Paybacks are a B*tch—Stop Laughing, Mom

What goes around truly does come around.  From temper tantrums in stores to Evan’s fondness of hiding in clothes racks*, child rearing seems to be payback for every Karmic evil I’ve ever unleashed on my parents.

And worst of all is that my parents have a sadistic fondness for laughing at my tales of woe. Yes, they’ll be sympathetic to my plights, but that’s after they finish laughing their butts off.  And then my mom gently reminds me the worst is yet to come. Super! Why isn't this stuff covered in the parent handbook?

Can’t I keep my children loving, cuddly, and obedient forever? I want to skip through the I hate you stages and get right to the being cool again. And how much do I tell them? I was a pretty good kid overall, but I did my share of dumb things. Heck, in Wooster there wasn’t much to do. So riding a slippery, gag-inducing smelly oil rig in someone’s field sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea.

My parents did a pretty darn good job sharing their “real” selves with us and even sometimes managed to horrify my siblings and I with their college tales of Sloop and Fang. But I still thought they were the worst when I was grounded and they NEVER understood the teenage me.

Plus, at some point even my music will be uncool. It baffles me that bands like Nirvana would be considered an oldie.

So, while my oldest is not even 2½ and Baby Mojo has still yet to make her grand entrance or even be officially named, I’m coming to the harsh realization that I will be the nag, the nerd, the downer, the meanie, and the enforcer at some point. As much as that stinks, I look forward to the day when I can laugh my derriere off and sympathetically smile at their toddler toils while still laughing on the inside.

* BTW, baby boy--If you ever read this in the future, telling me where you are slows my pounding heart in Target, but does give me a slight advantage in hide and seek despite your good job of using a pillow as camouflage.

Laugh at Yourself and Stick it to The Man

I’m like every other person. I hit rough patches where I wish life was all champagne wishes and caviar dreams. I pray for less credit card debt and more mad money. The recession has impacted my family like many others, and I stubbornly pass the gas pumps riding on fumes as I curse their soul-sucking, money grubbing powers. (Patooie!)

And yes, I get very jealous of others who don’t even realize how good they have it. I get angry when the privileged, pompous elite flaunt their wealth and flitter away their good fortune. But it gets me nowhere and I could cry a river of tears if I dwell on my woulda, coulda, shoulda moments. And in the end, I always realize that I am very fortunate in my life thanks to such an amazing family and group of friends.

So with these mushy, happy thoughts you would think I would never need another pick me up. But I am human, so I count my blessing again and find ways to laugh.

• Step 1: Realize Evan’s major meltdown in the grocery store was a way to stick it to the man. You want to raise the milk prices? Oh yeah, well my child can scream so loud that your patrons will flee the store in haste rather than purchase your over-priced impulse buys.
• Step 2: Play a one-hit wonder per day and remember all the bad style trends and hair don’ts that went with it. For example, we sang Push It on the soccer fields when I was a kid, as I rocked some major mall bangs. Probably helped me in defense when people passed out from close contact to all the aerosol.
• Step 3: Start a journal of Evan sayings. This will either be a mommy-mushy gift to him when he’s old enough or some really great blackmail material. Let’s see how his teen years go and then I’ll decide on how to wield this power.
• Step 4: Get all hopped up on sugar and junk food, then blame it on the baby’s cravings. Sorry, honey, you’ll never know when it’s real, but don’t you dare question me when I make you stop for a gyro at 8:30 at night.
• Step 5: Imagine my Baby Mojo (our nickname) as Pasta Tasty Oeters-Ferguson (Evan’s suggested name). You should have heard the ones we vetoed.
• Step 6: Plan my world domination where everyone must quote lines from the Princess Bride and my kingdom is the ultimate maze of Swiss Family Robinson-style tree houses. As you wish. I’ll ride the emu this time as I battle the Dread Pirate Roberts. (20 geek points if you could follow that one.)
• Step 7: Remember it could be worse. Look at The People of Wal-Mart and marvel at the horror.

The “You-Can’t-See-Me” Effect

People seem to forget you can still see them in their cars. You get the good, bad and interesting, as clear windows become iron-clad barriers. Cars create this protective bubble giving us the false impression of security, and the chance for some to let out their inner demons and divas.

Like the lady shaving her face this morning while in traffic. First, this poses very serious cutting hazards if she slams on the brakes or gets hit. Plus, ladies, if your face is that grizzly, take care of it at home. Hate to say it, but there are some mysteries a woman should keep. I’ve also seen countless people mining for gold (or whatever cute euphemism you want to use) and then disposing of it in even more countless disgusting ways. 

But my favorite is the people who car dance. As previously stated, I will at any point jump, jive and wail. I don’t care if you see me, approve, or would kick me off any of the umpteenth reality talent shows. That’s why I always virtually hi-five the brave souls who jam out in their cars. Much like singing in the shower, I think cars have the magic ability to even turn The Robot into an encore-worthy performance.

The question becomes if you can safely drive and still rock the awesomeness. A few days ago a young girl gestured wildly in her car as if possessed by exorcism-inciting demons. But once I figured out she was dancing, I gave her a smile and wave. She turned redder than this pasty Irish-skinned girl at the beach with only an SPF 15. (Yeah, Dad, thanks for that super trait. I always loved looking like I was adopted in the summer when everyone else tanned and I still burned despite hours hiding under umbrellas.)

She then narrowly avoided hitting the stopped car in front of her and gave me a timid grin. Hopefully, she will learn the proper dancing to stopping ratio as she gets older. I’m really beginning to think car etiquette should be taught in driver’s ed. Or, maybe I’ll just create a warning sticker for windshields and teach the Safety Dance to all drivers.