Geriatric Parenting: Overprotecting the Fun Out Of Childhood Can Make You Tired

Today I went out and about sporting my usual look: rumpled up, slept on hairdo, baggy pants, decent shirt, flip flops, no makeup.

Who is the last person that you want to see when you look your very worst?

Your ex-boyfriend, right?

Who’s second?

Your ex-boyfriend’s wife.

But, third is your ex-boyfriend’s best friend. I saw this person from a distance and knew a close encounter was inevitable. I looked in my vanity mirror and wished I’d put on a teeny bit of makeup, so I rifled through my purse and came up with lipstick and found a baseball cap underneath the seat to cover up my lovely do.

I still looked like hell.

I was telling Lacye about this on the phone when I got home.

“That’s nothing’” she says… “I had to go to the office the other day, (her husband’s office,) just had to run in for a second….at the very last minute I put on a bra, which was lucky.“

“And I know that bra was all worn out, damn Target bra I‘ll bet.” Lacye has never, ever taken support seriously.

“Worn out yes, but not Target, it was Wal-Mart, anyway,…I had the same ‘went to bed wet’ hair you had, but I couldn’t find my flip flops anywhere. I was desperate, I had both of the girls loaded in the van.”

“What’d you do?”

“The only thing I could. I ran back in and put on my fuzzy slippers.”

“No. You. Did. NOT!”

“Oh yes I did and I was wearing them when I noticed my flip flops were on the floor of the van, so I put those on, instead. I was gonna wear them, I didn’t care who saw it, I’m just at that point, you know, like that girl I saw in Wal Mart that time…”

“What girl?”

“You know, I told you about her, had the fuzzy slippers and pajamas on with two kids hanging on the buggy?”

“I don’t recall it.”

“Oh, please, she did not have on the kind of pajamas that maybe, possibly, could kinda pass for real clothes….Girlfriend had on pajamas, fuzzy slippers and an expression that dared you to judge her.”

“Unreal.”

“Paige, it’s us against them…” She doesn’t elaborate on who “them” is…Husband? Kids? Ex’s? The whole establishment?

“Yeah.”

“Survival of the fittest when you’ve got little ones like this.”

“I know, I know….”

But, really, I think maybe we’re just old….Yesterday, I went to kindergarten lunch with Hannah:

I’m sitting with Hannah and her best friend, Sarah. We proceeded to eat.

“My Mom is 29 years old.” Sarah starts our conversation this way. “But my Dad’s really old, he’s 33.” I think she’s trying to make conversation with me and using her observation of my advanced age, she’s trying to relate to me using her (old-ass 33 year old) father.

“That’s nice….” I say to her, then under my breath I say “Babies…..” ("Babies" came out with a slight air of contempt...)

“What?”

“I said ‘babies.’”

“They’re not babies!”

“It’s kindof a joke, I know you think they’re old, but they’re not. That’s what I meant. They’re young.”

“Oh. … Well, how old are you, Mrs. Flynn?”

“Much older than your parents.”

“Yeah, my Mom’s real old…” Hannah adds.

“How old?”

“I’m 42.” They both look at me wide-eyed. This is an inconceivable number for them, although they’ve previously told me they can each count to 200, which is a good thing, considering I’llsoon be about 200 years old. They’ve been studying dinosaurs and Hannah asked me the other night if I’ve ever seen one, you know “when I was little.”

“How old is your husband?”

“Ancient. He’s 51.” And with this information they both start laughing. They’ve each got their little hands cupped around their mouths and they’re hovering together, laughing conspirationally at the geriatric-ness of my husband and me. It isn't funny....to me.

“Well, since my Mom’s 29, she’s going to be 30 on her next birthday. She was 23 when she had me.” Sarah’s all about numbers…so I figure I’ll shock her with some math of my own.

“I was 36 when I had Hannah and 29, like your Mom is now, when I had her brother, and he’s 13 years old.” Again, Sarah is wide eyed, she’s doing her mental calculations with the numbers I’ve just given her. No matter how you add it, subtract it, multiply it or divide it, the following numbers are old to Sarah: 42, 51, 29 and, yes, even 13... She wouldn’t be shocked at all if I said “yeah, we live over there in the nursing home, with all the other old people.”

And to think we considered having one more. Let’s do the math on that one, shall we? If I got pregnant in the next three months, I’d give birth at 43 and Frank would be 52. When that child is in kindergarten, I’d be almost 50 and Frank would be almost 60. I would be having this exact same conversation and the numbers would compare like this: Sarah’s mother, 29, me, 50. Sarah’s father 33, Frank, 60. Our kid’s sister Hannah, 13, Brother Scott, 21, who’s only two years younger than Sarah’s mother was when she had her.

Ugh.

Hell, no wonder Lacye and I are tired and she’s wearing fuzzy slippers in public. We are too old to be in the baby business. It’s just not natural. Nature dictates that these children could be our grandchildren.

“You know the only reason that girl was wearing fuzzy slippers is because Wal Mart won’t let you in barefooted….” I say to Lacye, getting back to our conversation about being worn out.

“Winn Dixie Feet.” She says, laughing…When she and I were kids, Mom would drag us to Winn Dixie and during the summers we’d be barefooted. When we got back into the car, our feet would be black on the bottom. My friend Dustin, calls it Circle K feet, we call it Winn Dixie Feet.

I absolutely cannot imagine one of my kids having Winn Dixie Feet…as my kids always have the proper shoes, Scott because he’s growing and he pronates (has no arch) and Hannah because she’s growing and has to have the proper support…lest they do not grow correctly and suffer a lifetime of tiny, humiliating feet with debilitating pain, which of course would be

Completely my fault…..

Yesterday I saw three teenage boys on skateboards wearing only swimsuits. No helmets, no kneepads, no shirts, no shoes, just swim trunks and a smile, the way nature intended. No doubt they were also sporting Winn Dixie feet.

I loved it. It reminded me of my own Tom Sawyer type Alabama childhood where kids lived fun, if not totally dangerous lives, picking blackberries in snake-infested fields and climbing tall trees, making mud pies from bacteria laden Alabama clay (hell, we probably ate them...) unlike today’s kids who are over-analyzed, over-protected, over-educated, over-antibacterial-ed, over sunscreened, over-afraid and over-everything elsed by their over-aged parents. If we old parents get a free minute, we have to figure out a new way to protect or promote our kids…

Hell, no wonder we’re tired.

Where’s my damn slippers?

In my next post I'll be writing about my childhood pet velociraptor named "Little Bit." If you'd like to hear about our adventures, please go to the following link and click "Like." You can find my facebook link on the home page.