superstitious helicopter parent

when I was a little girl, I was slightly *a lot* OCD (and weird). there was an entire summer, when I was about 8, that all I did was lay on the end of my bed and watch the home shopping network for like 18 hours a day. seriously. i was mesmerized by the bling, teflon, and i was captivated by the urgency of the first 100 callers get this extra piece of crap free of charge.

and when other kids were playing king of the mountain or riding bikes or whatever, I was playing library. not playing at the library. I was playing actual library. oh yes, friends, I made up my very own Dewey decimal system and played pretend with my imaginary patrons checking out books. if I known I’d grow up to be a Drew, id have named my decimal system Dewey Drewy Decimal system because I had a penchant for alliteration and bombdiggityness at a young age.

…there are so many other examples of my bizarreness that I won’t bore you, but every time I think “my child is so weird” my next thought almost immediately goes to some variation of the colloquialisms “the pot calling the kettle black” or “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”. there are so many things about me that I hope my kids don’t emulate. funny thing about having kids is that they make you a better person or at least a more introspective one (which is saying something for a person who im pretty sure could carry on a conversation with a brick of it could just give an encouraging nod every now and again).

i would never want j or c to spend a whole summer as a QVCaholic or obsessing over the proper re-shelving or spewing a cornucopia of 4 letter words. or lots of stuff. superstition falls into the category of one of my least favorite things about myself. I am endlessly superstitious. I always have been and suspect that without taking a fist-full of anti-anxiety meds w/ a vodka chaser (which i have no intentions of doing) that I’ll always be.

superstition has always played to my insecurities or passions. “don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mothers back,” “seven years bad luck for breaking a mirror,” etc, ad nauseum. when I was in elementary school I actually wrote a book for a project that I really think I’ll publish (or attempt to publish one day). I couldn’t fathom stepping on a crack consciously for fear that wherever my mom was and no matter what she was doing she would break her back. it didn’t matter if she was standing immobile in line at the grocery store or laying on the couch. my active imagination would have ninjas busting through windows to give my mom a swift kick to the spinal cord and snap that shit like a twig. (this is before I knew about the awesomeness that is chuck Norris. if I were to have these irrational thoughts now about ninjas, chuck Norris would surely open a barns worth of whoopass on these ninjas before they could do any snap into a slim jim-ing. but I digress). I hope that my children are free from this superstitious worrying and that they avoid stepping on any sidewalk cracks. a girl can dream, right?

to this day, I am still super superstitious. I had a stall in my weight loss and I attributed it (in my warped little mind) to it being because i wrote about my weight loss here. in all actuality it has nothing to do with writing about it and everything to do with me sucking down fat pills (aka extra food). so here I am, slave to superstition writing about it again to cancel my original writing about it out. am I a freak? I think yes. I write about this stuff to 1. empty my mind and to 2. make others who are like me feel like they aren’t alone.

a lot of days, I feel like I’m the only parent on the planet. i wish I had my imaginary library patrons back so when my child does something hilarious or appalling, I could look at someone and say “did you just see that?”. most of the time i try to see humor in my life with my baby boos, but mostly I find myself being a helicopter parent so I can protect my kids from making the same mistakes I have made. i also fancy myself to be protecting them from themselves in general. I mean supermaning off the couch is boatloads of fun until it ends in an er marathon for stiches or a cast.

I apologize for not being “funny” today but sometimes I just need to empty the contents of my brain so that I can just fill it back up tomorrow.

in other news: my daughter has started a most annoying habit of sucking at the breastaurant really hard and then pulling herself off suddenly. it makes a pop sound and she smiles the biggest grin ever. the grin in cute, the boob pain I could do without. I’m so glad my nipples are an endless source of entertainment, but I would rather wear a clown nose or make classy fart-noises from my armpit. my new philosophy on bfing with her is “suck it or get off the nip”. I’m really screwed when these bottom teeth come though because she also enjoys biting down on my nipple and pulling back until it’s hanging out of her mouth like a cigarette/cigar. it’s a little audrey Hepburn, a little godfather, and a lot irritating (literally and figuratively).

my guy is just hilarious. his vocabulary is expanding in leaps and bounds everyday. today when his daddy came in the door he exclaimed “oh my God, hi!” (remind me not to say that turn of phrase anymore). later he looked at the cat and said “meow, meow… how ya doin’?” as if to translate. and he told me tonight that “[he] wanna go back to da bockbocks!” in other words, he wants to go back to see the chickens. smart boy. in keeping with my hope to make my children better than me I try to stray away from negative corrections like “go the eff to sleep” or “sit the Hell down!” or “eat it or starve” and stick with things like “you are sleepy, why don’t you close your eyes and rest. it’ll make you feel better”, “mommy would prefer it if you sat nicely”, or “you won’t have energy to play if you don’t eat”. again, I dont want my kids latching onto my nasty habits. besides, what are friends for if not to text them what I’m *really* thinking?


1 Comment (+add yours?)

    Sep 08, 2011 @ 16:34:04

    2 things. First, I had an obsession with 3×5 notecards and alphabetizing, from age 8 to 11. I would write random words on entire packs of notecards just to alphabetize them and file them in a 3×5 box. I also had an obsession with miniature things. My best thing ever was a tiny, tiny address book at age 6. (I think all west pointers have issues. You are not alone.). Secondly, Vivi is doing the exact same boob things. Why do I insist on nursing? Ugh.


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