4 BAD MOMMIES

The One That Got Away by Regina Richards

July 19, 2011

The engine sputtered as if agreeing with the gas gage, warning me I might not make it the final two blocks to the station. With my foot easy on the accelerator I made the first block, then came to a nervous halt at a stop sign and waited for traffic to pass. That’s when I saw it.

Directly across the busy six lane, parked crosswise at the stunted beginnings of an entry drive that lead to nothing but an endless field of tall Texas sunflowers, was parked a truly extraordinary car. From bumper to bumper the small station wagon had been painted in alternating warm and cool pastels, giving the effect of dozens of jumbled impressionistic paintings viewed through a gently blurring mist. Strewn here and there among them, a hint brighter and a little clearer, tiny accents of pastel flowers popped forth from the mist. For an instant I wondered if it was a fanciful illusion, a mirage conjured by the triple-digit heat. But no, it was real. Out in the field beyond this wondrous car a honey-haired head bobbed, gathering sunflowers.

My hand shot to my purse seeking my cell phone camera. At the same moment my car sputtered and shook, threatening me with a hot walk for a gas can, while a sudden opening in traffic invited me to make the turn and reach the gas station in time. Sense battled sensibility. The picture would be well worth the walk. On the other hand, running out of gas on that busy six-lane would be dangerous for me and every other driver on the road. There was no shoulder, no safe place to pull over if my car died.

I made the turn. I made the gas station in time. I made a mistake.

The station wagon was gone when I returned.

For weeks I created excuses to be in that area in the hope of spotting the car again. I trawled nearby neighborhoods in search of it. I annoyed my children (bad mommy!) by asking people I met at backyard barbeques and birthday parties if they knew who it belonged to. I never found it.

The car had probably been passing through town on that six-lane never to return. I comfort myself with the truth that even if I found it now, I could never re-create that moment when it sat ice-cool in the blistering Texas heat framed by a field of sunflowers.

But an odd thing came out of this experience. When I first described the car to my family I did so like this: “Imagine (insert name of a person my child had once dated) turned into a car. That would be the soul of this car.” This notion stuck with me. As I moved through my day, I began to notice cars here and there that embodied the personalities of people my children had dated. And this time I took the picture.

These are not extraordinary photos. They are not art. They compare to the photo I missed that day like preschooler doodles compare to Monet. But here they are, my current gallery of cars that remind me of people my children have dated:

: MODERN FLOWER CHILD – Drifting through life with tranquil ease. Sadly, this photo was lost for lack of a full tank of gas – which in a way is apropos for this contemporary hippie.

LIVIN' LIVELY DRAMA TIME

: NARROW MINDED NARCISSIST -note: some fab folks drive this style car, but my child’s experience with this particular one was not lovely

: LOOKING FOR A WIFE TO SHARE A SIMPLE LIFE

: SLEEK AND SOPHISTICATED – Wowza, Wowza, Wowza!

: A LITTLE BIT WILD BUT WITH A GOOD HEART

: HARDWORKING IDEALIST

: CLINGY WITH A SIDE OF STALKER

: SAFE, SANE, AND SENSIBLE

Most of the cars my kids’ dates drove weren’t shiny, new, expensive, or unusual cars like the ones in the pictures above. But I chose theses cars to reflect the spirits and personalities of these young daters. Which is why all the cars pictured are beautiful in their own way. Just as, to me, the people my children have dated are each beautiful in their own way (yes, even Narrow Minded Narcissist and Clingy with a Side of Stalker).

Are there cars that remind you of significant people in your children’s lives? Please share by clicking on the number near the title of this post.

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Mushy Mommy

July 11, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

I’m a mush. I may not seem like it, but I am. I love my children with a force that could power the planet – if only I could figure out how to harness it. And as much as I longed for privacy and peace and the ability to read a magazine article, from start to finish, without interruption, when my children were little, with each milestone, each step they take toward venturing out in the world without me, I get choked up.

First day at day care, I lingered, wiping my eyes, hoping no one would see.

