Wisdom Teeth, Then the Chicken Dance: My Empty Nest Plan

Studies claim women say about 100,000 words a day, and most men say 20,000.  My 17-year-old son says about 12—and one-fourth of those words are “What’s for dinner?”  

However, there’s nothing like a hit of Jack Daniels anesthesia to bring out the Joe Biden in people.  

Last summer my son had his wisdom teeth pulled.  We were advised to give him a “twilight” level of knockout-edness.  But, having had bad experiences, I wanted to make sure my son was dead for at least as long as a Southern Baptist funeral plus the altar call and pot luck.  Therefore, I ordered him a narcotic cocktail that could make Mitt Romney do the Chicken Dance with Nancy Pelosi at a Bruce Springstein concert and afterward ask her to go “three sheets to the wind” with him and Ann, if ya know what I mean.  

So needless to say, he was Robin Williams on speed when he woke up.

Driving home:

Him:  “Hi Mooommm.  You’re SOOO my best fwiend.  Can I have Smoothie King?  What’s in my mouf?  My wip is huge.”

Me:  “It’s gauze honey.  Bite down.”

Him:  (Oblivious. Mouth wide open)  “Why do I bite down?’

Me:  Because it stops the bleeding.

Him:  Dat makes sense.  You can get in da udder lane.”  

Me:  (Thinking) Like YOU could drive a foot-propelled Flintstone car right now.

Him:  Moooomm, what’s in my mouf?” he asks, like Dorrie in the Finding Nemo movie.

Me:  “It’s gauze.  Bite down to stop the bleeding.

Him:  “Why am I bleeding?  eeeewwww!  Mom.........MOM!  Can I have Smoothie King?”

Me:  Maybe later.

Him:  (laughing hard) How long was I asleep?”  

Me:  “Maybe 20 minutes.”

Him:  “Whad’s fuh dinner?”

Me:  “Soft things.  Maybe yogurt or jello. Do you want some mashed potatoes from KFC?”

Him:  Can I ha’ chicken?  

Me:  (belly laughing) No, sweetie. 

Him:  OK...(pause for a minute) Can I have Jimmy John’s sanwitch?” he SHOUTS.

Me:  You can have a milk shake.

Him:  (shouting) MOM........CAN I HAVE A SMOOTHIE KING?  You can get in da udder lane right ‘dere.”

Before surgery, he wisely asked me to take his cell phone away so he couldn’t act a fool and reach out to someone in a drunk-texting delirium.  I’m not gonna lie.  I’ve never been more proud of him.  

I feel certain now that he won’t publish any frat party Everclear escapades on Youtube so that no one will hire him, and he won’t have to live in my basement playing Bioshock with ten ferrets ‘til he’s 40.  

As The Parent Handbook states, now that we’ve paid for the removal of his wisdom teeth, our only remaining obligation is to get him in college.   Far away. 

After shipping three kids off to college sans wisdom teeth, all you’ll see is mine and Bobby Sue’s rear-view when we take off to the Slap-a-Ho Native American Casino in Mississippi.  That’s where all the 50-ish, botoxicated, Desperate Housewife-types in lumpy cheetah-print spandex and stilettos go.  

        I’m going early for the all-you-can-eat fresh snow crab and tater salit buffet.  After a few "Sak-a-Tonto" Sunrises and "Kumana-Wanna-Laya" Cocktails, you can find me in the lounge doing the Chicken Dance with Mo and the Navajo Funkmasters.

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

"Don't make me come back there!" Day

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

My teenagers dream of me morphing into an invisible valet that drives them around, keeps the fridge stocked with chocolate milk and, for God’s sake, doesn’t talk to their friends.  

My kids say I embarrass them.  I’m not sure why, on account of I try to be cool.  Ya’ feel me?

But that’s life.  I’m entitled to embarrass my offspring until my last breath because of all the toddler tantrums they threw and the sibling fights I had to break up in church which caused me to cuss in front of the preacher.

Parentingideas.com.au

Apologizing to store clerks used to be my full-time job.  Once, in the grocery store, I turned around for five seconds and my two-year-old dumped a whole bottle of Hersheys chocolate syrup over his head.  I figure that gives me the right to pucker my lips and throw up a few gang signs when we take group pictures before the Homecoming dance.

I don’t think a kid should complain about her mom embarrassing her unless that kid can pay the mortgage.  When I’m driving and jammin’ to Prince, my daughter should just put on her Ray-bans and silently slink down in the car like every other teen as I get my raspberry beret and my Dance Fever on.

