I love going to Google to look for an image, usually mid-way through, while writing a blog. Ironically, the more productive I feel in real life, the better the writing seems to become. If looking at the stats on meanderingABOUT and YUPPYdom are a strong indication.
Finding the perfect image to compliment the point I want to emphasis, often buried in all the other stuff I write. I might start out with a strong title and then start writing. However, once the image has been chosen, there is a strong likelihood that the title will change along with it.
I could spend hours looking at Pinterest art and photographic splendor: there is a LOT of talent out there in the universe.
Thankfulness
I may be slightly off the mark in my thankfulness blog to commemorate our Canadian Thanksgiving this year earlier in October [ usually, it fall around the third week of October, or so I thought ].
I'm sure my brother is thankful every October. That is when he married his love of his life, his wife. He was kinda private about relationships from what I remember growing up. He is affectionately stereotyped as the Baby Boomer Older Sibling or BBOS (yes, somewhat bossy, but typically laid back unless you touched one of his record albums and left a speck of dust, he'd punch you in the arm).
Not anywhere else. Just the arm. Thankfully, it never happened very often. In fact, once was quite enough.
Ironically, growing up in the 1960s was not all about being groovy and surrounded by peace and love. From what I recall, corporal punishment was outlawed just before me. Happy to note, such an adventure to the principal's office for the strap is not among the repertoire of experiences I have had.
Yes, the innocent aura of my tribe of 1961 friends and classmates. Yes, the worst year in history according to demographic specialists who authored "Boom Bust or Echo". Light reading for a 25 year old to be sure. That would have been in 1986. A self-confessed YUPPY of a bygone era, overshadowed by Millennial entitlement, a product of our generous and forgiving parenting style where we tried to reason, take away "privileges" the worst punishment these hipsters had to endure. That, and our endless nagging or demanding Mom.
That REMINDS ME!! One of my daughters texted me with a link to the following:
"Study: Girls with nagging moms grow up to be more successful"
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| READ: Nagging moms .... LINK |
YES, this is the same one who gave me the PINK SLIP a couple of weeks ago. One minute I'm driving her crazy and the next, I'm her hero.
The best story of nagging happened when she was at the enlightened age of 13. As a January baby, beginning school at 3 because I recognized that she had a very inquisitive mind and knowledge student.
I was trying to think of a gift for my son, who would have been 16 at Christmas. That's when you start to realize that gifts are not masses of stuff but one perfectly thought out gift that connects with the age appropriateness of a boy starting the difficult journey of becoming a man. Not something too boyish, it was getting to be a real bore buying a video game or a video console every year. It was also expensive and not quite memorable.
In steps my daughter, where we're about to embark in the biggest mother-daughter battle of our respective generations. Setting the tone for the next 15 to 20 years. She suggests that I get him two tickets to this concert in February just in and around his birthday.
Brilliant! Now I had not even thought of that! Probably because it was not uncommon for me to take them and pals to the Glenbow Museum in Calgary [when I did have to pay for entrance, having years ago been their advertising representative, attending free openings, general meetings, shareholder meetings, artist presentations, launching shows]. They all had been to live performances with me from The Nutcracker to Phantom of the Opera to The Wiz on Broadway in New York, NY.
So I did buy those two tickets as my lovely offspring suggested. Son was just "meh" over the present. He didn't even appear interested with his sister's first pay-as-you-go cell phone [ one of the reasons she turned into a math whiz I'm sure, from learning to subtract backwards on declining minutes of coolness ].
Well, as it happens. The daughter had actually wanted to go to said concert. She was 9/10 convinced that her brother would reward her thoughtfulness for coming up with the idea, that he would ask her to go with him.
As the date of the concert started to draw closer, her hints were replaced by out-and-out-demands that he take her to the concert.
As the most perfect brother would, he just didn't respond. The more she squawked, the less he noticed.
It was time to go to war. It was time to get everyone on her side of the army to help convince her brother that she was the most logical and OBVIOUS partner.
He didn't agree. I respected his decision, reinforcing that choice every time she peeped up.
The day of the concert also happened to be when I was going to compete in a Toastmasters' International Contest by giving a speech. I was nervous already, about to step off the cliff of my comfort zone and compete.
Dressed to the nines to work I went that day. Thinking back as one of the most disastrous days as a mother.
