My neighborhood heard me yelling at my daughter and was appalled.
My neighbor’s wife had a baby five months prior and he still has that new parent glow and enamored with everything his child does. He has yet to find unfinished math homework hidden under the bed or discover that his kid runs opposite of the ball in soccer.
I was my neighbor once.
“Your kids aren’t you. You are the vessel to bring your children into the world and their caretakers until they can care for themselves. You can teach them, love them, and support them, but you can’t change them. They are unique individuals who must live their own lives. Let them.” Source: “Ultimate List of 50 Life Lessons You Must Learn,” LiveBoldandBloom
It was 6:30 a.m. and we were in the dog park with Sadie and Joey, our neighbor’s adorable mutts, when my 11-year-old announced she felt “guilty” for charging the dogs’ owners for her services. All I could think is the neighbors are snug in their bed and we’re scooping up poop, praying Joey, the older dog who clearly has one paw in the dog cemetery, doesn’t die on our shift and you feel guilty?
On the shelf where I keep Savannah’s medical supplies, there are several outdated prescriptions. I hang on to these bottles the way a needy child’s clings to her security blanket. Years will pass before I’ll throw those suckers out.
When you have a child with a medical condition that requires several medications, especially if one is expensive, you’re on constant alert for that one insurance company glitch that will prevent the specialty pharmacy from refilling your order. It keeps you on the defensive and you become a Nazi with your record keeping. You also do crazy things like keep old medicine “just in case.” In an emergency, something is better than nothing, you theorize.
Posted in Mommyhood
Tagged children, doctors, kids, Motherhood, New York City, parenting, pharmacies, prescription drugs, rare disease, Single mom, special needs
I had an old-school mama who took a light-handed approach to parenting. With the exception of when my troublesome ways embarrassed the family, there were no one-on-one girly chats. The only real advice I remember her bestowing was never to wear white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day, ladies don’t smoke on the street and be nice.
Her advice to “be nice” was actually less a suggestion and more a personal mantra, as she said it with a Holy Roller’s fervor and it became her signature bark, as in: “Yes, you can go to the party. But, be nice!”
Asking me to help with math homework is a bit like handing a map to a blind man and expecting him to provide directions.
Mistakes I understand. It was my babysitter’s insociencance about work and money, two things that as a single mom drive all my thoughts and actions, that when I discovered I’d been overcharged for last week’s work, it stung in a personal way.
The minute I noted the error I fired off a text to Catherine. I assumed there would be a quick refund with a “no problem.” Nothing of the sort. Instead, I was to suck into explaining basic math to a 20-year-old college student.