOU.

As of this moment, I now have two teenaged children, and one of them is of the girl variety. And the switch just got flipped. Boys from the outside world have infiltrated the system. And I can tell you, I don’t think it’s going to be pretty. I hope we all come out intact. We are all in defensive mode. Even the dog. God. Help.Us.

I had a dream last night that my daughter had a rotating system of boys coming in and out of my house, all of whom insisted that I make them a home-cooked meal. The worst part was I actually did it, chained to the stove as she interviewed each one in the living room as my husband sat in the corner complaining about each of the boys’ responses to my daughter’s questions. Mocking them. She kept turning to her father, wide-eyed, saying “Dad, don’t you have work to do in your office?!”

I awoke with sweat on my brow, caused more from the company my daughter was keeping and only a smidge from the heat that was coming from the oven.

My almost 16 year old son is now in Driver’s Ed. I went to the mandatory parent meeting on Tuesday night.

1 in 28 will get in an accident. 1 in 100 will die.

I have never been so scared in all my life. Would it be bad to just tell him “No, sorry, you can’t get your driver’s license until you are out of college, besides I can drive you wherever it is you need to go.”  OR “What do you mean, dating?...well I am sure I can be very quiet in the front seat and keep my eyes closed the whole time.”

No. Yes. That would be bad.

Me taking an anti-anxiety medication of some kind at this point, something I have joked about since the day he was born, is becoming more and more of a reality. I can’t even drive with him in the car. I have now scared the crap out of him. He thinks he is a bad driver. He just might be. I am a basket case.

What is a basket case anyway? It’s the only word that comes to mind and fits perfectly without me really knowing what it is I am actually calling myself. Wait, I’m looking it up…

“the term 'basket case' was first used to reference a soldier who has lost both arms and legs and therefore needed to be carried in a basket.”

Wow. Well, I don’t qualify. And maybe I won’t use that term anymore to describe myself. But mentally and emotionally, I may, in fact, be seriously short on arms and legs.

Last night, my son and I had a conversation about what I will call “The Art of the Dodge”. “The Art of the Dodge” takes place when someone likes you, and you don’t like them in THAT kind of way. It's the act of 'dodging' part that is unacceptable to me. If you don’t like someone in that kind of way, then say it nicely, compassionately. Be careful of the other person’s feelings. Don't ignore them after they have made their feelings known to you. Apparently, the “Art of the Dodge” is alive and well in my son’s High School and is even an option on the curriculum freshmen year. Joking aside, we agreed that dodging is wimpy.

I was a wimp. Why would I expect for him not to be a wimp like me? The teenager in me says “Dude, run away! Don't talk to her! Don’t even look at her! ”, but unfortunately it comes out sounding like “Hunny, be honest and just tell her the truth. Just be careful of her feelings. Express how much you would like to stay friends. That you value her friendship.”

As soon as it came out, all I could think of was “Mom…you are SO lame.” With my own eye roll even. Whatevs.

A few nights ago, everything was eerily quiet at home. The house was empty. I couldn't even think of the last time that had happened. My husband was working, my daughter was at a distant basketball game, my son at play rehearsal. I sat on the couch and stared at the Christmas tree until the lights blurred together.  I have wanted this. To NOT be needed for long enough to just sit and BE.

Within minutes, I was bored. And lonely. And sorry.

In a few years there will be more of that. You see, I am on the flip side. Just far enough past temper tantrums, sticky fingerprints and t-ball games and inching closer to proms, last football games and moving boxes.

And it happens quickly. Fast enough that I can cry at the drop of a hat and need to be asked to be needed. Just needed. Pathetically, my teenaged self just cringed and shook her head.

Last night after a mother daughter exchange that ended in abruptly with me asserting “…because I asked you to!” as I ran out the door, I called my daughter from the road with regret in my heart and requested an ‘11 year old hug’ from her for when I returned. “What do you mean?” she said.  I could tell she had a smile on her face, even though she was slightly aggravated with me. “You know, remember the ones you used to sit on my lap to give me? You would wrap both of your arms around me and bury your head in my neck and you would squeeze me tight?”

I just loved the smell of her. To her it was a funny ‘squeeze Mom as I hard as I can hug’ but for me, I would take her in completely. Her fragrant hair on my shoulder. Her eyelashes on my cheek. My heart would bust wide open. I really needed one of those. And, later, when I got home, I got the 13 year old version. Almost the same exact hug. Except, now she pulls away first.

Good enough. I’ll take it.

‘The Light At The End Of The Tunnel’. ‘More Free Time’. ‘More Me Time’. ‘More Time For My Husband And Myself To Be A Couple Again’.All of these, titles to books I could have written by now, if I had the time and energy. They certainly would each be on the best seller list. Especially to the 'Mom of two toddlers' that also still lives inside of me.

But the truth is, now I just want more of them. More time with them. One more trip to Plimouth Plantation with my daughter’s first grade class or another go around as the “Team Mom” of my son’s football team. One more Christmas with homemade gifts, a picture frame, a nutcracker from wood shop, a paper ornament adorning the tree.

I can’t help but think of all of the sweet things that have come before now and all of the wonderful things that whiz by at lightening speed that once seemed in slow motion. I know there is so much more to come. How blessed I am to be a part of their lives.

I shut my keyboard. The warmth of my old winter coat protects me from the biting, forthcoming winter wind. I hurry off to an errand, fumble for my car keys, the lights all blur together again and the snow begins to fall from the sky.