First day of school, I put each of my children on the bus, and then proceeded to follow it – while fighting tears – to make sure the bus actually took them to the right school and they actually made it into the building without being kidnapped.

And I must share, to this day, one of my children in college and two in high school, while I no longer follow the bus; I still get emotional on the first day of school each year. It’s a new chapter in my children’s lives. A stepping stone that will take them that much closer to leaving me.

I bring this up because, at the end of June, I dropped my 14-year-old daughter off at sleep away camp for two months. As much as I look forward to the break, I still get teary-eyed as soon as we enter the gates.

“Not again,” my daughter said, laughing at me.

I laughed, too, despite the tears leaking down my cheeks.

“There he is,” she noticed someone in the crowd. “Don’t touch your eyes. Look away. This is so embarrassing.”

Yeah. I know. She’s been going to sleep away camp for four years. Enough already. I’m happy to say by the time I left the car to begin the registration process I’d pulled myself together. Until it was time to leave.

“You can go now,” my daughter said as soon as we’d finished hauling in her stuff.

The camp suggests parents shouldn’t stick around as it may make the separation more difficult for the child. What about the parents?

“After I make your bed,” I said. So I could inspect her mattress. And dust any cobwebs. And oh look. The outlet. I took the opportunity to plug in her power chord before someone else used it. And since I was there I hooked up her fan and alarm clock.

“Good bye, Mom,” my daughter tried again, when she’d caught me looking for something else to do.

I hugged her. “Good bye, honey.” It wasn’t enough. “Walk me, out.”

“Really? Is that necessary?” she asked.

Heck yeah, it was necessary. I wasn’t going to be able to hug her for two long months. “I’ll leave after you walk me out.”

She huffed, but followed me.

Outside she was more concerned with who was watching us than a heartfelt good bye. But she hugged me, and after a quick kiss on the cheek, she returned to her bunk without looking back.

While I fought to maintain my composure as I drove to the exit.

Why? I know she’s safe. She has lots of friends and is going to have a wonderful summer.

When will it end? When will I come to terms with the fact I’ve raised happy, well-adjusted children who embrace each phase of their lives? I’ve done my job well, and now it’s time to let them experience the world.

Without me.

And therein lies the crux of the problem.

So what about you? Are you a mushy mommy? What sets you off? If you’re children are grown and out on their own, does the mushiness go away? Please click on the number next to the title of this post to comment.

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You might feel like a bad mommy if . . .

July 5, 2011

By Aimee Carson

It’s the first Tuesday of the month and that means it’s time for you to think back over the past month (or more) and complete this sentence: “You might feel like a bad mommy if…”

You might feel like a bad mommy if . . . you’re away for two weeks and when you come home, you promise to read to one of your kids. But as the two of you sit on the bed, you keep nodding off during the story and mumbling words that don’t make any sense.

You might feel like a bad mommy if . . . your teenager begs you not to visit her at Dairy Queen where she works. But you go and order dinner anyway, waving at her from the dining room, enjoying every annoyed roll of her eyes.

Please share your bad mommy moments. Click on the number beside the title to leave a comment.

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“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE FUN OR ELSE!” by Jennifer Probst

June 27, 2011

I took my kids to the circus.

I’m not a big circus fan, since I always wonder about the elephants and if the animals are abused or sad in the cages, but I believe a child should attend at least one circus in his or her lifetime. So, when the circus came to town, my husband and I bought tickets in an effort to delight and amaze my two sons.

Why do I never learn my lessons?

When there is something “fun” on the horizon there is always too much pressure. Too much money is spent, time is invested, and plans are made. As a mother, why have I not learned that this equals disaster when it comes to children? Children do not follow a plan, and seem to have fun when we least expect it. Even when they were babies, they’d ignore the expensive gift for the empty box.

Back to the circus.

