Mea Culpa

There's a moment I'm looking forward to.  I think every parent does.  You spend years working towards it.  You stay up nights worrying if it will ever happen.  You plan and pray and hope.  So many moments nearly bring tears to your eyes as you contemplate that future day.  Too many wishes and dreams depend on it.

I clearly remember the moment when it happened for my mother.  It went like this:

Telephone: (Ring ring)
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "MOMTHISKIDISDRIVINGMENUTSWHATONEARTHAMIGOINGTODOWITHHIM!!!"
Mom: " (pause) Bahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahaha (insert slightly insane cackling) bahhahahahaha!  Yes!!"

Ahem.  It was a difficult day for me, to receive such harsh treatment from the one who is supposed to always be your greatest source of love and support. (sniff)  I felt rejected.

Well, I tell a lie.  I did not feel rejected.  But she could have been nicer about it.  Or maybe not.  I must be honest.  I had it coming.

Deceiving, isn't it?

It began in the Fall of 1969.  The doctor's office called my mother and told her she needed to bring me in.  The doctor needed to talk to her about some concerns he had.  I was around 7 months old.  The doctor sat her down and looked her in the eye: "There are somethings you need to understand about your daughter."

I can only imagine the list of terrifying options that raced through her mind as she waited to hear the diagnosis with the great concern.  Brain damage?  Cancer?  Congenital Stupidity? No.  He said, "You need to understand that not all children are THIS ACTIVE.  This is going to be very challenging." True story.

Let's see, where to start.  At the beginning, of course.  I started to walk before 8 months.  I had minor surgery at 9 months, which required an antibiotic.  Every mom knows what antibiotics do to the bowels.  And my surgery site was in the diaper area.  Have you put the pieces together yet?

Baby can walk, not just cruise furniture.

Baby has diarrhea.

Baby cannot wear a diaper because of stitches.

And thus, my parents came to own their first washing machine. Pretty much that, right there, sealed my fate.

Ya, I have no idea what's going on here.

But it could also have been the time I hid in my dresser drawer while playing Hide-n-Seek.  Broke the carefully restored dresser, the hand-painted Raggedy Ann lamp, and my arm.

It could have been the time I painted both arms, fingertips to armpits, with her oil paints.  You know, the kind that does not wash off with soap and water. 

It could have been the time I walked around the neighborhood wearing nothing but her panythose pulled up to my neck. (I was only 5 -- but still a bit old to go nudey in the neighborhood :S)

Then there was the time I used (lots of) Elmer's glue to put up all the Halloween Decorations.  On the walls.  On the brick fireplace.  On the couch.

We could also select the time when I showed my little brother the "trick" to getting the toaster to work -- the toaster caught fire, which caught the cabinets on fire, which melted the side of the fridge.  But I did drag garden hose in the house and put the fire out.  Very mature for 10, I think.

Also in the offering would be the night when I got into a HUGE dirt clod fight with the neighbor kids.  Which would be the same night my mother was having all the neighbor ladies over for a tupperware party.  And I was almost 13, I think.

There are too many babysitting incidents to mention.  But we'll just leave it at this: Mom and Dad come home, one kid is locked out on the roof, one is hiding in the attic, the rest are locked in the bathroom.  Entertain yourself with guessing the reasons why.

And we won't even talk about the car.

Or the lawn.

There are no words.

Or the hair color(s). 

I think I'm the only child out of all SEVEN of us to break a bone.  I've broken 8, I think.  Mostly all fingers.  The same finger actually.  But seriously, WHO gives a removable cast to a 14 year-old?  Of course that hummer was coming off if it meant I had to miss my soccer game!  Sheesh.

So, as I hack away at my keyboard in frustration over some new stupidity my kids have committed, I know where to look for the reason why.  The mirror.   Oh sure, Jeff can take some of the blame, but when you see your kids do certain things, you KNOW who to blame.  And soooooooo much of what my kids do is so familiar.

And so, Mea Culpa.  And if you're grumbling about your kids, probably You-a Culpa too.

And thus it is, that I dream with rosy-eyed fondness towards the day when one of my children will call me and say, "This kid is nuts!"

I'm already practicing my maniacal laughter.