She Doesn't Have to Agree with Me

Parenting.

My husband and I were blessed with an incredibly "easy" first child. She came into this world happy and content and for the most part, quiet. She slept through the night from the beginning. She drank her bottles. She rocked contently in her swing and allowed me to wash dishes, vaccuum and even nap occasionally.

I remember when she was a few weeks old and the husband and I ate corn dogs and tater tots for dinner one night. Because that's what broke 24 year olds with a new baby eat.

We were both smote with writing gas pains. We were immobile. We could do nothing but lie in the bed, motionless, and sweat while the contractions came.

I feared that parenting was about to get real. Real hard. I feared that I wouldn't be able to tend to that precious little peach bundle in her bassinet next to the bed.

But my perfect 21 day old offspring went to sleep. And she slept soundly until morning. I was able to rest and recuperate and regurgitate until I was well again. I woke up the next morning, as she still slept peacefully, and I told my husband, "This parenting thing is easy breezy."

She walked and talked early. She learned things quickly. She was so incredibly smart. She was beautiful. She was so easy.

When the terrific twos rolled around, she obeyed. She listened. She never threw herself on a Target floor and demanded a My Little Pony. She said please and thank you. She never complained. Or whined. Or argued.

And then the boy was born.

But this post isn't about how challenging the boy has been. Yes, he came into this world mad and demanding and has been known to throw a bottle across the room a time or two. I've scraped him from the Target floor. I've put him in his time out chair until I broke a sweat and held back my own tears. I've tossed and turned at night praying for patience and wondering how to handle my boy and his strong will.

But he's getting older and more independent. He's better at obeying and listening and keeping his tantrums to a minimum. He's getting easier.

He's still not "perfect" like my daughter was, but he's perfect, nontheless.

As my husband and I sat on the back porch several months ago and watched our beautiful blessings on the swingset, I said, "The boy is doing so much better. This parenting thing is getting easy again."

And then my daughter decided to get a mind of her own.

She is nearly 7, and she's the light of my life. She's still well behaved, kind-hearted, and she excels in school, but  the little girl that used to beg for my stories and all of my free time is growing up. And she's exhibiting behavior that I didn't expect until she was at least 13.

She once looked at me with admiration. She loved my ideas. She thought I was smart. I had all of the answers to all of her questions. She agreed with every word I said.

Now.

Now she questions all of my ideas. She can't just take my word for things anymore. She demands to know why and how and what. And I'm embarassed to admit that half of the time I'm too dumb to answer her questions.

"What is this silly-ca gel packet on the counter?"

"It's silica gel. It came out of my new purse. Please throw it away."

"What is it?"

"It keeps the purse fresh and dry....or something."

"But, what is it?"

"It's silica gel."

"I know that, MAMA. But, what does it do?"

"It came out of my new purse. It keeps it fresh."

"How? How does it keep a purse fresh, MAMA?"

"It just does."

"But, how. I mean, WHAT IS IT EXACTLY?"

"I DON'T KNOW! BUT DON'T EAT IT!"

She's also influenced by children at school. She comes home wanting to know why I won't allow her to wear or watch certain things when "so and so" can. She gets mad at me and stomps up the stairs to her room. I've caught her rolling her eyes at my rules and requests. She suddenly thinks that I'm not fair, this isn't fair, it's not fair.

She no longer agrees with every word I say.

She still loves me, yes. She still wants to participate in our girl days and her face lights up during our quality time together, but our time together is usually, sadly, interrupted with an argument of some sort.

I never imagined that I would be arguing with that precious little peach bundle that slept so soundly while I held my stomach full of tater tots and yelped in pain. I never imagined that we'd butt heads or that I would feel such incredible pangs of guilt for yelling at her.

I don't want to yell at my daughter. I don't want to send her to her room when she blatantly disobeys me. I don't want to sigh in frustration when she asks me the same question 23 times. I don't want to do these things, but I find myself doing them anyway.

And then the guilt sets in and I feel like a horrible mother.

Parenting is hard.

What has this little girl become? Why won't she take no for an answer? Why am I, a 31 year old woman, having an argument with a 7 year old child? Why doesn't she just listen and obey and do what I tell her to do without voicing her opinion? Why doesn't she act like she did from the ages of 0-5?

Because now she has an opinion. She's becoming a "real" person with her own likes and dislikes. She can no longer just go along with whatever I say. She has to question things. She has to know how and why and what. My word isn't good enough anymore. She has to know the facts.

I have to admit that I enjoy being in control. Saying that makes me feel horrible, but it is true.

