Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

More than sixteen years ago, my husband and I became parents when I gave birth to our son. Our daughter arrived on the scene a couple of years after that. Suddenly, they are both in high school, both on the fast track to leaving us for college. It occurred to me recently that we just might survive this parenting gig.

When they were babies, veteran parents offered sage advice, from pacifiers to toilet training to teaching them their A, B, C’s. With all the do’s and don’ts proffered, we had to find our own way. Mainly, we had to realize that to raise kids, you have to be a little bit crazy because no truly sane person could stomach this job.

Doctors will tell you that as you age, your body changes and so does your ability to do things you’ve always done with ease. I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking that it could be this parenting endeavor that has short-circuited my brain function to that of a house plant. When my back aches and my muscles throb, I feel certain it has more to do with the fact that the last time I truly relaxed was 1991.

My son started driving. This singular event has altered the nature of my psyche to the point that I’m fairly certain the person I used to be was abducted by aliens and supplanted by a large lump of anxiety fashioned into some trembling semblance of the former me, but with lots more gray hair. Every time the car leaves the driveway, so do half my nerves.

I shared my concerns with my husband one evening when our son’s expected time of arrival came and went.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this,” I told him stiffly. “Ever.”

“I see what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I’m sure my mom still worries every day that I’m driving out there all on my own. It’s been what, only three decades?”

Where logic is his forte’, mine is listening for the garage door to open.

“It’s just that so many things can happen on the road. And we’re just allowing him to go, free as a bird. What kind of parent does that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Normal ones, maybe?”

That’s when I remembered that to be a parent, you have to be insane.

One afternoon, my son tromped across the front yard to check the mail. I watched him from the front porch as this small flutter of panic rose in my chest. He is grown! Years ago, he would walk to the mailbox as I peered from the window, making sure he remembered to look for cars that could flatten him. Now he drives off and I’m not there to remind him, “Look both ways, mister!”

In no time, this girl of ours will be getting her driver’s permit and testing the highways herself. It is more than I can fathom. Every wreck I see, every patrol car in hot pursuit, every ambulance with siren wailing makes me want to pull over and lose my lunch. And this is normal?

Through every stage of their development, I have admired their abilities and strengths. Our children have good hearts, good heads on their shoulders, and recognize what a tremendous gift a life of purpose can be. They amaze me daily. Worry me constantly. But they totally make this parenting thing worthwhile.

What I hope they realize is that the term “driving me crazy” must have been coined by a parent, most likely while pounding an imaginary brake and muttering prayers of deliverance through gritted teeth. I also hope they understand that this white-knuckled ride we share with them is one we wouldn’t trade for anything, in spite of that requisite loss of sanity. Parenting proves to be the ultimate, most rewarding job, followed closely by backseat driving.

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Mrs. Harmon turned to me during the “meet and greet” part of church service a few weeks ago.

“I want you to write about front porches,” she said. “I was sitting on mine the other day and decided to tell you that you should write about front porches.”

As we returned to our seats, I thought about my assignment. Within seconds, I was a kid again, lounging like a lovesick lizard on my Grandma Long’s front porch swing.

Grandma’s house on Mulberry Hill in Ellisville faced a deep pasture of sprawling hills dotted with maples and black walnut trees, oaks and sweet gum. Blackberry bushes clotted the low areas and sometimes a few cows would graze and ruminate in the shade of the trees. It was pretty country, and you could soak it all in from her porch.

The swing, painted white with a slatted back, dangled at one end of the porch from two lengths of chain that creaked musically with the slightest nudge. During the sticky heat of summer with no air conditioning, it was one of the few spots you could sit and hope to feel the air move.

Most always, my cousin Dwelia and I would perch together, our bare toes just touching the smooth, cool concrete, and we’d sing:

“Bimbo, Bimbo, where ya’ gonna go-ee-oh. Bimbo, Bimbo, whatcha gonna do-ee-oh?”

Her mama, my Aunt Bobbie, taught us that song, and we belted it out with opera lungs.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mama know? That you’re goin’ down the road, to see a little girlie-o!”

We pushed back and forth in rhythm with our jubilant, if not harmonized, voices.

One time when our cousin Scott was visiting from Ohio, we had a chinquapin war headquartered at the front porch. He plucked dozens of berries from the tree just behind the porch and popped us so hard with those green bullets they left red hot spots on our freckled skin. We did our best to nail him from our fortress, but he was too quick and we were laughing too hard.

Grandpa Long would sit in his aluminum chair right at the edge of the porch near the steps to spit and whittle. A rare August breeze would carry the sweet scent of cedar shavings across the porch and through the screened windows. The aroma always made me think of quilts and winter time. I would rock on that swing, close my eyes and dream of cool autumn air.

When Ms. Harmon asked that I write about front porches, I was ashamed at just how little time I spend on mine. Some of the best therapy in the world can be found atop a rocking chair in full view of the world just outside my door. Sitting outside at dusk, when squirrels scamper in the fading light and birds settle in the branches, I feel comforted. And much like a good hymn sung with sincere and earnest praise, time on a front porch revives your spirit with life’s very best tonic.

Few things are more wasteful than an empty front porch. So in the interest of enjoying a much needed respite, I sat on mine this evening and settled into the calm. I watched moonlit clouds sail slowly above the pines. I could taste that rain was on the way and savored the pleasant quiet as even the bugs seemed to soften their chirping and buzzing.

It was peaceful, beautiful and I wondered why I don’t venture out there more often. I do know that I fully agree with Ms. Harmon. Front porches are certainly worth writing about, and I thank her for the essential reminder.