So it occurs to me that my mothering skills are, well, to put it mildly, not in top form. Don't get me wrong; I adore my daughter but between my ADHD and my inability to tell a lie there is a veritable gulf of mismanaged mommy moments. Take yesterday for example. Since purchasing an old VW bus I have been harassing my daughter about the need for women to be able to drive a stick shift. I have told her how I once escaped a date ("Fuck or walk!" the guy gleefully told me.) by being able to, ahem, "borrow" a car that was a standard and get my ass home in one piece. I left out the part where I gave in to the "Fuck" part of the request rather joyfully prior to driving the car home but still. The point is she needs a little fear to make good choices later in her life. I also left out the often tortuous tutelage involved in my learning to driving stick. We only had two cars growing up and both were standard. One was my dad's truck and the other a Ford Escort which I tortured for months learning how to hold the damn thing in place on a hill. My parents fought over who was going to teach me. I was prone to some hysteria and a bit of melodrama. I was terrified of my father whose Irish scariness only intensified after several beers and so knew my mother would be the best choice. WRONG. Apparently my hysteria and melodrama was inherited. I very clearly recall stalling the car, repeatedly, in the middle of a four lane highway, panicking, bursting into tears and getting out of the car. I was walking and sobbing, down the highway, my hysterical, sobbing mother behind me screaming, "How the HELL do you think you're going to get around if you CANNOT drive STICK?" Me, just as hysterical, snot running down my face, screaming back, "I will RIDE my BIKE!!!!!!" Apparently I was going to move to a warmer climate as well since upstate weather in winter doesn't embrace cyclists. Maybe I could "Fuck or Walk" my way there since there was no way in hell I was learning to drive that damn car. But back to my daughter and my attempts to provide her with skills. I am trying so hard to pass on important knowledge that I gained growing up. Driving a stick is just one.
Yesterday, we had a ten minute conversation about how to stuff one's bra properly. I explained that cotton balls were waaaaay more realistic than, say, tissues. "Tissues leave points in non-pointy places," I explained. I told her to carry extra cotton balls for when they get smushed down and you want to touch them up. Don't judge. I also constantly tell her how GREAT it is to have TINY breasts! They're so CUTE! Look how STREAMLINED mommy is! Look how much FASTER I can run! Look at my golf swing! Well, the golf thing is a lie. I suck. Still, I know when I see the clumps of wadded tissues on the floor next to the mini sports bra that there is practice happening.
I have instructed her how to hold a wine glass by the stem, not the sides (relax...we used white zinfandel, not real wine). How to use dental floss to sew on a popped button in a pinch, how putting tape on the inside of that damn hem that keeps popping up will hold it flat, how to make a bowl out of an apple to smoke pot...kidding about that last one, and, ok, the first one too, obviously. But that's the thing. I am a font of important knowledge and if I don't tell her, who will?
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