I almost lost my life today. My sweet daughter will be getting her driver's license in less than three months and I am not quite sure the world is prepared for that. Please get prepared for that. Clearly, Haven needs more practice driving, but I am not sure my little ticker can handle the education aspect.
When we got into the car today, she did all of the right things: She put her seat belt on, checked her mirrors, adjusted all of the settings on the driver's seat, and we set out on our way to pole vault practice.
It is a hard thing trying to educate a teenage driver when you think you might die. Haven is either going way too slow or way too fast, and she does both of these things when she should be doing the opposite. When she is going too slow, I honestly do not mind all of the hand gestures we receive from passing vehicles, and we get a lot. I just wave back with one finger and gently remind her to keep up with traffic.
When she is going too fast, like when she fails to use her brake feet from an upcoming light, that is what I have a problem with. I yell and scream and generally make my blood pressure rise to the point that I should be hospitalized. Haven looks at me and retorts back with, "What's the problem?" like the problem isn't already evident. We don't need to use our vehicle as a projectile missile. We want to see Haven graduate from high school.
I also in no way want to make her feel like she is not a good driver, because eventually, she will be. I don't want to hurt her by getting down on my knees in the driveway and offering up a prayer for my life and others who will be on the road. She might not take too kindly to that.
I was not an amazing driver when I first began, but I understand now why my father held onto the "OH SHIT bars" for dear life. I seriously have a hand cramp from this day's excursion.
We will be practicing again, and soon, and I pray it will allow us to safely arrive to our final destination. I hope it will result in me telling Haven, "Good job." Right now, I need a drink.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Curfewitis
I had to take a break from writing my book. I am writing a story about a prevalent problem and I think I've actually given the problem to myself. (Sorry if I am being cryptic, the finished product will be a surprise.)
I love how now, we all are able to self diagnose ourselves with debilitating syndromes straight from our television sets. Don't act like you've never done this. I once convinced myself that I had Social Anxiety Disorder.
Right.
Well, if you've ever met me, you would know that being social and in social situations has never been a problem for me. I kind of love being around people. Maybe that's why I have so many kids. That's something to think about, anyway.
A couple of weeks ago, Haven did not come home when she was supposed to, and missed her curfew by a couple of hours. I cannot tell you how angry and scared I was. I screamed at her on the phone and demanded that she get her blankety-blank ass home immediately! (I had another Joan Allen moment. At some point, I am going to need to meet Mrs. Allen, that is if I make it through high school.)
The next day, I expressed how frightened I was not knowing where Haven was. She told me that she felt like she had adequately explained what she was doing and why she did not make it home on time. I told her that if that were true, she should have only missed her curfew by an hour, not by two. Miscommunication or not, that child is everything to me, and it is my job as a mother to know where she is at all times. It is pretty clear that I do not know everything Haven does. Girls are sneaky. I was a sneaky girl once.
During my upbringing, I did not feel like my parents needed to know everything I was doing, because I was usually doing something that they would not approve of, like drinking and smoking (or in my case, doing both at the same time). I am sure Haven feels the same way. This is all a part of growing up, and whether or not I like this stage of child-rearing, it is going to happen, and it is coming at a fast pace.
A few days later, I found that her screen was off of her window. We live in a two story house, and Haven's room is located upstairs. I asked her why her screen was off and she told me it was so that she could go out to sit and think on the roof.
Right.
I am not one of those mothers who believes everything my child tells me. In fact, I am one of those mothers that embraces worst case scenarios, and reacts to them.
I told her that leaving the house via her window was not a smart idea. I told her if she was brave enough to sneak out of the house, while knowing how I would react, she should be brave enough do it by the front door. I told her she didn't need to break a leg to be defiant. Short of chaining her to her bed (which is against the law), I did not know what else to do. She swore to me that she has never sneaked out of the house before.
I don't know what to believe. It seems to me that mothering is getting harder as she ages.
Haven has a lot of freedoms, more than I ever had. More often than not, when she asks if she can do something, the answer is yes. She will be an adult in less than two and a half years, and it is my belief that these years are for me to show her how to function in the world once she is out of our home.
I've always told Haven that I would trust her until she showed me that she could not be trusted. I told her to be prepared for that day because I most definitely would pull her out of some house party in a disgusting pink robe with my hair in curlers. I don't actually own those items, but need to locate some fast!
I love how now, we all are able to self diagnose ourselves with debilitating syndromes straight from our television sets. Don't act like you've never done this. I once convinced myself that I had Social Anxiety Disorder.
Right.
Well, if you've ever met me, you would know that being social and in social situations has never been a problem for me. I kind of love being around people. Maybe that's why I have so many kids. That's something to think about, anyway.
A couple of weeks ago, Haven did not come home when she was supposed to, and missed her curfew by a couple of hours. I cannot tell you how angry and scared I was. I screamed at her on the phone and demanded that she get her blankety-blank ass home immediately! (I had another Joan Allen moment. At some point, I am going to need to meet Mrs. Allen, that is if I make it through high school.)
