My husband, Garth (not his real name) is really good at not panicking, especially dealing with an emergency situation; when, considering I took to Twitter when my middle girl's butt exploded, clearly I am not.
On the other hand, I have made it my life's mission to NOT sweat the small stuff AND have consistently failed said mission (it was more like a guideline, anyway, really) for the last...ummmm, let's see...how old IS my oldest kid, again?!?
Aaaaanyway, point being (and I really do have one, promise) Garth (not his real name) and I have taken to handling this whole...parenting teens is hard, YO!...by tag-teaming each other, sort of like professional wrestlers would...during a no holds barred steel cage death match.
Blindfolded, with one arm tied behind our backs and buck-naked.
Like, the other night, when my youngest asked for help with an essay and then kept insisting on either disagreeing with or fighting me on ANY and ALL help that was being offered.
My husband walked in through the front door just in time to hear me holler, "Then, why BOTHER asking ME for help?!?"
He rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie and pushed me...every so gently, yet firmly...you know...out of the way.
"I got this!"
Or, whenever Contradictory Boy shows up (a.k.a. our 14 year-old son's alter ego) and clashes with the gravitational forces on my husband's forehead, causing a massive facial implosion and one gosh-darned scary-looking unibrow.
"Sooooooo, how DOES one go about creating a character in World of Warcraft?"
We ARE the King and Queen of Distraction (a.k.a. SziSzi of Pandaria) and, well, whatever works, right?!?
Long story, short (you're welcome!) I've been driving our oldest to and from work (she's saving for a car, we live in Jersey, enough said!) sometimes even on the days when I don't need to use the car (see last parenthesis) unless it snows.
"You don't want to transfer your fear onto her, do you?"
Now that we have a kid driving (and ANOTHER one driving, this spring) the panic that sets in goes way beyond the fact that I don't do snow and, well, Eastern-European-types aren't very good at keeping a straight face; we pretty much suck at poker, too.
"Noooooo, but don't expect me to stop worrying...DAMMIT...and ANOTHER thing..."
Aaaaand, that's when he shoved a slushy snowball down the front of my pajamas.
Although, it worked long enough for me to stand there and forget just what in the heck we were talking about, I am STILL a little confused by his tactics.
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