‘Having a cow’ when a simple good-bye would do
By Sharon Randall
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Sometimes when you say, “never again,’” life jumps out from behind a bush — as my uncle Harry did once on Halloween in a bathrobe and a Howdy Doody mask — and scares the bejeezes out of you shouting, “Gotcha!”
Uncle Harry, rest his soul, had been hitting the moonshine; life doesn’t have an excuse.
I don’t know if you call it maturity or plain old-fashioned experience. I call it objectivity — the stuff that allows us to see things in perspective, in ways we never saw them before.
I’m speaking of our children and the ways we relate to them. Do we treat every experience as a matter of life or death (a reaction my children would refer to as “Mom is having a cow”); or do we sit back and smile, secure in the knowledge that with the grace of God and the good hygiene that we have taught them, they are ready to juggle knives?
You need a lot of objectivity — and years of parenting — to make that leap of faith from having cows to juggling knives.
Take my word for it. I hardly ever have cows any more.
Never mind what my three children claim. They are older now than I was when they were born, which means I am well past cow-bearing age, right?
Or at least, I should be.
I thought of the cow thing this weekend, watching my husband give birth to an entire herd.
Eight months ago when we were married, I inherited — along with his vast collections of CDs, baseball caps and bass guitars — his two teenage boys.
I never dreamed I’d have teenagers again. They live with their mother almost three hours away, so it isn’t always easy to see them as often as we’d like.
One of the best things about this Christmas was having them come to dinner along with their mom. It was a gift, watching two families become as one.
My kids seemed to enjoy it as much as I did. They were in their early 20s when we lost their dad to cancer. We had always been close and his death brought us closer. But they have big, stretchy hearts with plenty of room for expansion.
Also, they probably think a couple of teenagers will distract me from having cows about them. As if I ever did that.
This weekend my husband’s oldest, a college freshman, came to see us before driving back to school in Southern California of All Places.
It was fun. Until it was time for him to go. His dad, I swear, turned into the biggest nag I’ve ever seen, aside from my mother, rest her soul.
First, he had to supervise packing and repacking the car.
I rolled my eyes.
Then he went back over the directions, asking all the same questions 50 different ways.
I shook my head.
Finally, he said we had to get in the car and drive 20 miles to lead the boy to the freeway.
I laughed out loud. Talk about deja vu. I recalled doing similar things with my three. I know how it hurts letting go. It helps to have a little objectivity.
They said a long goodbye, my husband and his firstborn, the bear reaching up to hug his cub.
Then the boy turned to me and grinned. He is big, like my boys, and when he leaned down to hug me, I noticed for the first time that his arms felt a lot like their arms, and his neck smelled a lot like their necks.
My heart did a back flip the way it always does when I have to say goodbye to one of my own, as if I just saw my uncle Harry in a Howdy Doody mask.
So much for objectivity.
I gave the boy a Gatorade and a bag of snacks and told him not to drive faster than 40.
With my luck, he probably thinks I was having a cow.
http://www.naplesnews.com/news/2006/jan/15/sharon_randall_having_cow_when_simple_goodbye_woul/?neapolitan
By Sharon Randall
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Sometimes when you say, “never again,’” life jumps out from behind a bush — as my uncle Harry did once on Halloween in a bathrobe and a Howdy Doody mask — and scares the bejeezes out of you shouting, “Gotcha!”
Uncle Harry, rest his soul, had been hitting the moonshine; life doesn’t have an excuse.
I don’t know if you call it maturity or plain old-fashioned experience. I call it objectivity — the stuff that allows us to see things in perspective, in ways we never saw them before.
I’m speaking of our children and the ways we relate to them. Do we treat every experience as a matter of life or death (a reaction my children would refer to as “Mom is having a cow”); or do we sit back and smile, secure in the knowledge that with the grace of God and the good hygiene that we have taught them, they are ready to juggle knives?
You need a lot of objectivity — and years of parenting — to make that leap of faith from having cows to juggling knives.
Take my word for it. I hardly ever have cows any more.
Never mind what my three children claim. They are older now than I was when they were born, which means I am well past cow-bearing age, right?
Or at least, I should be.
I thought of the cow thing this weekend, watching my husband give birth to an entire herd.
Eight months ago when we were married, I inherited — along with his vast collections of CDs, baseball caps and bass guitars — his two teenage boys.
I never dreamed I’d have teenagers again. They live with their mother almost three hours away, so it isn’t always easy to see them as often as we’d like.
One of the best things about this Christmas was having them come to dinner along with their mom. It was a gift, watching two families become as one.
My kids seemed to enjoy it as much as I did. They were in their early 20s when we lost their dad to cancer. We had always been close and his death brought us closer. But they have big, stretchy hearts with plenty of room for expansion.
Also, they probably think a couple of teenagers will distract me from having cows about them. As if I ever did that.
This weekend my husband’s oldest, a college freshman, came to see us before driving back to school in Southern California of All Places.
It was fun. Until it was time for him to go. His dad, I swear, turned into the biggest nag I’ve ever seen, aside from my mother, rest her soul.
First, he had to supervise packing and repacking the car.
I rolled my eyes.
Then he went back over the directions, asking all the same questions 50 different ways.
I shook my head.
Finally, he said we had to get in the car and drive 20 miles to lead the boy to the freeway.
I laughed out loud. Talk about deja vu. I recalled doing similar things with my three. I know how it hurts letting go. It helps to have a little objectivity.
They said a long goodbye, my husband and his firstborn, the bear reaching up to hug his cub.
Then the boy turned to me and grinned. He is big, like my boys, and when he leaned down to hug me, I noticed for the first time that his arms felt a lot like their arms, and his neck smelled a lot like their necks.
My heart did a back flip the way it always does when I have to say goodbye to one of my own, as if I just saw my uncle Harry in a Howdy Doody mask.
So much for objectivity.
I gave the boy a Gatorade and a bag of snacks and told him not to drive faster than 40.
With my luck, he probably thinks I was having a cow.
http://www.naplesnews.com/news/2006/jan/15/sharon_randall_having_cow_when_simple_goodbye_woul/?neapolitan