THE HATED CHILD

THE HATED CHILD

My oldest daughter Jessi moved to Williston, North Dakota five years ago.  Yes I know, over there the "boom" met its "doom" quite some time ago so why is she still there?  Believe me, that question escapes my lips vehemently, with no clear answer in return  That doesn't stop me from hitting the repeat button...unfortunately, she keeps hitting the pause.

Where's the mac and cheese?

The first time Jessi came home for a visit she professed incessantly how she was the "hated child".  A prime example:  "Wow, I see that you guys go out to dinner a lot" (a big shout out to social media for giving her siblings a great bragging platform...).  "How come we never went out to dinner when I was living at home?" to which I replied "well as a single parent raising the four of you,  I had to live within my means which meant providing dinner in the comfort of our own home, creating the creamiest mac and cheese imaginable - better than any Five Star Restaurant could."  She rolled her eyes, pivoted on one foot and walked away.  Maybe not the creamiest?

A couple of years later, she approached me again (once more, thank you social media) with another attempt at playing the "hated child" card: "Wow, we never got to go to the amusement park when I was living at home!" to which I replied, "well I only have three kids at home now, so the load has lightened a bit."  She closed her eyes, shook her head and marched off.

Rockaway Beach Oregon

Then, another couple of years passed and there we were again, but this time she'd decided to step up her game by using the "guilt" card in conjunction with the "hated child" card.  "We never got to go to cool places like the Oregon Coast when I was living at home - you considered going to Grandma and Papa's house our family vacation!  You've seriously done all of this fun stuff since I moved out!" to which I replied "well I only have two kids at home now so my load is even lighter than it was before".  I got the glare and stare, hands on the hips, and the two-foot pivot that time.  Was she really not picking up what I was putting down?

And I'm still not sure if she has figured out the math: fewer kids at home equals more money for those who still remain - it's not a complicated equation.  And yes, I agree, it's not fair but that's how it is.  I know, having that rank is like grabbing the splintered, short end of a stick, over and over and over again - I myself am the oldest.  I get it.  Wait until she sees what I plan to do next, now that I'm down to my last Mohican.  I'm sure you can imagine how well that's all gonna play out...

Each time Jessi pulls the "hated child" card, I kindly remind her it's not that she was "hated" it's that she was my "practice run", my "crash test dummy", my "if at first I don't succeed I'm gonna have to pull something out of my...and hope for the best" child.  I'd imagine most parents can relate to this when it comes to their firstborns!  And quite frankly, there wasn't a "Parenting for Dummies" handbook back then and Dr. Spock's Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care didn't seem to offer a heck of a lot of common sense to me - maybe because it was published back in 1946?  So it was simply trial and error; throwing caution to the wind while hoping a hurricane didn't ensue; tossing a tarnished penny up in the air - heads, you're grounded for a week - tails, you're grounded for two.  Hey, it wasn't my fault she wound up with more tails than heads - go have a talk with probability and statistics on that one.

And then Jessi continued, as I knew she would, because she has always been my little spitfire: "Well you let Ryan (my youngest and last of the Mohicans) do whatever he wants!"  So I start the "I saw this whole thing coming" conversation wherein I patiently explained that as one gets so many years of parenting behind them, they start to take on battles differently.  Then they wake up one morning and decide they're flat out tired of taking on battles, then suddenly the battles start taking on them - in other words, the warhorse is old, the cannon is rusted and the black powder is past its expiration date.  Do you think she rolled her eyes at me again - yep.

Home Sweet Home

Jessi traveled home a week and a half ago and brought a companion along with her whom I'd heard all about but had yet to meet.  She definitely needs to keep him woven into her inner circle of friends. They traveled from Williston to Las Vegas for a memorial service, then went through Pocatello so she could see my other daughter, Kaitlyn and her new off-campus apartment.  Then they headed north to Coeur d'Alene for a few days, and yes, she was the first "guest" in my beach room!   She loved the chair, and no shocker there - she's only 5'2" and didn't have to do the whole "squat and plop"  to get in it, nor the "forward roll onto your face" to get out...

Every time she comes home she begs me to go bowling.  Ugh... Reluctantly I go, but seriously, a bowling ball is not in my "makes me smile" beach pail for a reason.  I will admit, once I get to the bowling alley and put on them sexy shoes, have a couple beers, feel the hip-hop music rupture my eardrums and the mind altering strobe lights compromise my already failing eyesight, it's not all that bad.  (So that's why I bowled a 42?)  Anyways, I'm sure you can now truly understand why there isn't a bowling ball anywhere near my beach room.

So the picture above is of Jessi, that night at the bowling alley.  She walked up to our lane wearing those shoes on her feet and a look of disgust on her face.  Apparently, her tiny feet requires a kid-sized shoe.  I'm wondering what's so terrible about that - her height is tiny, her feet are tiny - is it just me or do her genes hold the key to unlocking the Fountain of Youth?   I tell her, if nothing else, she should be grateful because size 5 footwear is the most popular size on clearance shelves everywhere.  She's wasn't amused.  "Mom!  They're Velcro!"  Oops, they sure are.  The only clever thing I could think of to say at that point was "make sure not to put too much of a bend in your foot in that final step when you throw the ball - don't need one of them shoes flying off and hitting someone in the teeth - perhaps you should just slide down the lane and spare us all!"  Somehow, she ended up bowling one of her best games ever- I mean she was invincible, like to the point where she could have pulled off a granny shot from the next lane over, standing backward, on one foot, with a fly tickling her nose, and still score a strike.  I guess when you're hot you're really hot.  For those of you bowlers out there who are struggling with your game - get Velcro shoes.

Thumbelina takes on Goliath

This is Jessi's truck, her "baby" as she calls it.  I'm pretty sure it's just as expensive as a real baby.  I will say, my idea of being a Grandma was a wee bit different: I can't rock her "baby" in my arms, bounce it on my knee, squeeze its cheeks or play peek-a-boo.  However, on the flip side, her "baby" doesn't require a sitter, diaper changes or 2 a.m.feedings... I tease her all the time about having such a big truck.  In the picture above, you can see her legs behind the door and you may think that is the back of her head through the passenger window but you're wrong my friend, that is the side view mirror. I've never watched her get into that thing (there are no steps or running boards, mind you) and I imagine it could be rather painful to witness.  I've been thinking about building her a truck-a-hoist (future patent pending?) for Christmas which, once my beach room clears out from hunting season, and then converts into Santa's workshop, the elves can create for me. If they can't come up with something clever I have Plan B - a mini trampoline where she can do a single jump and catapult into the truck cab.  I hope she remembers to open the door first...maybe I should include instructions?