Tag: motherhood

RIP, Mr. Chipmunk

One of the hardest things about parenting for me is coming up with good explanations and “Momisms” on the spot. It doesn’t help that I am living with a 6-year-old Lawyer in Training either. She does NOT take my first answer as solid. She continues to question and reason and inquire and investigate and OMG . . . . it can be just exhausting sometimes. I love her curiosity, but geez kid.

I like to think I’m a pretty smooth operator and think quickly on my feet, but when it comes to the hard-hitting issues of parenthood, I sometimes fall short and find myself stammering through what feels like an interrogation by a smaller version of myself.

Case in point:  A poor unfortunate forest creature on a recent weekend trip. We had hopped on some golf carts and were taking a wonderfully serene tour through a resort golf course in the mountain lake region here in our beautiful state of West Virginia, and Little Princess and I were sharing a cart. We were having so much fun! Singing, chit-chatting, and just enjoying our surroundings.

We continued this little journey as the golf course path wove through the hills and into the forest. The lush greenery of it all nearly took my breath away. It really felt like a little enchanted forest.

Until it wasn’t.

I slowed our cart as we realized that something seemed to be scurrying across our path. Upon further investigation, I quickly (but not soon enough to dodge the bullet I’m about to share with you) realized it was a chipmunk in the THROES of death. I am not even exaggerating. It looked like a dramatic western death scene acted out by forest rodentia. I couldn’t swerve around him (her?) because he was convulsing all over the path and I was afraid I would squash  him, further scarring my daughter for life as “The Mommy Who Smashed a Chipmunk.”

I had no other course of action than to wait for him to finally stop seizing and go around cautiously. After what felt like hours of the two of us watching in horror (it was seconds), I was able to slowly navigate the cart around his lifeless body. He was on my side of the cart, but 6-year-olds are curious and we are all crippled by our inability to look away from a train crash, so we both got a clear visual of the blood that was coming out of his little mouth profusely.

I have no clue how this happened. We didn’t run over him; I was pretty sure the cart in front of us was too far ahead of us to have hit him.

Can chipmunks fall out of trees to their death?!?

No, seriously, I’m asking because that is the exact explanation I gave my daughter.

She was quiet for a little while and I said to her, “I’m sorry we had to see that. It was sad. Do you have any questions?” (Silently applauding myself for such an amazing reaction to the situation and rethinking writing a book on stellar parenting.)

Not so fast, Holls.

Cue 6-year-old rage and dramatics.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP???? WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP HIM! WE COULD HAVE TAKEN HIM TO A VET! THAT’S WHAT VETS DO! THEY HELP ANIMALS!”

Crap.

I held her as she cried and I tried to navigate a golf cart on a narrow path and attempted to explain to her that there wasn’t a Chipmunk Vet (“YES THERE IS!”), and that there wasn’t anything that could be done to save him due to the severe head trauma sustained from his fall. “WE SHOULD HAVE PICKED HIM UP AND HELPED HIM!” More tears.

Look, I get it. I’m a sympathetic soul, too, and it hurt my heart to watch the poor little guy die. But I want to really emphasize to anyone who is reading this and thinks my daughter has a point and that I should have done something that this thing was undeniably and reliably D-E-A-D. Watching it flop all over the trail was terrible.

wiz

She continued to cry. I continued to silently curse the heavens above for making us witness something so yucky, thereby also forcing me to have this somber discussion on what is supposed to be a relaxing weekend vacation. I started to feel emotional because I couldn’t take away my baby’s sadness and it hurt my heart to see her so upset. I empathized with her hopelessness toward the chipmunk, as I felt helpless as to what to say to comfort her. I also couldn’t stop picturing all the Chipmunk Greats:  Alvin, Simon, Theodore, Chip, and Dale.

I had exhausted all the right things to say, which wasn’t much. That parenting book of mine will probably be more of a pamphlet than anything, really, so I whipped out the last trick up my sleeve:  Chipmunk Prayer Vigil. I pulled the golf cart over and turned it off, and we said a prayer for the little fella.

We bowed our heads and asked Jesus to open up his pearly gates and welcome Mr. Chipmunk in with an abundance of nuts and other chipmunk friends.*

*Seriously. I said all those things. I was grasping for straws here, people.

We eventually made it back to the clubhouse and I shared with the other adults in our golf cart caravan the traumatic events of the last 15 minutes or so. (Actually, what I think I said was, “ok, which one of you ***********ers hit the **** chipmunk?!?”) None of them did; after all they really were too far ahead of us. But I really have no idea what happened to that thing! I’m sticking with it lost its footing and fell from high branch.

As children tend to do, Little Princess rebounded nicely and soon forgot about the critter and his untimely demise.  I think I’m more scarred over the whole debacle, partially because I wonder if I handled it correctly. Death is a difficult topic with kids, and it is hard to explain a situation that is truly hopeless. Mr. Chipmunk went to heaven. There was nothing we could do. And we got to watch (UGH!).

Later that evening at dinner, we were all enjoying dining al fresca, and the whole chipmunk fiasco of 2018 seemed to have passed us. We had moved on to the acceptance stage of grief and were at peace. #amen

candle

And then, I sh!t you not, at that very moment a freaking bird flew across the terrace and smacked RIGHT INTO the glass window next to our table and dropped like a rock to the ground in front of God and everyone (including the kids).

Sigh.

*orders glass of wine*

Ninja Worrier

I’m going to take us back to the OG topic of this blog, “worrying,” as this time of year and the busy-ness that is school and activities tends to stir me up a little. It’s always an adjustment, going back to school. For us, it almost seems like relief because we can re-establish a solid routine, and of course who doesn’t just LOVE Fall!? Getting back into said routine can be tricky, and there are just so many boxes to check off at the beginning of the school year. It feels like a sprint, but once we are back into the swing of things, I can unclench a tad.

