If you're my facebook friend, and you probably are because otherwise I have no idea how you know about this blog, you know that from time to time I enjoy making lists. It's an easy way for me to vent in a pseudo organized fashion while still having a definitive ending point. Honestly I recommend it for anyone who feels like they have something to get off their chest. It's like a timed essay, but funnier.
Things are still progressing quite well here as Dustin and I continue to get our Scrant-on. We had a nice relaxing weekend, except for the two hour breakfast debacle this morning. (I decided I wanted to take Dustin out to Denny's for breakfast, but apparently everyone else in the Scranton area had the same idea. Really long wait and then I got sick from the breakfast sausage. Not a great morning, but whatever.) I hope to have another update in a day or two on our progression, but for today I thought I'd revive the list writing that I'm so fond of.
I thought about this topic just a few minutes ago. When I was younger, one of my rotating chores was doing the dishes. I didn't necessarily have a problem with that chore, but there was something I really didn't enjoy about it...cleaning the gunk out of the drain. I have a fear of pipes, probably stemming from an incident when I was much younger that involved me getting my foot stuck in the toilet and the fire department having to be called to sledgehammer me free a la rescue 911. I always dreaded the moment of dishwashing when the water would stop going down the drain and you'd have to plunge your hand blindly towards that general area and whatever you brought up was not only squishy, but a complete surprise. Noodles were especially horrifying; I liken the sensation of touching them to touching intestines.
So we had noodles for dinner tonight and I realized as I was doing the dishes that I was able to plunge my hand into the drain and grab all sorts of muck without batting an eye. I stopped for moment, trying to remember the precise moment I got over this particular phobia. I can't put my finger on it, but it was probably somewhere between getting my third transvaginal scan and having my ninth pint of blood drawn.
As I continued to wash dishes, my mind started to wander to all of the things a mommy is expected to do and not balk at. Cleaning the gunk out of the drain is just one thing I was able to get over...and it's not even that impressive. I STILL don't stand too close to the drain in the shower and I avoid drains in pools like it's my job. So here are the top five, or at least the first five, things that I'm a little scared I won't be able to do as a mommy.
5. Attending to Serious Injuries. Let me first say that the idea of my child getting hurt really disturbs me in general, but I'm also a realist. Kids fall down, they break bones, they require stitches. I don't think I know anyone who didn't take at least one really good face plant as a kid. I know of about a dozen rather serious incidents that took place just in my own three kid family. The problem is, I'm quick to get woozy when someone is hurt. When my little brother was like, five, he climbed on top of our camper (which was parked in the backyard as we enjoyed camping in said backyard as kids) and either fell or jumped off. He landed eyeball first on a stick. When he came inside, the stick was literally IN HIS EYE. My mother, to her credit (and everyone knows that I'm not quick to give my mother credit for anything) acted quickly and efficiently, getting him to the hosptial in enough time for the doctors to patch him up without any permanent damage.
I had to hide under my bed and dry heave until they got home.
About fifteen years after that incident, my brother was involved in a situation that resulted in his lip being split in half. I got to the hospital before the plastic surgeon sewed him back up and ended up requiring medical attention myself for becoming so light headed that I had to lay on the floor.
I am hoping that the first time my kid comes to me covered in blood or with a bone sticking out of his arm, I'll be able to summon my inner superwoman and not panic. If the first horrible injury ends up with me requiring sedation, I guess Dustin will be in charge of first aid and rescue missions in our family.
4. Convincing the Kid Not to be Afraid of the Dark. I don't have a specific fear of the dark, but I can certainly work myself up into a tizzy in the middle of the night if all of the conditions are right. Even with Dustin sleeping next to me, and I know he'll kill anything that tries to get me in my sleep, even if that thing is already dead. If my kid comes to my bedside in the middle of the night talking about how she saw a monster in her closet or under her bed, I'm probably going to start screaming and telling her that we're all gonna die.
3. Instilling the Belief that School is Important and the Teacher is Right. This is gonna be tough. I'd estimate that 82 percent of my time spent in school was a complete waste. After I learned the basics, I feel like I could have taken it from there. I can't remember any homework assignment that made me feel enriched. The books I was forced to read were so out of touch with my life, I almost began resenting one of my favorite activities. I had more asshole teachers than good ones. I know this all sounds terrible. A lot of my very good friends are teachers, and I'm sure they do a splendid job. I did not have any of my friends as teachers. Aside from like, five teachers, I had old, nasty, bad breath trolls who told me I was gifted but too talkative and had bad handwriting. First of all, I made a career out of my voice and speaking in public and second of all, I can't remember the last fucking thing I wrote out by hand. I am thankful someone taught me how to read (my father) someone taught me grammar (my grandmother) and someone taught me math (my best friend's mother, who happened to be a teacher, but I never had her.) The best lessons I learned in school were how to fit in and work the system. And my college experience was a total waste of time and money. College taught me how to binge drink without dying, how to rack up credit card debt and what happens when you wash a red sock in a load of whites.
