Oh to be 20, scream, kick the dashboard and hug my mom

Here's the truth: I had the most perfect children for miles around, when they were children.  People would comment on their perfect manners, their perfect behaviour, their perfect clothes (thank you, thank you, I matched everything and I've got the pictures to prove it.  Even shoes.  Do you know how hard it is to find purple and green tennis shoes for a five year old?? Pretty darn difficult), their perfect responses to other adults, the perfect way they played with other children.

There was the cutest sweater that matched those pants.  She HATED it.

With cousins J and C.   They're men now, unbelievable.

I don't wish that on anyone, really.  If you fall into the "perfect child" category right now, run, run as fast as you can.  Take as many movies as you can so you can remember what it felt like.  Never, and I mean never, have an arrogant thought (not that I ever did.  I have always freely admitted that I have no idea how they came to be so good.)  Take this time to relax, don't feel guilty about having a martini in front of them.  Don't feel guilty about setting a bad example.  Don't ever thank your lucky stars!!!!!


Those same lucky stars, pretty, twinkling, sparkling lucky stars are going to become meteorites headed right for your house, or better yet, headed just for you.  As if to say, "We're so happy we could give you such beautiful children but we are tired now and need to die from all our twinkling and sparkling.  We're sorry.  Good luck.  You did know this would happen, right???"

NO, I did not.  I stand on that premise, no matter how many people say they warned me.


Have you ever seen a schizophrenic Tasmanian devil? 

I hadn't either.

It got in my car today.

Just in case you're wondering.  They are really, really, scary.

It looked just like my daughter so it took me by surprise.  A lovely, tall, blond 20 year old got in my car and within minutes, her sister and I were pressing our faces against the windows, yelling at passing cars for help.  I was driving but I assure you, if I hadn't I would of jumped ship.  I'd rather take the bruises.  The thing sitting next to me did not come out of my body.  It just didn't.

And God help me, I don't know what happened.  I mean, usually, I'm pretty clued in.  I know when to get out the way.  I know when to hold a bat to protect myself.  I know that Tasmanian devils are not domesticated and that you should never try and touch them.  I've watched "The Crocodile Hunter" enough times.  When he handled a Tasmanian devil, it was not a pretty sight.  No, sirrrreeeee.  I am one smart woman.  
Snake - bad.  Bunny - good.
Spider - bad.  Little chick - good.
Duncan - bad.  Kitten - good.  (another story, another time)

This morning was bad, very bad, blood everywhere.  I still don't really know what happened and it's really Bonnie's story but let's just say, there was crying, shaking, hitting of everything in the car except Emma and I, kicking the dashboard, yelling, even some growling.  And then we reached our destination...,


I checked to make sure I was still alive.  Emma was still alive (shell shocked but still alive).  The car was still in one piece.  I looked over at the devil with a great deal of hesitation and self-preservation but....,


Bonnie was sitting there, brushing her hair and getting her school books together.  "I love you mom" she said and leaned over and gave me a big hug and got out of the car.  I can only say that as she walked off I swear I saw a little fur on the back of her shirt.


I had such perfect, sweet, beautiful children.  I now know what I should of been wishing for.  Don't miss it.  Be thankful for those two year old tantrums.  I'm here to tell you given the choice between a two year old and a twenty year old, I'll take the two year old any old day.  At least you can run faster than a two year old and restrain them in a car seat.


Susan, who sometimes wonders if she will ever survive the terrible "teens blossoming into young women".



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