A Self Proclaimed Detached Parent
There comes a time in life of a parent when you panic.
Not the raw, naive crawling panic when you bring the first born, totally fragile infant home and have zero idea what you're doing no matter how many books on attachment parenting you've read.
Nor the half-goofy, half-terrified moment when the baby takes her first step.
And not even the half second before you shut the door and wave your 16-year old good bye the second they get their driver's license.
No.
A real panic is when your child is playing a sport, goes down and doesn't get up. Or, if you are not the parent privy to that moment, the one where you answer the phone and hear the voice of your child's other parent a little breathy, a little more nervous than you like to hear telling you the child is injured and he is the way to the emergency room. There are broken bones involved. Surgery. General anesthetic. And a lot of pain.
In a world of "attachment parenting" and kids who breastfeed until they're old enough to ask you for a cigarette afterward, I am a little old school. While my kids were definitely not "seen and not heard" they were in bed early, out of my way, and fairly self sufficient at a young age. Some of it is a function of living overseas for so long. They were forced into cultures that also asked a lot of their kids at a young age, not by necessity but by tradition. I'll be the first to admit my kids could uncork a wine bottle and mix a decent g&t at an obscenely young age.
However, once we got back to the US after nearly a decade overseas the kids were sorely unprepared for the helicoptering required of us. And hence, our kids may seem a little unsupervised but I think they are pretty cool. And our house has become a gathering place of sorts for various girlfriends and boyfriends eager to engage in brisk political banter or the relative merits of the House Baratheon vs. Stark.
But, back to the issues at hand. Two bones have been broken thanks to a rogue kick of a soccer ball by a fellow teammate hitting square at the wrist, one a fairly nasty "unclean" break in the growth plate. So we have a surgical appointment tomorrow, the 5'3" 120 pound athletic "baby" is going under to get some pins set in the dirty break. The kid played for over five minutes after this hit, surprising her coach, and every doctor that has seen her in the last 2 days, but not her father and not me. She is one tough cookie.
But I dread the moment I have to look over the hospital bed the second they send us out to wait. Truly. Although I'm not about to breast feed her no matter how guilty those super moms make me feel.
*note: all those kids breastfeeding until they're 10 or whatever....all boys*
Thanks for listening.
Liz
Not the raw, naive crawling panic when you bring the first born, totally fragile infant home and have zero idea what you're doing no matter how many books on attachment parenting you've read.
Nor the half-goofy, half-terrified moment when the baby takes her first step.
And not even the half second before you shut the door and wave your 16-year old good bye the second they get their driver's license.
No.
A real panic is when your child is playing a sport, goes down and doesn't get up. Or, if you are not the parent privy to that moment, the one where you answer the phone and hear the voice of your child's other parent a little breathy, a little more nervous than you like to hear telling you the child is injured and he is the way to the emergency room. There are broken bones involved. Surgery. General anesthetic. And a lot of pain.
In a world of "attachment parenting" and kids who breastfeed until they're old enough to ask you for a cigarette afterward, I am a little old school. While my kids were definitely not "seen and not heard" they were in bed early, out of my way, and fairly self sufficient at a young age. Some of it is a function of living overseas for so long. They were forced into cultures that also asked a lot of their kids at a young age, not by necessity but by tradition. I'll be the first to admit my kids could uncork a wine bottle and mix a decent g&t at an obscenely young age.
However, once we got back to the US after nearly a decade overseas the kids were sorely unprepared for the helicoptering required of us. And hence, our kids may seem a little unsupervised but I think they are pretty cool. And our house has become a gathering place of sorts for various girlfriends and boyfriends eager to engage in brisk political banter or the relative merits of the House Baratheon vs. Stark.
But, back to the issues at hand. Two bones have been broken thanks to a rogue kick of a soccer ball by a fellow teammate hitting square at the wrist, one a fairly nasty "unclean" break in the growth plate. So we have a surgical appointment tomorrow, the 5'3" 120 pound athletic "baby" is going under to get some pins set in the dirty break. The kid played for over five minutes after this hit, surprising her coach, and every doctor that has seen her in the last 2 days, but not her father and not me. She is one tough cookie.
But I dread the moment I have to look over the hospital bed the second they send us out to wait. Truly. Although I'm not about to breast feed her no matter how guilty those super moms make me feel.
*note: all those kids breastfeeding until they're 10 or whatever....all boys*
Thanks for listening.
Liz
No comments have been added yet.