But as strongly as I feel about all of that, I don't intend to share this with my child once they go to school. I am going to have a really difficult time watching my kid come home with hours of homework that does not enhance their learning experience. I pray...PRAY...that my kid gets some really gifted teachers that think outside of the box and inspire him to be a forward thinker. I'm hoping I can smile, remind my kid that a lot of times you have to do crap you don't wanna do and remember how to multiply fractions.
*Disclaimer: The previous statements were not intended to offend any teachers out there. I completely acknowledge that learning is power and there are some spectacular educators out there. My experience was not so wonderful, however. If you're a teacher, keep on keepin on. I have tons of respect for you; you have one of the toughest jobs out there and people like me shitting on your parade.
2. Not Killing Everyone Who Hurts My Kid. Again, my parents got some things right. We were raised to express ourselves in whatever way we desired, as long as we were home. (For example, don't curse in school or in front of Grammie, but if you stub your toe in your bedroom, let the fucks fly.) My parents also always taught me that while fighting is not the way to solve ANYTHING, if someone punches you...by all means hit 'em back as hard as you can. I intend to tell my kid on a daily basis that "kids tell their mommies everything." I don't care what my kid does, who they want to have sex with, what their beliefs are...I might not always agree with her, but I will never stop loving or supporting her. That type of unconditional love is great, but when you love something that much, when someone hurts them, I think the urge to destroy the cause is overwhelming. The first time my kid comes home and says someone hurt their feelings, or put their hands on them or even spread a rumor, I'm going to need anger management. I want my child to fight their own battles (to a point) and be strong and know when to stand up for themselves, but the urge to fight all their battles is going to bring me to my knees. I have no idea how I'm going to balance not being a totally overinvolved parent with giving my kid the backbone to do what they have to do to not be a doormat their whole lives. People are assholes, and you have to deal with the asshole who steals your cookies at snacktime in order to be prepared to deal with the asshole who mocks your beliefs twenty years later, but I almost want to pull a Flowers in the Attic with my kid to protect them, minus the arsenic.
1. Answering The Why. I don't have the world worked out in my head. I don't know why bad things happen or why the sky is blue or how a computer works. I don't know what happens when you die or if there is a God or why some people are just plain evil. I don't think ANY parent has all the answers, but my main objective is to be like, the ultimate source of comfort for my child. One weird thing my mother always did happened around religious holidays. Both she and my father were raised in a religion, but for whatever reason, they did not carry on that tradition with their children. I had a baptism, but that's it. My sister and brother didn't even do that. I was very jealous of all the confirmation dresses my friends got to wear and the picking of a new middle name because mine SUCKS...but I digress. Anyway, the weird thing...maybe she got a little worried around Christmas and Easter for our mortal souls, but my mother would force us to watch movies like "The Ten Commandments" and other religious informational videos. She would explain, in great detail, what these specific beliefs were all about. Being the bright kid I was, I would almost always ask her what SHE believed. She would answer honestly that she didn't know. She would say that while SOME people believed in God, she didn't know if she did. She would also muddy the waters further by making weird comments at other times...like, for example, that when she died she was going to come back as a wind chime so that we knew she was around, which confused me even further. While I think she was right to be honest and admit she wasn't sure what she believed...it scared the SHIT out of me. I didn't like that uncertainty. I really think that her honesty...a good thing...led to a nervous breakdown that I experienced from age 19 to 22 where on a daily basis I would freak out over the idea of being dead forever. Of course, I could have just been crazy and it's simply easier to blame our shortcomings on our parents, but I don't ever want my kid to feel that fear. Is it better to raise a child with a false sense of security? Yes, my darling. God is up there watching over you and taking care of you every second. Yes, sweet baby...you will live forever in the clouds with angels and our family dog that ate the chocolate. Yes, love of my life, Santa is real and Mommy and Daddy were just practicing their wrestling moves when you came in to tell us about the monster under your bed last night.
I don't know how I'll react the first time my kid calls me out on one of the biggies. My goals as a parent are as follows: (hey, a list within a list.)
1. Unconditional Love
2. A House Filled With Equal Amounts of Laughter and Kisses
3. Unconditional Support
4. Security
5. Happiness as the Most Important Thing to Achieve
Can I achieve all of this? I don't know. Am I gonna try? Every damn day.
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