Saturday, March 17, 2012

St. Paddy's Day

By Ginger Simpson (Guest Blogger)

I guess because I'm not Irish, I don't see a need to get all giddy over a day when folks drink Green Beer and wear shamrocks. Forty-Five years ago today, March 17th was to become an entirely different reason to celebrate--the due date of my first child.

Now that I look back on the occasion, I suppose I shouldn't have been disappointed when he didn't show up. He's been full of surprises from the moment he was born on April 18th. Yes, a month and a day LATE. I safely say "late" since doctors predicted an early arrival when I went for my check ups in January and February. I swear if one more person had asked, "Are you still pregnant," I would have been convicted of murder.

Scott, or Skid, as he prefers to call himself, always marched to his own drummer. Unusually smart as a toddler, and very normal-looking, I had no idea I had mothered the first punk-rocker who'd live in a red-neck town. While everyone else wore cowboy boots and drove four-wheel drive vehicles (yes even then), my son wore mis-matching Van's tennis shoes, spiked his hair, and became an airport security system's nightmare by holding his clothes together with as many safety pins as he could find. Although he promised if I let him get his earlobe pierced, he'd only wear a small stud, I'm pretty sure if he could have held up the weight of the toilet seat, I would have seen that it in his ear.

Kids do grow out of phases, though, I'm pleased to say. I have to admit I wanted to slap Scott when he asked, "Why'd you let me dress like that?" I don't know if he's referring to the time he wore a kilt with pink high tops, dressed in a god-awful outfit from the thrift store for his prom and blew chartreuse bubbles during the photo session, or any of the many times he dyed his hair a rainbow of colors. I painfully admit, as his mother, I often pretended not to be when I heard others talking about that weird punk-rock kid they saw on the street. I just nodded and kept my mouth shut. In retrospect, I realize how much courage my son has. He's an amazing man.

Still, I can't believe I'm going to be the mother of such an old child. AKKK. How can he be turning forty-five when I'm just a tad older myself? One of my very first, very short, publications, Life Is a Bowl of Toilets and I Clean Them, is sort of a tribute to my children and the reason for my gray hair. I'm mentioning it, not suggesting you pay the ridiculous price the publisher is asking for a fifty-page book.

Thanks to Lisabet for allowing me to post on her blog today. Although this isn't nearly as sexy as the stuff she writes, I had sex to create the topic today. *lol* Please stop by and visit my blogs, Dishin' It Out and Cowboy Kisses. I'd love to hear from you.


Lisabet Sarai said...

Greetings, Ginger!

I'm delighted to have you back here at Beyond Romance.

Somehow it's tough for me to imagine you bringing up a punk kid. Although I guess you didn't have much to do with his style, did you? I applaud you for allowing him to be himself. Many parents don't.


Morgan Mandel said...

His hair reminds me of the Statue of Liberty for some reason. Every time has a strange craze that adults don't comprehend, but just have to ride out.

I still can't believe I'm in the older generation, but my birth certificate tells me I am.

Morgan Mandel

Naomi Bellina said...

Awwww, look at that smile, he's a doll. Good for you for being an understanding mom.

Unknown said...

I agree, give him a robe and a torch and we'd have the Statue of Liberty. lol.

I'd like to see what he looks like now.

I love that you pretended not to know him at times while he went through his phases. Most parents, instead of gray, would be bald. Kudos to you. Ever patient, ever loving.

Unknown said...

Thanks for stopping by. We had house guests and we were gone sight-seeing all day so I didn't get a chance to stop by until now. I did post to FB, Twitter and Google, so hopefully more peeps will stop by and get a load of my previous dilemma. He looks pretty normal now. :)

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