You can control a "perfect" 2 year old. You can tell them to sit down, be quiet, eat their graham crackers. And a "perfect" 2 year old will do it. Because mama said so.

That 7 year old doesn't want to sit down. She's been sitting at school most of the day and she just doesn't "feel" like doing it.

She doesn't want to be quiet. She's been quiet at school most of the day and there are 428 questions she needs answering. Now.

She deosn't like graham crackers anymore. That's a baby snack.

 Is yelling at her like Mommy Dearest the correct way to handle this? No. And I'm so incredibly guilty of that.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," they say. And I sweat it often.

I have to stop.

I have to accept that my little girl is becoming her own person. I have to accept that her likes aren't always going to be the same as mine. I have to accept that she no longer takes my word for things just because it is my word.

She's not deliberately defying me by asking me the same question 42 times an hour or not taking "no" for an answer. She's simply learning, discovering, and becoming her own person.

Of course there are times when she will have to follow my rules, and if being mad at me for 30 minutes comes along with that, well that's just tough. I am still her mother, and my number one priority is to keep her safe.

But she's not a baby anymore. She's not my little robot that's programmed to eat the meatloaf and like it just because I like it. She's not my little robot that's programmed to take my answer and trust in it just because it's mine. She's not my little programmed robot anymore.

She doesn't have to agree with me.

And I'm struggling with that. She doesn't have to agree with me.

If I type it again, maybe I will accept it.

She doesn't HAVE to agree with me.

Parenting is hard.

And she's not even a teenager yet.

Drive In and Jump Off

Saturday had arrived, and I dropped my daughter off at my mother's house for the day. She's almost 7 and really enjoys hanging out with my mom. She was pumped because she was getting new flip flops and the opportunity to look at Amish people at the farmer's market.

My husband had plans to take the boy and gallavant around town doing guy stuff. This left me alone for the entire Saturday. Naturally, I was in an awesome mood. When I'm in awesome mood, my first instinct is to eat.

I think my mood gland is connected to my food gland. Or something.

I've been eating "clean" for almost two years. I very rarely indulge in junk and hormone-laden beef, but I was in such a good mood that I wanted to devour something naughty and delicious. I set my sights on Sonic.

It's okay to go "unclean" once in a while. And nothing screams "unclean" like a can of imitation chili dumped over some small, round hashbrowns.

Watching me scarf down this food was like watching Connie Conehead inhale a foot long sub sandwhich. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was ugly.

I finished my meal and enjoyed the silence of sitting in my car at Sonic. There was no screaming from the back seat. There were no fallen tater tots in the seat belt clicker thing. It was just me, Sonic, and the digestive process.

When I was finally ready to go, I turned the ignition, and nothing happened. Nada. The battery was dead.

Sonic is a heck of a place for your battery to die  I mean, no one can pull up in front of the car to jump it off unless they want to ram over the picnic tables and a sign advertising a "Big Bacon Clubber."

I tried to call my husband and got his voicemail. I guess doing guy stuff with the 3 year old didn't include answering the phone.

I finally pressed the order button and told the voice on the other side of the speaker box covered in Peanut Butter Fudge Shakes, "I have an odd request. My car battery is dead. Can anyone come out and jump it off?"

The girl laughed at me and said someone would be out shortly.

I felt totally embarassed to be sitting at Sonic with a popped hood, but at least I didn't look like these people.

A matter of seconds passed when a young fellow that looked to have escaped from his mother's womb only moments earlier approached my car and said he'd be glad to help. I thanked him numerous times.

I didn't think to blog about this situation at that moment. I mean, nothing was really funny about this. It was unfortunate, yes, but my car battery dying at Sonic wasn't blogworthy.

But that soon changed.

I saw the kid hop into his relic Ford Ranger, and I thought, "He's going to jump off this incredibly large SUV with that thing? Is he sure this is going to work? Will his truck fly through the air like it's been hit by an F5 tornado when he hooks that little thing up to this beast of a vehicle? It's almost like a Mastiff and a Yorkiepoo mating. Something is bound to explode."

I worried even more when he tried to start his truck and it stalled. And stalled. And stalled some more.

"I'm going to have to walk home. I just know it," I mumbled to myself as the little pickup choked.

By the grace of God, the Ranger sputtered to life and he pulled next to me.

The cables didn't reach.

So, he backed out and tried again.

No sir.

As he was pulling out the second time, some trick in a ball cap and a silver Town and Country MV whipped in the spot right next to mine- the perfect spot for this kind young gentleman to help me.