Like any army general, I had the battalion organized with the support and help of the Master Sgt, my mother, and her side kick, my father. I would pick up the one daughter at home with my son, then drop her off at my parents, who would pick up the youngest daughter from her soccer game, which I had arranged carpooling with another soccer mom. My parents would feed the girls and my son would eat garbage at the concert and be content after I drove him there with his buddy.
Like any well-intentioned-mother, I had clearance from work to leave at four o'clock to "prepare for my contest" that evening. I was already trying to think of ways I could bow out gracefully without showing the stage fright I was hit with!
Happily practicing and rehearsing out loud as I joined the commute home: not appearing as though I were singing like all the other gals in the various lanes, nope. I was looking like I was talking to myself!
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| SOURCE: Getty Images |
Being a single mother of three, perfection was my decree: the better a job I do at being a parent than their dad, the happier they would be. No, no yelling. While a locked jaw clenching my teeth was usually the best sign for the troops to run for cover: it never looked good and appeared more foreboding than any disciplinary measures handed out.
When I arrived home, not one girl was missing but both! Huh? Oh, look a note from the articulate writer who confessed to having swiped her brother's concert tickets and gone to it with her best friend, Stephanie. {Ironic how both girls best friends when they were 13 were both named Stephanie - I ignored any red flags with the 2nd daughter that I shouldn't have!}
Now that I think of it, I wonder if I ever did save that note. With butterflies, sunshine and flowers surrounding the words, she begged for forgiveness and understanding on how much SHE wanted to go to the concert. How mean her brother WAS for not agreeing to take her, she couldn't stop herself and her best friend from going. Fear not, she knows what she is doing and will text when she is safely settled into the seats so I won't worry about her!
I aptly stepped into the role of psycho [which a daughter has accused her mother of on more than one occasion].
OMGosh, the competition. Everything was choreographed and timed to perfection like carefully laid out dominoes [which I never mastered for real]. Now I had to call my mom to tell her that I wouldn't be dropping off the one daughter, but that didn't mean that all other plans were in play: they still needed to pick up the younger daughter at her soccer game at precisely 7:30 p.m. Of course, I had to wait for her to come to the entrance of her seniors building after riding the elevator down.
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| SOURCE: Allan Sanders |
That was fine because like any fierce general faced with combat, I was barking on the phone to the Stephanie mother, who was proudly informing me that she had done her part of the carpooling to the concert since her daughter was so graciously invited to share with mine, apparently, picking them up when it was over after my competition!
My competition! Less than an hour and a half. Fat chance for rehearsal before the stage. Hey, I couldn't make it! I had to retrieve my daughter from the concert. I was going to teach her a lesson.
Don't mess with the mom
Everyone knows this. Wisdom about staying away from Grizzly bear mothers with her cubs is common knowledge!
Unfortunately for daughter, she wasn't aware of doing anything wrong. She had left me a note, made carpooling arrangements, all without interfering with the original plan.
She had a phone!
Imagine me texting from the pulled over spot I was at [setting the appropriate example, important at all times, as though children and grandparents have CCTV capabilities that weren't even installed, or not yet, or were they? Ensuring mannerly conduct complimenting the polished, professional suit I was in that said:
"I mean business!"
Back in that early dawn of the new Millennium of the early 2000s, it likely was a Blackberry, the clear badge of honor most YUPPIES grasped and carried, or hooked on our waists with the blazer casually tucked aside, like a police firearm, the Blackberry. No professional parent of an honorable upbringing child would NOT have a Blackberry!
Also, we didn't have SMART PHONES where we could thumb or swipe maps and itineraries with merely a flick! We were thumb champions, children of the 60s, Yuppies of the 80s!
I did my best to appear "calm" in my text to said daughter to ask her where she was, trying to appear casual, avoiding betraying at all costs, the combination of rage and panic: my baby is at a concert without parental attendance!
Surely, they would ask for ID or notice that the name on the ticket was in her brother's name? You ask? Well, back then, they were not email confirmations with all the pertinent information like NAME of purchaser, concert seat, which could have easily have been printed out again under any circumstances!
Imagine the parking at the Calgary Saddle Dome. Darn, I couldn't just pull up as a drop off, I had to pay for parking, look for parking, park, then hoof it to the entrance.
Heaven and mercy. At least the son has a remarkable memory! He recalled an approximate location of the seats, which he observed where pretty amazing, now that he thought of not having them anymore.
The rebellious daughter had not responded to my text. The nerve!
