How Mom Can Still Be a Hero
I’m seeing “Man of Steel” this weekend. Maybe some super powers will rub off on me. I try to be a super mom, however my kids think I’m a pain in the rear.
Once I donned my red cape and cleverly bribed my six-year-old with a much-desired Slip ‘n Slide so she’d attend the nursery at my Bible Study. Don’t judge me.
She eagerly anticipated the ecstasy of “Plopping ‘n Sliding,” only to “Plop ‘n Stick” in our flat yard. Thankfully, being well-trained in the Ovarian Theory of Physics, a genius idea dawned on me like the dawn, dawning. I slathered the plastic tarp with baby oil—after trying vegetable oil and dish soap, if you must know.
And I was a Hero.
What’s the fine line between spoiling your kids and just trying to make them happy? It depends on your time, money, and the appropriate dosage of meds.
As the kids get older, I’m still confused about whether my efforts to fix their lives are excessive.
One daughter desperately wanted to get her drivers license on her 16th birthday. The Oakland driver station (45 minutes away) was least crowded, but it was fully booked on her birthday for the driving portion of the test. So instead, she took it in Whiteville, about 15 minutes PAST Oakland.
She passed the test, and Barney Fife prematurely snapped her picture as soon as her rear hit the chair. Therefore, her expression looked as though she’d had some bad chalupas.
Keep in mind, a 16-year-old’s most important accessory is her newly-laminated proof of complete freedom and independence. A picture really doesn’t matter to me. But to her . . . well there’s not much that matters MORE.
She snatched her license from Barney with a flair, and I immediately knew something was wrong.
She slumped to the car. “Mom, this picture is SO embarrassing!” she wailed. “I can’t show this to ANYBODY!!” she sobbed, wiping tears.
As we drove home, dismayed churned into unglued.
Do I try to fix this or forget it? Would it be silly and over-indulgent to return for another picture? Would we have to wait an hour again?
Would she be ostracized because of her photo I.D., lose her self-confidence and good grades, get rejected by Harvard, and end up living in a trailer with a feral cat? So much to consider.
Now we’d driven too far to return to Whiteville. My thoughts spiraled down to the bottom line. How did I want my daughter to remember her 16th birthday?
More importantly, when she leaves home, what will she remember about ME? Only that I love me some “Raspberry Beret?”
I knew what I had to do. Entering Oakland, I pulled into the driver station and explained our plight to the TDOT driving gods. A few minutes later she happily displayed a new license and picture for eight bucks.
Was it worth it? You bet it was.
Most of the time my teens think I’m an embarrassment, a harsh judge, a police officer, a stalker, and a nagging dinosaur in mom jeans.
Sometimes it’s really nice to still be a hero.