I was sitting on the couch next to Becca last night. We were watching TV and she slowly leaned toward me and lay her head lightly on my shoulder. Awww, I thought, pleasantly surprised, my heart swelling…then she farted. Apparently, more important than snuggling with her mom, she was just freeing up some space.
When my kids were little, I spent all my time worrying about the decisions I was making. Was the movie I just let them watch going to turn them into crazy, shotgun-toting, clown-loving cult members? What if the way I taught them to tie their shoes wasn't the right way? Was I feeding them enough preservatives?
But now that I'm the mother of teenagers, I don't worry about my decisions any more; I worry about theirs. It's the natural order of things. Look it up.
Their past, present, and future decisions make up about 99% of my worrying nowadays. (The other 1% is worry about my mustache. Don't pretend you didn't notice.)
I remember being a kid. I wasn’t sorry I DID whatever I was in trouble for, I was sorry I got CAUGHT. Made me more careful. If I caught my kids doing some of the stuff I did at their age, I’d just cry and Steven would take everything away from them but their underwear.
It's time to face the fact that there may realistically come a day when Matthew's privileges are as follows: FM radio and toilet paper.
And I just know that the booking officer will turn to me and say, "This is all your fault."