My hood was popped. She was aware that I was having car problems. She'd seen the Ranger heading for that space, and yet she took it. The Sonic was nearly empty. She could've parked anywhere, and yet this was the spot she chose.

The little kid in the sputtering Ranger threw up his hands in frustration.

"Mam?" I called from my window.

She looked at me.

Meanly.

"I'm sorry, do you mind moving? My battery is dead and that kid is trying to jump me off. He needs to park there."

She didn't smile and say, "Oh, sure! No problem!"

She didn't smile and say, "Well, duh, your hood is up, isn't it? Excuse me for being an ignorant female dog."

She didn't smile. She didn't say anything. A peeved look covered her face as she rolled up her window and slowly moved her van.

I loathe ignorant people. I loathe rude people. I loathe that woman in her Town and Country.

So, the kid finally pulled as close as possible. He tried to pop the hood on the relic Ranger, but it wasn't happening. I noticed his hands were shaking. He was really nervous.

As I watched his trembling hands trying desperately to yank the hood, I thought, "I've still got it. This young kid thinks I'm the hottest 31 year old woman he's ever seen. He's so intimidated by my beauty that he's shaking."

I held my head high and asked if he needed some help.

He said yes.

It was no small feat, but we succeeded in pulling up the hood.

He broke out the jumper cables, which looked to have been spliced and repaired in several ways, and he attached them to my car. I nearly dove behind the dumpster when sparks started a-flying.

I don't know much, but I know how to match colors on a set of booster cables. The kid, however, did not.

"Watch it now! You need help?" a really large guy called from his truck parked across from us.

"No, sir, I got it!" the shaking boy yelped.

"You're gonna blow up that lady's car! Are you sure you got it?" he called again, onion ring waving violently in his hand.

"Yes, sir, I got it," he said again, matching the colors and wiping the sparks from his hair.

It took a while, but he finally got it figured out. My car roared to life, and I was relieved I wasn't going to have to walk home. My gut was heavy with imitation chili. I wouldn't have made it 33 steps.

I told him that I didn't have any cash on my person, but if I did, I would have tipped him nicely. He really went through a lot of trouble and almost went up in smoke because of his kind gesture.

And he didn't think I was hot. He wasn't intimidated by my 31 year old crow's feet, my lack of make-up and the stray bobby pins hanging from my hair.

He was nervous because he'd obviously never used jumper cables.

But I have a feeling that his Ranger will be needing them soon.

Not Eating Good in the Neighborhood

Our three-horse town is really moving on up. To the east side. We finally got a piece of the pie.

The apple pie.

Apple. As in Applebee's.

We used to have an Applebee's years ago. I really loved their fried chicken salad. Applebee's honey mustard dressing was right up there with O'Charley's. And I know my honey mustard.

I went on a date at Applebee's once in high school, and I think drinking the honey mustard from the little dressing bowl was one of the reasons he didn't call me back.

Oh, and he was an ass.

My mother and a friend were once sitting at the old Applebee's when three large fellows got into an altercation and somehow ended up on top of their table. They smashed my mama's ribs to pieces. Not her actual ribs, but her BBQ ribs. The place shut down shortly after because it seems that that my mother wasn't the only one to witness such a debacle in that Applebee's.

I usually think of these kinds of things happening at a biker bar on the south side of the tracks. Some place called "Rebel Hog's" or "Leather and Lace", but not at Applebee's.

I've digressed.

So when I saw that the old Blockbuster building was being transformed into an Applebee's, I was stoked. I've really missed that honey mustard.

Let's back up for a moment. Yes, I said the old Blockbuster building. When the 'buster went out of biz a while back, I was sure that the place would turn into an H & R Block or something strip mall-ish. Not a restaurant. The building doesn't really scream, "come eat here."

That's pretty much what it looks like.

But, we decided to give it a try anyway.

As we walked into the store restaurant, I saw this.

Please look closely. She tried to conceal the obscenities with permanent marker, but it really didn't help. Anyway, I should have known that this would have been an indication of the type of people frequenting the Applebee's.

When we entered, memories of Blockbuster flooded my mind.

When life mate and I were dating so long ago, we went to the Blockbuster at least twice a week. You remember those days, don't you? Renting a movie with your new beau, curling up on the couch, making out to Castaway. Because plane crashes, an incredibly hairy Tom Hanks and a volleyball with eyes are all extremely sexual things. 

"Awwwww, the Nintendo games used to be there," I pointed to the back wall as a tear formed in my eye.