We pumped up our boys and as soon as we entered the gate, we were met by a giant parade of blow up toys that cost a fortune. And two children who wanted one. Cha ching. Then as we waited on a long line, they catalogued each snack they had to have : hot dogs, popcorn, snowcones, and chocolate. Cha ching. As we entered the big top, they killed time while everyone found their seats by selling things. Camel rides. Photos with the elephants. Pony rides. Cha ching. And while my kids eyes popped from the overabundance of stuff (my older one especially is a shopaholic and LOVES to buy things), a clown came around selling fancy light sticks that spun around and made one dizzy. Cha ching.

We fought the good fight and came out battle worn. Then thank God the circus started. With tigers. Lots of tigers. Unfortunately, they were in the center behind a high cage, so after a few minutes spent standing on their seats and craning their heads to see, my boys got tired and gave up. Then they said they needed to go potty, and my husband and I played an important game of rock, paper, scissors. I lost. Trudged to the porta potty cursing under my breath and hoped it would get better.

Trapeze artists flew through the air. Trained puppies and sweet ponies rode around the ring. Graceful dancers held by nets and doing gymnastic tricks took our breath away. And my boys were bored by the whole damn thing except for the clowns.

They laughed and laughed at the clowns, which was too short. After an hour, they claimed intermission and the assault was back on. More camel rides, pony rides, photos with tigers and clowns, toys and snacks and lights. We took another bathroom trip and had the following conversation.

The boys: “Hooray we’re going home now!”

Me, with my head twisted around like the Exorcist. “What do you mean hooray? The circus isn’t over. There’s more.”

They groaned and whined. “We don’t want to see more. We’re bored!”

Teeth gritted I bent over to hiss in their ear and not be overheard. “You can’t be bored. We haven’t seen the elephants yet! We saw a lot of amazing stuff today and you boys are being ungrateful. Mommy and Daddy took you to the circus to have fun and this cost a lot of money and we are going back in there to have fun damnit!”

The boys: “Mommy, I thought damnit was a bad word.”

Me: “Get in the big top and I don’t want to hear another word from you!”

Fun took a hard nosedive and never recovered. The elephants bored them, but thank God a guy got shot out of a canon so that entertained them enough for the last half. As we drove home, exhausted, broke, and defeated, I asked my husband why our boys were so strange.

I ranted and raved. “I was grateful to go to a drive in movie at their age! What kid doesn’t love the frikkin circus! What more do they want from me? I’m trying to give them experiences I never had the opportunity for, and nothing impresses them. Have we spoiled them? Is there something wrong with our kids? Is there something wrong with my parenting?”

My husband shrugged and remained silent. I think he agreed because he’s a smart man, but I swear he was thinking of something else the whole ride home.

So, once again in my bad mommy moments, I ask you: Have you ever felt defeated in your pursuit of fun? Have you ever threatened your kids in places that should have been magic?

Hit the number at the top of the post and leave me a comment. Please. I need you!

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Pity Party for One Please by Regina Richards

June 21, 2011

Teens can be hypercritical at times. They’re happy to point out human weakness: “Hey Mom. Hear that? That’s your hips begging you to Put Down The Chocolate”. And they’re quick to remind you of those times you didn’t measure up to ideal parent: “I can’t believe you said that in front of the whole class. Even the teacher was laughing after you left”.

When they do this in a moment of anger it’s easy to dismiss, but when they jokingly ambush you at a pleasant family meal or during a fun family activity it packs a real punch. At times like that a mother needs the ego of a Genghis Khan or the help of a good therapist to keep from feeling like a Bad Mommy. I have neither. So a husband has to do…

“Umhhummmm,” he said.

“I remember being a real person,” I continued. I’d been pouring out my heart for the last half hour in our shade darkened bedroom, staring into the slow hypnotic spin of the ceiling fan. “They liked and admired me, even believed I was wise.”

“Umhhummm,” he said.

“When did it happen? When was I demoted from mom to moron? I was a teenager once. I know parents aren’t cool when you’re a teen, but they used to think I was smart and funny and relevant. I miss that.”