I likely gained attention while driving and parking waving my arms and raising eyes to the heavens when telling my buddy, Maddy, what I was in the midst of: a crisis of massive proportions!
She graciously offered to let the folks know that I would not be able to compete due to an unforeseen family emergency! [ How many hear that and think: "she chickened out"? ] Well I was thinking about it, but now I had no choice!
I marched up to the security guard at the entrance attracting some attention for wearing a beautiful navy pant suit, perfectly coiffed hair, aesthetically polished nails and tasteful complimenting accessories and matching shoes with purse!
After explaining my situation: that my daughter had taken her brother's present and come to the concert without my permission or knowledge and I needed to lock in parenting strategy 101: grab daughter and eject from the concert.
A motley crew we must have appeared: my five feet zero executive pace, clicking pumps with a purpose in mind. Accompanied by the security guard who was a big foot Chibawka with less hair, appearing more like a bodyguard. By then, I was pretty accustomed to flipping eyeballs and raised brows.
Let's call him George.
While escorting me to the office at the opposite of the building, he asked me for a description of said daughter in case we miraculously crossed paths with the offender.
Only kids born in the 90s remember "EMO"
which was the opposite of whatever their parents may have happened to look like: lots of very dark circles around eyes, fashionable hardly ever! Black clothes: black jean jacket, black jeans, black t-shirt, with died pitch black hair. Maybe carrying her pay-as-you-go flip phone for peers to notice, they were more than happening by being at said concert.
George didn't slow his pace after ingesting the description any decent mother would recall what her child looked like for Pete's sake [ nobody says: "Pete's sake" anymore, you notice?].
He empathetically observed and commented that she would fit right in since she looked like every other concert goer we were speeding past.
Just as we were approaching the will-call booth to begin closing in on the culprit, I did get a text back [she probably remembered the number one rule she was nagged about when she got her pay-as-you-go-phone: "always answer the mother, no matter what you are doing, even if on the toilet and asking her to hang on so she could wash her hands").
My daughter's text calmly advised that I should not worry as she is in her seats, safe. The concert was about to begin. She'll let me know when it is close to ending so I can swing by and pick them up out front.
They were so advanced technologically at the time: all I had to do was provide the attendants with my DEBIT CARD [note: single mother as stated previously. CREDIT CARDs go better being part of a couple]. My ID was used to verify that I should be a very irate parent. They were able to verify that the seats were claimed with the tickets. The speed in response was amazing!
The other security guards were starting to form a circle around me as I waited for the seat details and escort to pick up my daughter. Trying not to be rude [texting while conversing was unheard of "back then"], I texted to inform daughter that I was in the building, she was going to be surrounded by security guards and her name was going to be said out loud by the act's lead singer, telling her that she should meet her mother at the concourse!
Never humiliate a child unless you want revenge
She gasped and said that she was on the floor, no longer in her seats, so I wouldn't be able to find her. By now, I was furiously texting to demand that she give herself up and come out, it wasn't going to end well for her if she didn't.
Smarty pants response was that the concert was just starting and she'd be coming out when it was done. My response was less composed when I told her to watch for all the guards' flashlights going up and down the aisle. We knew where the seats were. She could meet me or we could come and get her.
When caught in an argument with an adolescent child, name calling, threats don't work.
The show down was set at the replacement for the Corral in Calgary, the Saddle Dome.
The stadium was blacked out with the exception of George and I carefully avoiding taking a tumble, with a flashlight guiding him and his hulk blinding me.
She wasn't there!
We went back to the concourse as my thumbs were warmed up and I reminded her she should be hearing her name any second before the band started.
Embarrassment is revenge
a parent should enforce. At 13, being singled out among peers at such a big coolness event with the mention of having a mother, was a disaster worth considering.
She gave herself up.
There was only so much she was prepared to do. She walked up to me with Stephanie so casually, as if it was a well thought out planned meeting.
"You're coming with me"
George boomed as he grabbed their arms as he started to firmly walk them to someplace he had in mind. There was no rehearsal on what we would do when they finally gave themselves up. I was curious somewhat on where we were going, but too puffed up with pride for accosting the culprits: I was victorious. I had won. I had found the stubborn so and so.
Every stadium has a jail
for wayward tweens and teens, originally intended for drunks and obnoxious folks waiting for a trip to downtown.
George took them into the jail
I caught a glimpse of a grey room, more like an arena dressing room without any bars.