"Remember those ten day rentals?" Husband took my hand into his.

"Remember that really rude gay guy that worked here?  Man, he hated you," I leaned my head on hub's shoulder as I thought about Paul threatening to send my husband's late fees to a collection agency.

"I think we still have Goodfellas on VHS. That almost ruined my credit," he wiped a tear from his cheek.

Man, we had some good times in that Blockbuster.

I've digressed again.

Anyway, the Applebee's was set up terribly. It was crowded. It was hot. And all those Blockbuster store front windows made it brighter n' hell. It wasn't cozy. It smelled of feet. And I was ready to leave as soon as we stepped inside.

And lets just say that the car out front could have belonged to any number of women in there. There were some really shady, hard-core looking broads sucking down hard liquor and shoving meat into their jowls.

After waiting for a table for nearly an hour, we were placed right in front of the windows, where I was tempted to pull out my sunglasses. Edward Cullen could not, I repeat, COULD NOT, dine here.

A lady at the table beside us was pissed. She'd found a hair on her food. Not "in" it, but "on" it, as in a big ass ponytail was just lying right on top of the fish fillet. We watched as a slew of waitresses and managers came to console her and try to redeem the situation.

She used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, and she told them all, "I'm no longer hungry."

Another indication to run.

We sat there for freaking ever without anyone taking our drink order. The sun beating through the windows had me all parched and stuff. Those windows! Look at the Blockbuster photo above! That's a lot of dang windows!!!

My husband is a big fan of the show "Bar Rescue." Every time we go out to eat, he times how long it takes for us to receive service. He's really an expert on bar and restaurant management now that he falls asleep to this show each night.

He was becoming extremely pissed and said we were leaving if we hadn't been served in thirty seconds. I began gathering up the kids when the waitress arrived. Thankfully, the car out front didn't belong to her. She was super nice, so I overlooked the wait time, the feet smell, and the sunburn that I was receiving.

The kid dropped his crayon. I bent down to pick it up and found a cigarette butt on the floor. A yellow butt at that. Probably a Doral.

Since the place had only been open for a week, I assume this butt belonged to a construction worker or something. I just hope one of those big fellows that crushed my mama's ribs wasn't back and burning one right in the middle of Applebee's.

However, it was nice and dark under the table. I thought maybe I should hide under there, just me and the Doral, until it was time to leave.

Our sweet tea finally arrived. It tasted like ass.

The cups were those red plastic ones like you had in the cafeteria in high school.

You know, cheap China-made shit.

The waitress came back and we told her our sweet tea tasted like ass.

"How does it taste?" she asked.

"Like ass," I said. "I've never tasted ass, but I can only imagine that if I did taste ass, it would taste just like this sweet tea."

She brought us some Dr. Peppers to wash the taste of ass from our mouths.

The long coveted fried chicken salad with honey mustard arrived.

On a plate.

I don' tknow much, but I know that salad belongs in a bowl.

Not on a plate.

Every time I tried to poke the lettuce with my fork, it slid off the plate. There were no bowl sides to catch anything.

I looked like I'd never eaten before as I chased a roma tomato around my plate, trying to keep it from sliding onto the scorching hot table.

Did I mention that the honey mustard tasted like water mustard?

If I took a cup of water and squirted mustard in it and then ate it, my taste buds would think I was back at Applebee's.

My husband ordered some kind of shrimp linguine thingy.

He said it tasted like those "frozen meals for overweight women."

I think he meant "Lean Cuisine."

I've eaten my share of Lean Cuisines.

But never in a Blockbuster.

A manager, which appeared to be high on something (and I ain't talking life), came by to check on us.

"How is everything?" he asked.

"I smell feet, I'm hotter than hell's house cat, I may have gotten skin cancer from the UV rays, the sweet tea tasted like ass, there's a cigarette butt on the floor, and you just fed my tall and skinny husband a Lean Cuisine. How the hell do you think it was?" I said.

No, I didn't.

I'm so freaking nice that I nodded and said everything was fine, as I pinched my husband's leg beneath the table so that he'd keep his incredibly outspoken mouth shut.

I'm no Jamaican fortune teller named Miss Cleo, but I know one damn thing.

The Applebee's in Podunk, Tennessee won't be here in a month.

No, no, no. It was one of my top 27 worst dining experiences ever.

I think the building would be perfect as a movie mega-kiosk.

Oh, that would be a Blockbuster. Needless to say, we were not eating good in the neighborhood. We were eating bad in the Blockbuster.