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When I drop my daughter off at the movies and she walks toward her friends, I like to crank up Justin Timberlake and pretend to rope the girls disco-style with my air lasso and drag them back.  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout if you boogied to You Dropped the Bomb on Me back in the ’80’s, word.

The other day I was horrified when one of my friends got in my car and almost barfed due to the mildew smell from a bag of wet towels my daughter brought back from camp and left under the seat for a week. 

So the next time I drove her and her friends to the mall, I decided the wet towel humiliation gave me free license to follow a teenage driver into the parking lot, pull up beside her, and scold her for incompetence and for almost hitting me.  My daughter, hyperventilating, could hear the lonely clang of my hammer nailing her coffin shut.

I’ve blocked out of my memory many occasions in which my children have embarrassed me.  That’s how moms avoid slipping off the precipice of sane into the swirling maelstrom of manic.  However, I can usually recall any incident involving law enforcement.

Years ago a state trooper pulled me over for speeding, and I assured him that I usually drove under the limit.  

Making small talk, the deputy peered through the window and asked my five-year-old son, “Is this your mom, buddy?”

He looked straight at the officer and said, “Yeah, and don’t believe her.  She speeds all the time.”

Two hundred fifty dollars later, I think I’m entitled to scream his family pet name during soccer games any time I darn well please.

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The next time my embarrassed kids wish I’d develop superhero skills and disappear into the woodwork, I’ll just use my sweet air lasso skills and drag them back to reality. 

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Recently I laughed through a magazine article entitled “Coaching, Not Nagging, Motivates Teens,” written by a revered “organizing coach.”  Since nagging is my full-time job, I perused it while trying to guess who’s gonna get tossed off Redneck Island, which is my other full-time job.

The author reflected on the teenage stage with rosy nostalgia.  Studies actually show that ten out of ten moms agree raising teenagers feels like getting your eyes pecked out by a chicken.  Her kids may have been responsive to her “coaching,” or they were frightened to death of her, which in that case, gives me a new, profound respect for her.  

Her suggestions would never work in my house.  For example,

#1:  Clearly communicate to your teen what you expect.  

Oh wow.  Never thought of that.  If they don’t understand my expectations the first time I scream it, then they need to get the headphones out of their ears.

#2:  Teen won’t get up in the morning?  Put an annoying alarm clock as far from the bed as possible.   

Tried that.  He can’t even hear the fire alarm, but tinkling his car keys beside his ear and whispering, “Goodbye little Kia” usually works.  I’ll have to send that one to the “organizing coach.”

#3:  Place a laundry basket in the bedroom closet, cautioning your teen not to put damp items inside.  

For funsies, let’s assume my teen puts clothes in a hamper.  And I’m not sure anyone would even notice a mildew smell over the noxious soccer bag in the closet.  Or the hamster I suspect died in there.  At least he shouldn’t smell like mildew.

#4:  Keep bathroom time to a minimum.  Set a timer by the mirror.  

Um... really?  I would suggest doing a Facebook run into their bathroom at 7:15 every morning before school with a camera, shouting excitedly, “New profile pic!”   That could backfire though.  Their expertise in hi-tech treachery triumphs over age every time.

#5:  Help them clean out their clothes closet.  Make two piles: keep or donate.  

We need a lot more piles than that, like “friends’ clothes I am keeping,” “friends’ clothes I may give back after I try on,” “friends’ clothes I can’t wear around them because they don’t know I have them,” and “clothes I can only wear if parents leave the house before I do.”

#6:  Give encouragement by recognizing ways in which your teen is already organized.  

What???  Ok, let’s see.  

“Hon, I love the way you organize your argument when you’re trying to persuade me to buy you another shirt from Allotamoney & Fitch.”  Case in point:

Teen logic:  (Premise #1):  “You always give us kids money to buy
                                                    presents for each other at Christmas.”

                   (Premise #2):  “I remembered Sis didn’t get me anything
                                                for Christmas.”  

                              (Action):  “So I bought this cute shirt for myself 
                                                 with my own money."  

                      (Conclusion):  “You owe me $35.”

     

My kids effortlessly ignore my nagging, but I rather enjoy it.  It perpetuates my fantasy that I’m actually someone’s boss.  You know, I bet I’d be the first one to get voted off Redneck Island.