The next day, I expressed how frightened I was not knowing where Haven was. She told me that she felt like she had adequately explained what she was doing and why she did not make it home on time. I told her that if that were true, she should have only missed her curfew by an hour, not by two. Miscommunication or not, that child is everything to me, and it is my job as a mother to know where she is at all times. It is pretty clear that I do not know everything Haven does. Girls are sneaky. I was a sneaky girl once.
During my upbringing, I did not feel like my parents needed to know everything I was doing, because I was usually doing something that they would not approve of, like drinking and smoking (or in my case, doing both at the same time). I am sure Haven feels the same way. This is all a part of growing up, and whether or not I like this stage of child-rearing, it is going to happen, and it is coming at a fast pace.
A few days later, I found that her screen was off of her window. We live in a two story house, and Haven's room is located upstairs. I asked her why her screen was off and she told me it was so that she could go out to sit and think on the roof.
Right.
I am not one of those mothers who believes everything my child tells me. In fact, I am one of those mothers that embraces worst case scenarios, and reacts to them.
I told her that leaving the house via her window was not a smart idea. I told her if she was brave enough to sneak out of the house, while knowing how I would react, she should be brave enough do it by the front door. I told her she didn't need to break a leg to be defiant. Short of chaining her to her bed (which is against the law), I did not know what else to do. She swore to me that she has never sneaked out of the house before.
I don't know what to believe. It seems to me that mothering is getting harder as she ages.
Haven has a lot of freedoms, more than I ever had. More often than not, when she asks if she can do something, the answer is yes. She will be an adult in less than two and a half years, and it is my belief that these years are for me to show her how to function in the world once she is out of our home.
I've always told Haven that I would trust her until she showed me that she could not be trusted. I told her to be prepared for that day because I most definitely would pull her out of some house party in a disgusting pink robe with my hair in curlers. I don't actually own those items, but need to locate some fast!
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Resolution
Well, hello, 2012. I hope you are kind to me and my daughters. My resolution this year was not to make one. I never follow through even with good intentions. I've been pondering what Haven's resolutions might be--if she has any. I am sure one of them has to do with track. She is a pole-vaulter and is pretty dang good at it. I bet her resolution is to make it over 11 feet. She already has 10 feet in the bag. She will do it, too, because she is determined, strong, and much better at following her dreams than I am.
I can clearly remember every new year celebration of my time in high school, but cannot even begin to think of what I might have said my resolutions were. They may have been something like this:
"I promise not to give my Mom a hard time about anything."
"I vow to be nice to my boyfriend and sisters."
"I am going to keep my room clean and organized."
I probably never did any of those things.
Haven began this year very sick. She came down with a nasty case of strep throat that I hope she does not share with the rest of the family. I found her the other day helpless, weak, and laying on the shower floor. My mother-powered strength kicked in and I was able to help her up and get her back into bed. It was then that I realized that no matter how old she is, she still needs and wants me to be her mother--even if it only comes out when she is sick.
Last night she was finally able to join us at the dinner table for supper. Her color was awful and she was still as weak as a newly hatched bird, but she showed signs of life coming back into her. She asked her four year old sister if she was happy to be back in school after the long holiday break. I bet Haven would like to be back in school with all of her friends. She barely ate as it was hard for her to swallow.
Her little sister laughed hysterically when I said, "Poor Baby." I questioned her laugh. I told her that Haven was still my baby; she was my first baby. Revy said that she knew that Haven came out of my tummy first. Haven told her what she remembered about the day Revy was born. We all enjoyed reminiscing about their births.
I am not the type of woman who finds being pregnant a joyous occasion. My pregnancies are plagued with months of bed rest and hemorrhoids the size of large catfish. It freaks me out that my body can stretch and contort as big as it does. I don't like that a baby can kick you so hard that you pass unintentional gas in front of your neighbors.
None of my deliveries came without incident either. Haven was 11 days overdue and I was not pleased about her still residing within me. When I finally went into labor with her, I literally threatened to choke my father out and told my mother not to even think about fixing her hair. I screamed at them to get in the car and not to stop at any red lights. When we arrived at the hospital, I told the nurse that my name was, "Leslie Epidural Williams," and I wanted to know when I could get one. 30 hours and a 4th degree tear later, my first daughter was born, blue, with an umbilical cord wrapped tightly around her neck. The doctor worked to remove the cord and assisted her with her first breath of life.
My second daughter was a scheduled C-section. Scheduled. You would think by the word "scheduled," everyone including my ex-husband would be prepared. Nope. Thank goodness my mother had previously flown to Hawaii, where we were stationed, for the delivery. She really saved the day and I was grateful she was there. My husband broke his flip flop as we were about to go into the delivery room. No-one wears shoes in Hawaii if they don't have to, and flip flops are acceptable foot wear for a delivery room. I think that's gross, but whatever. His shoe broke and was not going to be allowed to attend the delivery. My mother, who had no clue where in the world she was, raced home and back to the hospital with a new pair of flip flops so that my husband could see his first child being born. My C-section was preformed without complication and I was equally pleased with the birth of my second daughter.
