The Mom Curse
I grew up in small town Indiana. I am well versed in hillbilly-speak and it has served me well in parenting.
My husband and I have four children. Three of them read the "How To Be a Well-Behaved Child" manual and they follow the rules. My second born is the vessel that was sent to me via The Mom Curse. You know the one. The "Someday, I hope you have a child just like you!" curse.
He is the one that stares defiantly at me when I am yelling at...I mean, correcting him.
He is the one that went to the ER six times by his sixth birthday.
He is also the one that can melt my heart with a look, break my heart with a comment, terrify me with a leap, and give me a belly laugh with a joke.
While my husband uses rational conversation to deal with the boy, I call on my native tongue of hillbilly-speak.
"Boy, you got more problems than a math book."
"Son, you just bought yourself a bucket a trouble."
The phrase that my mother still uses on me is "The chickens have come home to roost."
When I call my mother with "Listen to what the boy did, now!" complaints, she laughs maniacally and says, "Sounds to me like the chickens have come home to roost."
When I was growing up, if there was a trip to the ER? Me.
Skipping school? Me.
Smart mouth? Me.
Outrageous behavior to get a laugh? Me.
Inappropriate laughter during a prayer? Me.
Walking across a train trestle (Stand By Me style) on a dare? Me.
These are the thoughts that run through my head as I am throwing hillbilly-speak at my boy.
It's just my turn.
My mother did it before me and now I will carry on the tradition.
As I'm sure my mother did for me, I will offer up daily prayers. FYI, in Indiana, we always include the word "just."
"Dear Lawd, just grant me patience to not beat this boy."
"Dear Lawd, just keep him safe."
"Dear Lawd, just put your hand over my mouth."
"Dear Lawd, I just want to thank you for my spitfire boy. Even though he is turning my hair gray, I love him something crazy."
Today, I pray that my boy will grow up to be a fine, upstanding citizen and that he will call home to tell me about his own little spitfire. I will finally be able to let out a maniacal laugh and say, "Sounds to me like the chickens have come home to roost."