Wilson Post Blogs

A few months ago I realized that my obsession had gotten out of hand. My morning ritual of making coffee and reading the paper had sadly turned into my getting up and checking my phone for emails   - - before even making it to the coffeemaker. Blasphemous – I know!

Everyone thinks their children are the best. I am one of those parents. Although, I will admit there are times when I want to tape their little smart mouths shut, they seem to redeem themselves before I can tear tape from the roll. But there are times when I am so proud of my kids you might see me floating down the isle of your local grocery. Recently I had one of those experiences with my oldest son.

It’s getting to be that time of year again. The time when I catch up on my drinking and praying. You got it, the Kane family will be flying soon.

Something has happened over the past 15 years or so. My dad has developed his own language. Part of the blame goes to the influx of information and gadgetry that has saturated the country. He just can’t keep up. But, I must say he gives it a shot.

Let’s be honest, most of us have quirks. If left untreated, these little quirks can quickly morph into something more serious, like obsessive compulsive disorder or OCD. My OCD takes the shape of hypochondria where the slightest pain, discoloration of skin or cough has me worried that my life expectancy has been cut in half.

So the other day, as my middle child and I were walking into the grocery store – out of nowhere she said, “It was Wear a Sports Shirt to School day and YOU forgot to give me a sports shirt.”

When I had my children I knew that I would be a cool parent. My kids were going to be fully aware that the only thing a stork drops as he flies over our house is something that likely carries the bird flu. When it comes time for “the talk” we-my husband and I- were going to be honest and open for any questions.

Do you guys remember this movie? If you’ve seen it, I’m sure you remember that gut wrenching moment when Meryl Streep was forced to pick between her two children. She was given the choice of deciding which would live and which would die. Her choice led her to madness.

A few years ago, right after the birth of my youngest child I decided to take up a new sport that would help me get back to my pre baby weight. I tried a lot of different activities. There was step aerobics, yoga and racquetball. But I never really developed that “love” athletes talk about when describing why they do what they do. I needed something simple, something that would fit into my busy life and something that would take almost no effort on my part yet yield phenomenal results. I needed a magic wand but instead my husband bought a treadmill.

Mine was a two-door, hatchback, Honda Accord, with red velour seats and tinted windows. The previous owner had been a smoker, so no matter how many air fresheners I hung from the rear view mirror, the car always had a musty smell …with a tinge of vanilla.

There is a problem facing women that has reached epidemic proportions. I’m not talking about a physical ailment, although I’m sure that this problem causes a few. I’m speaking of over extending, over scheduling, overwhelming or more appropriately named “the yes disease.”

I like to joke with my husband, that when he dies I’ll honor his death as they did in ancient Egypt. I’ll bury him with his dogs so that they can all go into the afterlife together.

My children, like most I suppose, do not know how to whisper. They demonstrate this best while in church. This is why we -- along with other parents whose children lack the ability to control their volume -- choose to sit in the balcony, where we can at least contain the noise.

I was lucky to be raised in an equal opportunity household. My brother and I were treated exactly the same. If he helped Dad change the oil in the car, I was doing it the next time. If he mowed the lawn one week, I mowed it the following. (Right about now, my husband is wondering how this is even remotely possible considering I don’t even know where he keeps our mower.) But, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that my parents were big proponents of  - - anything a boy can do, a girl can do better!

I knew it when I married him. I knew that when it came to romance he was more Ralph Kramden than Casanova. Truth be told, my husband has never changed. He is who he is and that’s what I love about him. While I can be a bit wishy washy, he makes his mind up and never questions the decision made. So why am I surprised that he’s STILL not a hopeless romantic and just “hopeless?”

In my line of work, I often wear a suit and heels. Some days, however, it takes all the energy I have to put on my required “uniform.” So, whenever a nurse crosses my path in scrubs and crocks, I think to myself…. “why didn’t I become a nurse?”  But nursing would have probably been an unlikely career path for myself given  - sick people scare me.

How many times have your children let out a blood-curdling scream that has sent you running towards them thinking they have either poked their eye out or cut off a limb. To only find that they have a splinter or else big sister has pinched them.

There are few things in this world that I love more than doing laundry. It ranks up there with flaying my skin off with a potato peeler. As much as I loathe spending my days off separating colors, presoaking grass stained jeans and trying to find matches to socks that clearly do not want to be found, it is a necessary evil that I must tackle.

A few weeks ago, Becky told me that one of her resolutions for the new year was that she would stop holding grudges. She intended to let bygones be bygones and instead offer good thoughts for people who wronged her. 
 
I believe that’s what some people call “taking the high road.” Where that road leads to, I do not know, because it’s a road that is not programmed into my GPS.

Parenting is by far the hardest job. It’s harder than ditch digging. It’s harder than practicing medicine. It’s harder than just about anything. And what makes it hard is NOT KNOWING if you’re doing a good job. It’s like being in school and not getting your report card until eighteen years later when our kids decide to tell us how we could have done things better.