My third delivery can not be classified as typical. Anything that could go wrong, did. At barely 37 weeks my water broke. My husband and I were taken immediately back to the operating room and I was preped for my second C-section. I was given a spinal block and the surgery began. The doctors were shocked when I told them to get their hands out of me. I saw the surgeon and anesthesiologist exchange looks. I was administered more medication and they waited for it to take effect. Once again, they began to remove my third daughter from me. Once again, I told them that I could feel it. Other looks were exchanged and my husband was escorted out of the room. We both missed the birth of my third child. Later, I was told that my baby had issues breathing and had to be resuscitated.
None of that was fun. However, now that they are all here, I find that I have enjoyed every second of every minute that they have been on this Earth. I realized that from the minute that each of my children entered this world, I made the only resolution that I will ever keep: I vow to never leave you, I promise to always love you, I thank God every day that you are here, and I will always, ALWAYS do what I can for you.
I can clearly remember every new year celebration of my time in high school, but cannot even begin to think of what I might have said my resolutions were. They may have been something like this:
"I promise not to give my Mom a hard time about anything."
"I vow to be nice to my boyfriend and sisters."
"I am going to keep my room clean and organized."
I probably never did any of those things.
Haven began this year very sick. She came down with a nasty case of strep throat that I hope she does not share with the rest of the family. I found her the other day helpless, weak, and laying on the shower floor. My mother-powered strength kicked in and I was able to help her up and get her back into bed. It was then that I realized that no matter how old she is, she still needs and wants me to be her mother--even if it only comes out when she is sick.
Last night she was finally able to join us at the dinner table for supper. Her color was awful and she was still as weak as a newly hatched bird, but she showed signs of life coming back into her. She asked her four year old sister if she was happy to be back in school after the long holiday break. I bet Haven would like to be back in school with all of her friends. She barely ate as it was hard for her to swallow.
Her little sister laughed hysterically when I said, "Poor Baby." I questioned her laugh. I told her that Haven was still my baby; she was my first baby. Revy said that she knew that Haven came out of my tummy first. Haven told her what she remembered about the day Revy was born. We all enjoyed reminiscing about their births.
I am not the type of woman who finds being pregnant a joyous occasion. My pregnancies are plagued with months of bed rest and hemorrhoids the size of large catfish. It freaks me out that my body can stretch and contort as big as it does. I don't like that a baby can kick you so hard that you pass unintentional gas in front of your neighbors.
None of my deliveries came without incident either. Haven was 11 days overdue and I was not pleased about her still residing within me. When I finally went into labor with her, I literally threatened to choke my father out and told my mother not to even think about fixing her hair. I screamed at them to get in the car and not to stop at any red lights. When we arrived at the hospital, I told the nurse that my name was, "Leslie Epidural Williams," and I wanted to know when I could get one. 30 hours and a 4th degree tear later, my first daughter was born, blue, with an umbilical cord wrapped tightly around her neck. The doctor worked to remove the cord and assisted her with her first breath of life.
My second daughter was a scheduled C-section. Scheduled. You would think by the word "scheduled," everyone including my ex-husband would be prepared. Nope. Thank goodness my mother had previously flown to Hawaii, where we were stationed, for the delivery. She really saved the day and I was grateful she was there. My husband broke his flip flop as we were about to go into the delivery room. No-one wears shoes in Hawaii if they don't have to, and flip flops are acceptable foot wear for a delivery room. I think that's gross, but whatever. His shoe broke and was not going to be allowed to attend the delivery. My mother, who had no clue where in the world she was, raced home and back to the hospital with a new pair of flip flops so that my husband could see his first child being born. My C-section was preformed without complication and I was equally pleased with the birth of my second daughter.
My third delivery can not be classified as typical. Anything that could go wrong, did. At barely 37 weeks my water broke. My husband and I were taken immediately back to the operating room and I was preped for my second C-section. I was given a spinal block and the surgery began. The doctors were shocked when I told them to get their hands out of me. I saw the surgeon and anesthesiologist exchange looks. I was administered more medication and they waited for it to take effect. Once again, they began to remove my third daughter from me. Once again, I told them that I could feel it. Other looks were exchanged and my husband was escorted out of the room. We both missed the birth of my third child. Later, I was told that my baby had issues breathing and had to be resuscitated.
None of that was fun. However, now that they are all here, I find that I have enjoyed every second of every minute that they have been on this Earth. I realized that from the minute that each of my children entered this world, I made the only resolution that I will ever keep: I vow to never leave you, I promise to always love you, I thank God every day that you are here, and I will always, ALWAYS do what I can for you.
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