Being the mom of teen and ‘tween girls, even without the autism factor thrown in there, can be
enough to make a grown woman cry trying. There are days, like today, where all of life’s little stresses all pig-pile on top of each other and you have two choices. You can either laugh, or you can cry.
About a month ago at a dental cleaning, our dentist discovered a tiny blocked salivary gland under my 12 year old’s tongue. Not a big deal, but it had formed a tiny stone and had the likelihood of becoming infected not too far down the road. She set us up with an appointment with an oral surgeon to have it looked at, which we did. He agreed that it would need to be taken care of..a super easy 2 minute procedure.
Yeah, right. If that appointment doesn’t leave me with PTSD, nothing will. There was crying, hissed threats (me), veiled insults (her), questioning of career choices (him). Finally, finally…we finished with the world’s simplest dental procedure and I
drop-kicked dropped her back off at school.
Then before I could even get to McDonald’s for my iced coffee, my phone rings. Hallee has been going through some health concerns for the first time and it’s her doctor’s office saying that they have out-patient surgery scheduled in two weeks for her. After this news, I don’t want to shop any more. I want to come home and
Google scary surgery statistics then cry, eat all of the things and then go to sleep have a cup of coffee and talk to my sister, which is exactly what I do.
Not long after dinner, Hallee announced that she wanted me to put the “hair lotion” (This is what Hallee calls Veet hair remover) on her legs since she has Special Olympics Track & Field tomorrow and wants to wear shorts if it’s warm enough. So off into Mom’s bathroom we go. Grab the bottle of hair remover, re-read directions, since we haven’t done this since last summer and I want to make sure I don’t broil the skin of my kid’s legs by leaving this crap on too long. Yep..5 minutes, rinse.
Me: OK, take your pants & socks off, sit here on the lid of the potty and I’ll do your legs.
Hallee: Oh! It’s cold! Oh! What’s that smell? Oh! Don’t touch my legs! (really..how am I supposed to…nevermindjesuschrist)
Me: OK, next leg..wait, sh*t, what time did I start your left leg? Has it been two minutes? Ok..(look at phone, leaving a big smear of Veet on the screen) it’s 7:38, say we started 2 minutes ago..so 7:41 we need to rinse.
Hallee: No, is cold! My legs are not liking the cold! Stop breathing on my legs! Mom, don’t breathe! You missed here..put lotion here! (leg kicks out, sending a glop of chemical sh*t directly onto my chin. I’m hairy as hell thanks to peasant genes, decide to leave it)
Me: What time is it? Where’s my phone? OHMYGOD that stuff is eating my phone!! (wipes phone frantically on shirt) What time did we start your legs?
Hallee: It itches!
Me: OHMYGOD get in the shower, get in the shower!
(various shrieks and banging, shampoo bottles fall and nearly smash toes, kid’s skin is about go up like a solar flare)
15 minutes later, she’s hair free, I reek like Veet, my clothes are soaked and I now have to convince her that no, that wasn’t your night-time shower, that was just rinsing your legs, now you need a real shower.
I get her situated in her own shower upstairs, dry off, collapse on the couch to watch a movie with Mark and the yells from upstairs start. It’s armpit night. Every other night I shave Hal’s pits for her. She doesn’t want to use the lotion on those and insists on shaving, which means I do it for her. The kid still has a scar on her left shin from where she peeled it like a carrot three years ago after getting her hands on one of my razors in the shower. I’m all for helping her with independent self-care, but I also like her blood inside her body. So back up I get and by the time I get her sorted, get her a snack, put a dvd on for her, pack tomorrow’s lunch for Special Olympics, dig out the sunscreen and a sun hat for her..it’s almost time for bed.
I caught the last little bit of the movie with Mark, who is now sound asleep, because he has to be up at 4am. I briefly contemplate waking him up, because I miss him. But he’s finally on the mend after being sick for weeks with a rotten cough that would not give up the ghost and so I leave him be. I have a load of laundry to throw in the dryer, I have to go start the dishwasher, get the garbage ready to take out tomorrow and something in the vicinity of the garbage disposal smells like hot death and it’s 11 at night. I wouldn’t change my life for anything, really, I wouldn’t. But good googamooga…somewhere between the oral surgeon’s and the Veet, I should have called a do-over.