One mom, racing 120 Kindergartners . . .

Oh, dear.  Our sweet Sophia is what we like to call, "Sensitive" or "Tenderhearted".  She is compassionate and sweet but the girl can totally fall apart on you.  Specifically when it comes to large gatherings or public performances.  Now, I know you're saying, "hey, how can a girl who's destined to headline in Vegas get stage fright?"  Well, the answer is, "I don't know.  I'm sure she'll grow out of it."  What I do know now is, we place bets on all the holiday, end of year, ballet and track and field performances . . . as to exactly how many minutes will pass before she spots one of her parents and disintegrates into a puddle of tears the finds her way into our laps.

So, how do you help or ummm, assist her or expedite this tendency to revert to tears and cuddles when you're slightly scared or in an overwhelming situation?

Seriously, I'm asking . . . because I don't have a clue.  How do you "toughen up" a five year old?  Does she need to toughen up?  Are we coddling her?  Are we babying her or being over protective?  Is that just her and we're doing okay?  Geeze, parenting is tough.

Recently I made an executive decision in the heat of the moment that showed my own sort of "tough love" and I'm pretty proud of it.  It felt like a "make it or break it moment" in the growth of little miss Trail of Tears . . . and perhaps there was some growth there for Momma Bear too.

At the starting line of Soph's fundraiser - run a thon, she was ready and rarin' to go . . . until she saw me there on the sidelines.  Then, she pretended to get a little sad and weepy and wanted me to come and give her hugs and hold her hand.  Why IS that?  I don't know how someone who can do a triple somersault hooked to a trapeze 20 feet in the air gets weepy and falls apart so easily.  Anyway, they blow the whistle and 16 Kindergartners take off to run their first lap.

Sixteen go down, fifteen go back.  And I'm waiting, and waiting, and I'm waiting.  I couldn't see the far loop of the track but I knew something had happened and started walking over to the starting line.  Now, to scold the organizers, that's a LOT of little kids going full tilt at once.  Eventually, I saw a volunteer coming back with, yes, the TRAIL OF TEARS holding her hand.  From what I gather, Soph had fallen down and been trampled on by a herd of her 5 year old peers.  Just slightly trampled . . . there were no visible scrapes or bruises but yes, LOTS of tears.  Thanks to the volunteer for holding her hand and walking her back to the start area.  

THIS was MY "make it or break it" moment.  I knew if I picked her up and soothed her, she'd stay a puddle of pitiful in my lap for the rest of the event.  I bent down, wiped her tears quickly and said, "You okay? Okay?  Let's do this."  And we ran.

I grabbed her hand.  We didn't talk.  We didn't walk.  We didn't trot or jog.  We RAN.  I pulled her fast until she got up to her own speed and we ran hand in hand, racing around all the other kids.  Bobbing and weaving around the other little bodies (oh, there were eventually over 120 kids running around this circle at once) just as fast as we could go.  We did this about 4 laps before I let go of her hand.  Then we talked about running.  "Pump your arms . . . keep them low . . . kick your feet out . . . breathe steady."  She is fast, I have to admit.  We raced each other.  Passed every kid that there was to pass.  We lapped kids.  And kept going.  At one point, she said to me, "Mom, I just want to walk like my friends."

This sounds strange, but at about lap 8, I began to count this as my workout for the day and I did NOT want to stop running and if I left her to her walk by herself, she'd probably stop and at this point, that was just not an option.  "Baby, what are we doing?  We are RUNNING.  I am out here, supporting you and we are running.  We are not walkers, we are Sandy's, and Sandy's are RUNNERS.  We'll stop running when we're done.  So, can you keep going?"

My baby looked at me with red cheeks and a sweaty head and said, "I can beat you, let's race!"  And off she [we] went . . . for 10 more laps.  We didn't stop until they blew the whistle.

In hindsight, looking at her, I think I may have pushed her too far.  She was beet red and really sweaty.  I was so proud of her.  She crumbled slightly at first, but I gave her a little bit of tough love and she shined, shined, shined.  She was pretty proud of herself and all the money she raised for her school.

