The Hairy Wart & Big Bird

Quick question: Why is it just when we think we are doing a pretty good job parenting that something happens to let us know just how inept we are? Why this particular question? Well, I have three teenage sons in my home. I know, I know! You feel sorry for me. Feel free to send flowers, advice, chocolate, any kind of food, and monetary support to my home address.
Today is the day before Thanksgiving, 2008. My oldest will be 15 years old in January. He is responsible far beyond his 15 years. He keeps his grades up, participates in sports and holds down a job. He has already purchased his first vehicle with cash. He is at church every time the door is open and worships openly during worship time. He’s a wonderful young man…a dream in many ways. All of my boys are. Anyway, I have to enroll him in Driver’s Education in January to prepare him to actually drive on our great American highways. It’s a frightening thought, but that is not my most recent dilemma. I know you are thinking that it must be a “doozie” if it is more frightening than imagining my firstborn behind the wheel of a 1994 Chevrolet pickup truck. You thought right!!
Oh my goodness! He has a girlfriend, and I’m failing miserably with the mental and emotional processing of this horrific and yet historical event. Even worse, he is firmly convinced that he is true blue, head over hills in love with this young lady. (Insert dramatic eye roll here) I mean, it’s not that I want to discount his feelings, but HOLY COW!!!! He’s still a pup, a mere boy, my baby!!! When I think about it the world kind of slows down, bright lights flash uncontrollably, and I get tunnel hearing rendering me a dizzy lunatic that kind of feels like vomit is trying to escape the throat but is just hung there in limbo. Okay, so maybe that is a bit dramatic, but I’m NOT handling it very well. Actually I think I’m handling it in the worst possible way. I feel my nose morphing into an ugly green witch nose with a hairy wart to match my feelings as I share this story. Serious drama here!
At first, I forbade him to have a girlfriend. He had one anyway and just didn’t tell me for fear that I would “flip out”. Then I agreed to let him have a girlfriend but told him he couldn’t talk on the phone, go anywhere, hold hands or kiss. He did it all anyway and just didn’t tell me for fear that I would “flip out”. Then I read a text on his phone…”I love you baby.” I flipped out. I gave him the whole “love is for marriage, a mature adult emotion, a decision to commit” speech. His eyes glazed over after the word marriage. I may have been too passionate in the delivery of my speech.
The other night I was crying to Chad about it all. There I was in our little kitchen ranting and raving about teenagers these days, screeching about low morality of that generation and the deterioration of the parental structure in America when out of nowhere Chad slapped me in the face. Not literally! I mean he hit me right in the forehead with a truth so real that I wanted to smack him. I love this man like no other. He is my very best friend in the whole world, but he occasionally steps across a line that should not be crossed! I mean, honestly, how dare he interrupt my rant of insanity? He had the nerve to look at me and ask this question:
“How old were you when you got your first boyfriend?”
“13. Why?”
“…and how old were you when you got your first kiss?”
“13. So?”
“…and how old were you when you thought you were in love for the first time?”
“13…”
Then it occurred to me…a terrible revelation. I was almost two years younger the first time I felt the things he says he is feeling right now. I think I must have looked something akin to a witch flying on a broom stick being bright lighted by a southbound semi in the northbound lane on Highway 81 because the stark realization of my recent transformation into a perfect combination of both of my parents way back in the 80’s finally hit me square in the forehead...splat! HOW did that happen!?!
“That is not the point!!! I am talking about my son, my baby,” I wailed.
That is the point at which I revved up the pity party with me as the guest of honor. I started crying, declaring that my son hates me and that he just doesn’t need me anymore. My lip was even dramatically quivering. Real tears were trickling down my face. Chad politely declined my invitation to the party, hugged me, dusted me off, and set me straight. Sniffle. Sniffle. Sigh. I must say that it is a bit difficult swallowing a truth such that I have turned into my mom…the mom I accused of over reacting every time she disagreed with me as a teenager. Furthermore, I have taken on the previously annoying quality of my dad to justify my strict demands on my child by having “pure motives”. Then he did it again! Chad smacked me with another truth…”Veronica, do you remember the dedication we had where we dedicated Alex at church? The reason we did that was to let God have him and give us wisdom in raising him.” Kick a girl while she’s down, already! I just hate it when he is right! I mean, I’m supposed to be the psychologist in this relationship. I’m supposed to be the optimistic one, right?
That’s something about myself I just don’t like very much. I really mean it when I hand things to God. I want Him to take control of it. I want Him to give me direction. And then I take it back. I feel the need to “help” with the situation when I honestly don’t have a single clue how to approach a successful resolution of the problem! Hello! God knows it all! He knows how to fix it all!! He doesn’t need my help. That’s a lesson I need to learn full well. He is faithful. Even when I’m being ridiculous, he’s faithful. Even when I’m scared to death for my son’s little heart, He’s faithful. Even when I don’t deserve it, He is faithful. That should help me sleep better at night, right? Well, I did sleep better that night, but I do need to work harder on the letting go and letting God.
The following day I pulled up my big girl panties, called the girlfriend’s mother and we met for lunch. I walked into that little diner convinced of the worst. Funny, I discovered that she has all of the same fears I do. She is as concerned for her daughter as I am for my son. We made a pact. We vowed that the four of us parents would stay on the same page, work together to get these kids raised with God in the middle of every situation, and rest a lot easier. We agreed to chill out a little and save ourselves the stress. I had to take a deep breath through my green witch nose with the hairy wart. We compromised by agreeing to offer limited, structured, and supervised together time for the two kids. Honestly, how much trouble could they get into sitting in the same room with us eating homemade pizza and playing Monopoly? Guess what I’m doing this weekend. Alex’s girlfriend is coming over for dinner. I think I’m going to retire my broomstick and have rhinoplasty to repair the nose. I’m sure I will still make mistakes, but I’m going to try to be a better mother and a better daughter and trust my Heavenly Father more.
One last thought I had before I fell asleep that night: “If those twins put me through this next year, I will tar and feather them!” I envisioned a long lost second cousin twice removed of Big Bird from Sesame Street on one knee trying to propose to his big bird girlfriend. I hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, stuffed him and stuck him in the oven for Thanksgiving Dinner. It made me giggle as I drifted into one of the best nights of sleep I’d had in a very long time.