“Ummhumm.” His hand cupped mine – warm, relaxed, gentle – a comforting reminder I was not alone. I knew he’d rather have been out puttering in the yard on a sunny afternoon like this. So it meant a lot that he’d agreed to lay down beside me and let me emotionally unload.

“They used to listen to me. Really listen. Now when I talk they get that just-humor-her expression on their faces, as if I’ve lost my mind and I’m the only one who doesn’t know it.”

“Ummhumm.”

His rhythmic breath against my cheek was soothing. It felt so good to have someone actually listen, to feel real, and heard and–.

Wait a minute. I pulled my eyes from the hypnotic spin of the ceiling fan and turned my head on the pillow. Ours noses nearly touched. His hand twitched beneath mine.

“Ummhumm.”

He was asleep.

So about now you may be thinking: what a whiner. And you’d be right. But even the best of Bad Mommies can occasionally slip into Martyr Mommy territory. Have you ever just had one of those days? Care to share? Click on the number near the title.

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Tired-Fed Up-In Need of a Vacation-Mommy

June 13, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

Do you ever think about leaving? About packing up and moving into your very own condo? Where everything will be exactly where it should be? Where empty boxes won’t be left in the pantry or freezer leading you to believe they still hold food? Where that beautiful almost-ripe banana you’d planned to have with lunch will be right there waiting for you? Where there will always be toilet paper at the ready because you wouldn’t think of leaving an empty cardboard tube and no refill within reach? Where when you talk (to yourself) you listen and actually do what needs to be done – because you’re the only one there to do it? Where you can work – without interruption – for as long as you want and not worry about cooking dinner or doing laundry or transporting children or writing notes/checks or nagging children to study or listening to complaints about the heat, mean teachers or stomach ailments? Where you don’t walk in on your son playing Xbox after you’d specifically told him NO XBOX UNTIL AFTER FINAL EXAMS and then get into an argument where you are forced to remind him (at the top of your lungs) that he didn’t listen to your nagging prior to his physics mid-term or his SATs and did not do as well as he could have on either? Where you don’t have to fight with your daughter ABOUT EVERY-FREAKIN-THING?

That’s where I am right now….one step away from hunting down the real estate listings in the local newspaper.

I won’t go through with it, of course. But it’s a nice dream. A home of my own where I can blast Carrie Underwood, eat salad every night if I want to, and never feel obligated to bathe.

I love my family. Very much. But boy do I need a vacation – from them.

Two more weeks and I’ll have one – well kind of. In two weeks I’ll be meeting up with Jen and Aimee for the RWA – Romance Writers of America – annual conference in NYC. (And we’ll be drunk dialing Regina (make sure you give us your phone number Regina!)) I am having a hard time containing my excitement.

So what do you do when you’ve had enough? When you are a tired mommy on the verge of losing it? When you’ve taken all you can tolerate and even the tiniest infraction sets you off on a tirade of epic proportions? When you’re teetering on the brink of screaming, “I don’t want to do this anymore?” (Or am I the only one who’s ever felt like that?)

Please click on the number below the title of this post to comment.

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You might feel like a bad mommy if . . .

June 7, 2011

By Aimee Carson

It’s the first Tuesday of the month and that means it’s time for you to think back over the past month (or more) and complete this sentence: “You might feel like a bad mommy if…”

*gulp* I’ll go first

You might feel like a bad mommy if… you’re standing in the post office, proud you’re organized enough to get there in time and still collect your son from school, only to realize it was an early release day and you’re now two hours late picking him up.

You might feel like a bad mommy if… you witness your daughter take a very benign looking fall, cry for a minute, complain for an hour, and then recover. The next morning she whines before school (like she always does) but you send her anyway. When your mother, the nurse, picks her up she tells you, the doctor, to take your daughter for an X-ray. When you do… you learn she has a hairline fracture.

Please share your bad mommy moments. Click on the number beside the title to leave a comment.

