On Friday I was waiting in the parking lot of my daughter’s high school (where I spend a sizable portion of my existence, it would seem, such is the crowded, congested nature of that little plot of ground.) The day was beautiful – warm sun, cool breeze – and I was quite early to pick her up so I rolled the windows down to enjoy the fresh air and the springy bird noises. Suddenly the peaceful day was shattered by a young girl’s discovery that she – or rather her car door – had been the victim of an April Fool’s prank involving copious amounts of peanut butter (at least I hope it was peanut butter…that’s what I’m telling myself so I can sleep at night). She immediately let out a stream of profanity so creative and colorful that I was reminded: the next generation is both passionate and innovative. We should give them more credit.
Now, I totally understood her explosive reaction to the situation, but I also frantically started pushing the window buttons so I could protect the tender ears of the 11-year-old in the back seat.
The problem here – and the thing that makes me realize that the mom gene has taken over my being and will never, ever leave – is that the little ears I was trying to protect were attached to Abby, our 11-year-old border collie.
I am convinced that no matter how old we or our kids get, we never lose the instinct that makes us protect whomever we perceive as the younger, smaller person/creature in our care. It’s what makes us good at what we do. And maybe a little bit crazy.
Amazed by the volume of my inner momologue,