I keep writing new blog entries in my mind, but somehow they never make it onto the computer. Trust me, they were witty and wry and full of depth and pathos, just like me, but they never got transferred to the written word and now languish somewhere between the neurons of my brain. Trust me, they were good, though.
In the past week, a couple of strategic things have happened with my adult kids that would have previously rocked my boat, but the boat is already capsized and one good thing about a capsized boat is that it doesn’t rock very easily.
My dear son has put off the call to arms while he sorts out his overwhelming urge to break the law and hop the rails and become the next Woodie Guthrie.
Damn that homeschooling anyway.
It was my bright idea to let him explore his interests. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?! How was I to know that our study of the Great Depression would be inspiring? The Great Depression isn’t supposed to inspire you; it is supposed to scare the holy shit out of you and spur you on to greater and greater achievement. Duh. (My husband suggests that I shouldn’t have called it the “Great” Depression, but maybe just the Depression, or maybe “That Time That Sucked Really Bad and Nobody Wants to Happen Ever Again”.)
In the midst of my lovely son deciding to ditch realistic goals for romantic ones, my daughter tearfully informed me that she also was not planning on living up to any of my preconceived and ego-feeding displaced aspirations I might have had for her life. She doesn’t want to go back to college right now and wants to start a family, soon.
Now, honestly, this is a great compliment my daughter has given me since I spent quite a bit of her childhood as a stay-at-home mother, but I’m too bought into this foolhardy world and all its sparklyness to take any comfort in that, yet. I expected both of my children to leave the safe harbor of home and head off for the great halls of learning, wowing the socks off those professors with what an amazing education they received at the hands of a humble mother and thereby providing me with plenty of bragging rights and them with ultimately lucrative and prestigious careers.
Face it folks, these two genetic replicants just aren’t producing the desired results right now. Nothing has turned out like I expected.
Yeah, it could be worse, much worse. That isn’t the point.
I actually sat down and sort of thought through this parenting thing quite a bit. I read a couple of books (and not What to Expect When Your Expecting, either) and really mulled this over.
My visualized objective was to raise shining paragons of virtue who would do what I say and fulfill my hopes and dreams. What mother doesn’t want that?
What I got was fierce, free-thinking individuals intent on living their lives from the gut and from the heart.
Wait. Actually, I think that IS what I was subconsciously going for and apparently I’ve gotten exactly that. Unfortunately, children do what they see not what you say and neither of these little apples fell far from the trees that spawned them.
What I didn’t realize was that this agonizing learning curve period of their young adult lives was going to be so dang steep for me. I want to know NOW how it is all going to turn out. I could probably tolerate the hobo thing and the young, ardent motherhood adventure if I knew how it was all going to turn out in the end.
So, I’ve done what every mid-life crisising woman, who still has it going on by the way, would do.
I bought two tickets to Rome. We leave May 6th.
This is WAR!