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WHY I AM GLAD SCHOOL IS ALMOST OUT! by Paige Morgan

May 31, 2011

Please help me welcome the fabulous Paige Morgan from the popular mommy blog, Slightly Off Balance. We are honored she joined us today for Guest Blogging Tuesday. Enjoy!

My son comes home from school every day and gives me the official count on how many days of first grade he has left. I ooh and aah with him and tell him how excited I am. I then play the part of good mommy (because sometimes it really is nothing more than an act) and remind him that he will still need to read and do his timed math tests over the summer to keep his skills sharp.

But little does he know… I am counting down the days with more anticipation than he is! I yearn for MY freedom from HIS homework, HIS alarm clock and HIS strict bedtime. There are less school projects, fundraisers, volunteer “opportunities” (can you say marketing spin?) and schedules to coordinate.

After working all day, making dinner (okay, that’s kind of a lie – my husband usually cooks) and begging my children to eat three bites of dinner, I am exhausted! My brain is too fried for complicated issues like “If Sally as 77 cents, how many 5 cent pencils, 15 cent notebooks and 25 cent yo-yos can she buy?”. Where is Sally’s mother?! Why does Sally have to figure this out?! Where does Sally shop to get these prices?! But I digress, back to my exhaustion…

Yes, I am too exhausted to figure out Sally’s spending habits and read my son’s two-page story to make sure he answered the questions right. Ironically, though, I can tear through 200 pages of a book of my choosing after I put the kids to bed.

And therein lies the kicker – kids bedtime versus ours. My kids our asleep by 8:00 so that they are well-rested to get up at 7:00 am. Parents on the other hand, put the kids to bed, finish cleaning the kitchen, do some more work, do a load of laundry, lay out lunch bags and backpacks for the next day and still try to watch a show, read a magazine or have some “me” time before they go to bed. Yes, I would like to go to sleep at 8:00 pm, 7:30 would be even dreamier, but when would we get everything done. So the kids go to sleep at 8:00 and wake up at 7:00 am – that’s eleven hours of sleep! I can’t even imagine what I would be like with eleven hours of sleep… coherent, nice, patient. But I am none of those things because I go to bed at 11:00 pm and get up at 6:30 am to have my act together before my son wakes up at 7:00 am from his eleven hours of peaceful slumber. So I get 7.5 hours on a good night, if neither of my kids wake me up – which incidentally is rare! Last night my two kids pulled their favorite tag team trick to ensure I was awake from 3:30 am to 6:30 am. I swear there should be a Mommy Punk’d show where the night vision video camera catches me shuffling back and forth between my son’s room and my three-year-old daughter’s room, half asleep, with the look of desperation in my eye.

But when my son is not in school… ah, just the words are bliss… I can sleep in. I can sleep until 7:30 or even 8:00 am depending on my conference call schedule. My son still gets up early, but I don’t have to be awake to nag him to hurry up, get dressed, eat breakfast, and find his library books. He can get himself a snack and watch cartoons while I get that really hard sleep from 5:00 am to 7:00 am. You know what I am talking about, the mouth open, drooling on the pillow, ‘exhaustion may not kill me today’ kind of sleep!

Yes, the school year is coming to an end and my son’s first grade journey is almost over. But as with most journeys, the last few miles feel the longest. The month of May is the monthly equivalent to the 5:00 witching hour in my house. At 5:00 every evening my kids melt down. It’s almost dinner time, so they’re hungry, they are worn out from the day and it is the time when I need them to behave the most – so they melt. May is end of the year chaos. We have end of the year parties for t-ball, end of the year parties for my daughter’s preschool and my son’s school. We have end of the year teacher appreciation gifts to make, buy and stress out about. I am the least crafty person IN THE WORLD, yet always end up helping with end of the year gifts that require glue guns, mod podge and other intimidating crafting supplies. I think we should start appreciating our teachers in advance, before we’re too tired to do it thoughtfully! But I am happy to report, the picture collage is done and delivered for preschool, the decoupage vase will be given to the first grade teacher on Thursday, the pictures have been sent for the t-ball awards and the cupcakes were made for Open House. I volunteered at the end of the year party, the May field trip, the school fundraiser and attended the preschool picnic. Did I do all this single-handedly? Not even close! Did I have some small part in each of these? I like to think so. The month of May almost killed me, but I survived. Wait, the day isn’t over yet… it still might!