But at the same time, for some reason, this time of year can trigger some anxiety. It sneaks up on me like a ninja in the night. Sometimes I think it’s because school used to once be a completely safe space, and now that guarantee isn’t necessarily there; but Fall also represents a chaotic and action (and excitement) filled time. School starts, sports and activities pick up, and the running around commences. So many things, positive or negative, can cause our souls to churn a little, seemingly out of nowhere.

I think every Mom carries with her a varying degree of anxiety or worry, specifically when it comes to our kids. When you become a parent, there is something so very, very powerful ignited inside you that it can be overwhelming at times; maybe even take your breath away. It has had me sometimes contemplating putting my kids in bubble where nobody and nothing can ever hurt them. It is a severely protective instinct, commonly known as the “Mama Bear” instinct.

And then there are times we parents can cross the line in the sand to what we lovingly refer to as “Psycho Mom.” I, myself, have a few legendary stories about Holly the Psycho Mom, and I will share one of those with you now…

After one particularly rough day at work, I was driving to pick up my kids at their daycare. As I approached the turn to take me to the center’s parking lot, I noticed a police car pulled off the side of the road with the lights on, the road was blockaded, and there was a law-enforcement officer directing traffic around the school as if to make people avoid the area.

Sadly, in today’s world, and having already been on edge from a stressful day, I immediately assumed the absolute worst possible scenarios. I first looked for flames and smoke shooting out of the building, and when I didn’t see that my mind went to another grim scenario: There must have been an act of violence.

My stomach immediately dropped and I felt the feeling leave my arms and face, and then I felt an internal swelling of emotions (that I guess must have been adrenaline) kick in. I did what any mama bear would do: I whipped my Pimp Ass Mom Van out of the lane of traffic (nearly onto the sidewalk) and pulled up right next to the officer and basically screamed,

“MY KIDS ARE IN THAT BUILDING!”

The kind officer looked at me puzzled, and right about that moment a beautiful red convertible with a lovely princess in a tiara and sash sitting on top of the backseat passed by, and I realized that all of this hullabaloo was because it was time for a parade. Nothing was wrong other than a small road block that caused me to have to go down 1/2 of a block further to access the daycare center parking lot.

goodgrief

A FREAKING PARADE.

We are all laughing now, right? This little event happened a couple years ago and I still tell people this tale of total overreacting by Yours Truly. (It was the Marshall Homecoming parade, in case you were wondering. Ah, Fall. Such a lovely time.)

But then again, did you get a little uncomfortable or anxious for me before you saw what REALLY happened? Can you relate? Maybe you would have done the same thing? (Maybe not? LOL!) Every parent is different. Every situation is different. And I have learned the reaction absolutely depends upon your disposition heading into said situation. I was already in a bad mood. If I hadn’t been, maybe I wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction.

I will never forget that initial feeling when I thought something was wrong and my sweet babies were in harm’s way. I blame that Mama Bear instinct. One moment you are a totally rational person, and the next you are invoking the guy from Mortal  Kombat who rips a guys head off and throws it at his body. #FINISHHIM

finishhim
Apologies for the graphic pic, but people of my generation will totally relate. Side note: Why did our parents let us play this game?!

These emotions are powerful, and I think it is present in all of us to varying degrees.

And that brings me to my point (I hope)…. Where’s the boundary between reasonable protective instinct and total Psycho Parade Jamming Holly? It’s often at the root of Mommy Shaming. We have all been guilty of it, referring to someone as a “helicopter parent” or, on the flip side, a “free-range hippie.” We think to ourselves, “OMG, what a Psycho Mom,” or “OMG, I would NEVER let my kid do that!” (Parental Note: Invariably, if you say your kid will NEVER do something, I guaran-damn-tee they absolutely will do that thing you said they would NEVER do.)

There are days when I feel pretty reasonable about gradually extending my kids’ metaphorical leashes, feeling free to let us all go out and experience everything life and this beautiful world has to offer. And then there are days when I want to become a “Dooms Day Prepper” and secure us all in a padded safe house deep in the wilderness away from all the negativity the world also has to offer. I’m on a quest to find the middle ground between those two extremes amidst the worry and the need to protect my babies no matter what.

Where is the boundary between reasonably protecting your child and stifling their growth through experiences? They have to learn to take care of themselves eventually, so how do we meter raising well-balanced kids and creating everything-phobes who can’t tie their own shoes or use a can-opener when they get to college? How can we parents sleep well at night (like, ever) when the world can be so scary sometimes?

Back in the day, I traveled a lot for work. Leaving the kids for days in a row was excruciating, and I was convinced that by leaving them I was doing permanent damage and certainly my plane would go down in flames leaving them motherless. (I know, morbid, right? But that’s the mind of this Weekend Worrier.) I was in an airport gift shop once and found a book called Psalm 91 for Mothers. For those of you unfamiliar with Psalm 91, it is commonly known as the Psalm of Protection. It is a favorite in my family, and while I often refer to myself as a “very flawed Catholic,” I find profound comfort in this verse.

Being a parent is so hard; the world is scary. Even if I don’t have something specific to worry or ruminate about, my kids are always at the forefront of my mind. I’m not alone, right? I guess the best thing we all can do is our very best, and even some days get by with good enough.

I don’t have all the answers. But, Dear Lord, I wish I did. Mother Theresa once said, “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.”

Some days, that’s all we can do, and most days, it’s all we need to do.

MT