Did I mention, that I was the ONLY mom out there running with her child?  There were plenty of people out there on the sidelines giving high fives and cups of water but there was no other parent out there in the pack.  I could really have given a rat's butt about that little fact because while I was one lone mom, racing 120 Kindergartners, there was only one I needed to catch . . . only one that needed to find her pace, needed to be pushed, needed a little helping of tough love to realize what she could accomplish.

After I sent her back to her teacher and her classroom, I walked back to my car, sweaty and red faced too, shedding my own little Mommy "Trail of Tears" thinking about my precious girl's tender heart, wondering just where she gets it?

Who am I? I'm Your Worst Nightmare

I don't know where they're coming from.  Maybe the attic?  We've lived in our new house for over a year and this is the first time we've ever had more than a singular winged intruder.  Yesterday, I killed two big ass wasps in the living room and another one met his maker today.  Me think-eth that it's too much of a coincidence that there have been three wasps in 24 hours that would have meandered into the house.

Being pretty lucky, I've been stung only two times in my life.  The first time, I was five and minding my own five year old business blowing lovely and innocent five year old bubbles.  Apparently one of my beautiful bubbles angered or threatened a bald faced hornet and he felt it necessary to attack my five year old face and sting me just under my eye.  Here is a picture of a bald faced hornet:

"I'm a stupid head Bald Faced Hornet"

The second time, a wasp stung me in the ass after I opened a storage bin that had been the wasp gang evil lair.  They were probably hanging out in there getting high, plotting a bank robbery or something and I lifted the lid and the one sober wasp ran into my butt and managed to sting me.  That hurt like crap and left a lump in my butt cheek for a week.  When my husband got home and I showed him my lumpy butt, he swiftly executed some mammal justice on the wasp underworld and sent 3 death bombs into their hideout.  Yeah, GIT SOME, wasps!

Fast forward 8 years to last fall when our sweet one year old boy was playing in the garage.  A humongous orange wasp crawled in his shirt and lit.him.up.  Stung that poor kid SEVEN times on his flank and stomach.  I wasn't home at the time of the attack but later witnessed the nasty red welts on my baby and that said it all.  Oh, Mr. Wasp.  It's On.  It's On, like Donkey Kong.  You done stung the wrong little dude.

Normally, we're a "Live and Let Live" kind of folk.  Mother Nature has a plan, a job, a role for every living creature and so who am I to interfere with an agent of Mother Nature?  Well, let me tell you who I AM.  Mirror, Mirror on the wall, I am the Baddest MOTHER of them all . . . when you mess with my kid, that is.

So, the wasps that like to land on the water and drink in our pool . . . FWAPPP . . . meet my friend, Mr. Oversized Skimmer.  He's about to make sure you get a good loooooong drink.  Oh-big-ass-mean-looking wasps that have buzzed their way into our house . . . THIS is what the COUPON CLIPPER magazine looks like - up. close. and personal.  Yeah, GIT SOME - 40% off Mexican food.  In Your FACE!

To say this behavior (mine, not the insects) bothers my husband is an understatement.  He actually told me he was disappointed in me and that I didn't need to kill the wasps . . . "There's no food here for them in the house, they're just going to die eventually anyway.  Your Rambo-esque vengeance is not necessary."

Well, to this I say, "What Evs, Husband! And, might I remind you about the Wasp War Waged in 2002 against those that stung me in the butt!?!  This one's for Jake.  'They drew first blood, not me.'  And I'm just sayin', Don't Start Nothin', Won't BEE Nothin'!"

So I will locate said source of the wasp invasion (probably in the attic) and deal with it swiftly and with EXTREME prejudice.  And just to give credit where credit's due, thanks to the fine folks who stuff the Clipper Magazine in my mailbox each month.  Thank you.  Your fine advertising vehicle swats and squishes wasps very nicely.  The last thing to go through these wasps' mind?  Clipper Magazine . . . followed by his own ass.  

The Best Local Advertising In America. Period Instrument of Wasp Death Ever.  Period!