So with just a few events, early mornings and bedtime threats left, I am thrilled to know that our break is almost here. I guess my son is excited too.

How do you feel about the end of the school year? Click on the number above the post to comment!

Slightly Off-Balance (http://slightlyoffbalanceblog.com) is a blog written by Paige Morgan, a working mother, who strives for balance through writing, humor, friendships and cocktails.

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THE P FACTOR…by Jennifer Probst

May 24, 2011

I’m going to talk about the three P’s today. Pee pee, poopie, and penises.

If that has scared you off, I apologize and have a great day.

Back in my days of potty training, I wrote a piece at my blog with this title complaining about the state of living with boys. I had thrown away the Diaper Dekor and wept with joy. Finally, the stink of diapers would no longer scent my children’s rooms. My bathroom would be relatively clean. I would no longer have to carry a diaper bag or changes of clothes. I was ready to launch into the next stage with my children.

Then I realized little had changed.

Yep, the diapers were gone. And replaced by a bedwetting five year old who caused more laundry pile ups than humanly possible. Blankets, bedsheets, and water resistant mats were thrown into the basket each morning. A morning bath became a new ritual to remove the scent of urine, and forced me to get out of bed early. He lounged in bubbles while I ran around like a maniac making sure he had enough time to catch the bus. I tried limiting fluids, making him go before bed, and even using a pee pee beeper. Oh yeah. A mommy friend gave me hers and told me it helped her son stop wetting the bed. It’s this great device that you hook up one side to his underwear and clip the other side onto his shirt. When he wets, the sensor goes off with a loud beeping to wake him up.

Now, the whole idea of this beeper is to wake the kid up BEFORE he pees, so he can get to the bathroom in time. My son, of course, is lazy. The beeper woke him up – hell – it woke up the whole household and all of the neighbors because it sounds like a fire alarm. But MY SON finished emptying his whole bladder through the loud beeping, then got up to shuffle into my bedroom and say “Mommy, I peed.” I left my still snoring husband (how do men sleep through pee pee alarms and viruses and all night crying for God’s sakes?) where I had to wipe him down with baby wipes and change all of his clothes and tuck him back into bed. The pee pee beeper is a great concept, but unfortunately, not for the lazy at heart. The doctor said he’d outgrow this stage and nothing was wrong.

Then there’s the bathroom. I am puzzled by women’s complaints of the toilet seat left up. I pray all the time for that problem, because then all I would need to do is flick the lid down and sit. Not in my house. My children pee with the seat down. Why? Because they are too lazy to lift the lid. So, if I even think of just sitting myself down on my toilet seat without looking, I am usually drenched. I’ve tried improving their aim with Cheerios and contests, but it never works.

One day, I discovered my little one at the toilet, door wide open, swaying his body back and forth while he sprayed the lid, the floor, and the wall. Of course, I completely lost it and yelled at him all the things I thought I’d never say to my children like, “Mommy is not your maid!” and “You know better than that!”

My son looked at me with wide blue eyes. “But mommy, you said if I hold my pee pee, I have to wash my hands.”

I peered suspiciously at him. “Yeah?”

He beamed. “I figured out a way I never have to wash my hands again! If I don’t hold it, my hands are not dirty. See!”

Yes. I see. My son is lazy and thought of a sneaky way to get out of one essential step of going to the bathroom. I had threatened him with disease and needles if he didn’t wash his hands after holding his penis. (Yes. Bad Mommy!) The kid had completely turned it around on me, and now I had to backtrack and come up with another lie.

The whole thing was exhausting.