George politely asked me to wait outside
I'm sure my look of astonishment wasn't lost on the girls, who may have decided at that precise moment that the fun was done. They were catching heat of the shocking kind!
After what seemed like a very long time, remembering that everything had been a blur since sailing out of work to glide into my wonderfully planned organizational masterpiece of pulling off being in three places at once.
George came out and whispered to me: " I really think 'we' got them. What would you like me to do? Scare them?"
Masterfully calm parenting
was out the window. I exclaimed: "YES! Make her pay. She deserves to do the time!"
After promising to come out in a few moments, George hailed another enforcer, motioning another Big Foot Chibawka to join me and wait for a few, he needed help escorting a couple of young girls out of the building.
True to character, the young darling was miffed and annoyed by the time she reappeared. Declaring to all within hearing (a wide area) directed to George and complaining to me that a big deal was being made out of nothing.
"Nothing?" boomed George, supported by a scowl from his associate. "Were you not in possession of stolen tickets?" he asked.
"Stolen!?!" she responded. They were her brother's tickets and they were NOT stolen she declared, indignantly.
"Young lady, did you pay for those tickets?" She immediately glared at me to provide support. I was quite intimidated by the turn of events and remained quiet. [Not my strongest suit.]
George then turned, all 6 or 7 foot of over 200 lbs, quite easily two of me or my daughter and I combined and asked me: "Ma'am would you like me to take this young lady down to the police station for them to do an inquiry on stolen property?"
I gulped and blushed as concert stragglers were being entertained by this scene, suggesting that perhaps that wasn't necessary if she was prepared to come home with me then and at the same time drop her friend off home on the way.
The longest mile
You've seen in the movies where the police escort or bailiff escorts the criminal to jail or to court. In our case, it was two imposing figures flanking all three of us as they walked with us to the nearest exit. George asked if we needed assistance to our vehicle and I assured him it wasn't far and we were good to go. As I turned to lead the girls to the car, George winked at me.
Oh the shame, embarrassment
was the rant the whole drive home, while her friend was frozen in fear to what she may expect when she got home where her mother was waiting. She had ignored her mother's frantic calls and text messages as well.
After allowing my wayward daughter to exhaust herself from crying and bemoaning how she was going to be the laughing stock when "everyone" heard that her mother had come down to the stadium and hauled her out, narrowly avoiding jail time.
Things were pretty quiet by the time we got home. Her younger sister perched and ready with her grandmother waiting to hear how her heroine, older sister, rebelled and got caught.
Per normal, the brother had escaped to his corner of the house, where he often went to when he wanted to avoid "the drama" of the girls.
The daughter dutifully brushed her teeth and went to bed without a peep. Fresh the next day, off to school she went to face the music from her peers. Respectful, polite and chipper as though what had unfolded the night before was a dream or conjured imagination of events.
Of course, by the time I got home that evening, I had no steam left. Yet my daughter wasn't apologetic or acting like anything had happened.
After dinner, wash up and after less fuss than usual for what time it was to go to bed [not having the "wait till your father hears this" refrain available as a single mother].
When all was quiet, kids settled and snug in their beds, my daughter crept downstairs to check in and see whether I was gritting my teeth still.
She approached me quietly and then said that she understood what had happened and how things happened the way they did.
She said that I became a hero to all parents who had heard that I hadn't done what they would have done: wait at home until they got home before going on the offensive. I was a hero because I went out of my way to prove that she was wrong. She then chipper-like confessed that she hadn't been embarrassed at all. In fact, she was a hero for being so rebellious by going to the concert alone.
Sigh. That was one of the first struggle over power between my daughter and me. The never ending saga of being the nagging mother, trying to teach right from wrong, good manners and bad.
Like the happy moral of the story that she optimistically revealed of two champions: a mother and a daughter, each forging their way toward circumstances that required a stand off. Apparently, both equally glorious.
After a pink slip and the silent treatment, I did reach out and we had a Facetime conversation last weekend. Lovingly mother and daughter as though it was all par for the course. She then texted me a note about an artist that I had unveiled a recognized woman who became famous in the 80s when she passed away, sending her pieces to appreciate in value. Validating that such was the case.
Then the text and article about how nagging moms raise more successful girls: from a daughter skyrocketing in her own right as an emerging artist, scholarships, grants and the Dean's list earned solely on her own.
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