As for the poop, well, I discovered boys like to go in public restrooms and do number 2. All public restrooms. Parks, McDonalds, rest stops, Target, and supermarkets. When you have two of them, they both like to go. So, I find myself frantically in the big stall, lining the toilets with paper, and chanting, “Don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything” I am completely amazed at their ability to go several times a day in as many places as possible. My son also times himself to coincide with the bus coming to pick him up, so most mornings I’m in a cold sweat to see if we will make it on time.

Finally, let’s talk about penises. I have three in my household – my two sons and my husband. Boys love to touch them. I don’t know why – I may never know, but every night in my house you can find my husband with his hand down his boxers and the remote in the other. My sons will be in their matching Cars chairs, one hand resting on their crotch, while the other holds a sippy cup. All staring at the television.

The only difference I detect in the older versus the younger is the ability to keep this habit away from the public. My husband has controlled his urge to touch himself when we are outside. My sons have not learned this yet. So, you will see me in every public arena frantically whispering the question “Do you have to go to the potty?” at least a dozen times before my mantra changes to “Take your hand off your pee pee!”

The other day I watched my older son on the soccer field. With mounting horror, he stood by the goal out on the field and began pulling up his uniform shorts so high his Sponge Bob underwear flashed the world. He then adjusted himself to a better position. A few laughs broke around us, and I bowed my head in sheer embarrassment. I caught his gaze across the field, pointed to his crotch, and shook my head frantically.

He beamed and waved.

If you have boys and a story to share, drop me a comment. I need some support. If you have girls, let me know the challenges you faced during your potty training years and beyond. Click the number at the top of the post and leave me a comment!

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Only With a Helmet by Regina Richards

May 17, 2011

I stepped out of the ladies room at the college student union and the small knot of men waiting across the hall near the bulletin boards turned.

“Reggie,” my husband simultaneously motioned me over while poking our second son in the ribs, “come here. He has something to show you.”

The knot of men parted. Silently my son pointed to a paper tacked to the bulletin board. I didn’t need to read past the words For Sale. The picture said it all.

“No.”

The knot of men erupted in laughter.

“But…” my son began.

“No!” I said again and turned on my heel, leaving the laughing men behind.

We’d had this discussion regularly since my son turned fourteen. He wanted a motorcycle. I was adamant: “You can have a motorcycle when I’m dead!”

My husband, who’d reluctantly sold the motorcycle he’d wooed me on in college only after this second son was born, would occasionally risk my wrath by taking our child’s side. He’d quickly back off again. I’m normally a mild-mannered person, but when it came to the idea of my child straddling one of those organ-donor-makers I was immovable.

Unfortunately for me, my son was turning eighteen in a few weeks and because he’d been mowing lawns all over town for years he had financial resources. Our discussions about transportation had taken a worrisome turn lately. They’d gotten suspiciously short. He no longer pleaded his case. He simply stated his desire and when I said no gave me that look I’ve become so familiar with after twenty-something years of marriage to his father. Quiet determination. I knew it was only a matter of time. One day soon, after he turned eighteen, he’d go to the bank and come home on a motorcycle.

And so I did what mothers have done for centuries when faced with the coming independence of a man-child and the inevitable loss of motherly authority. I lay awake at night…and plotted against him. (Bad Mommy!)

Motorcycles are symbols of freedom. They’re powerful, sexy, cool…and dangerous. What other form of transportation, I asked myself, embodied those same things? The answer was obvious: a convertible.

At first I resisted. I wanted a different answer. A convertible just wasn’t the armor-plated tank of safety I wanted my child driving. But at least, unlike a motorcycle, it had sides. So finally, reluctantly, after much fretting, I knew what I had to do.

I spoke to my husband. My husband spoke to our son’s godfather, Uncle Cam – one of the most generous men I know. Then my husband spoke to my son. My son called his Uncle Cam. Now Uncle Cam has a sleek new convertible in his garage and my son has his Uncle Cam’s old one.

And everyone’s happy.

Well, almost. If I could just get my son to wear a helmet…

Do you ever plot against your child – for their own good of course? Share your stories and comments by clicking on the number near the title of this post.

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