Category Archives: Mother-Daughter Relationships

Weirdly Wired and Jumping

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When your sixteen year old daughter gets her driver’s license, a few jitters and nerves are somewhat expected.  After all, we are giving the green light to our beloved little girl operating a vehicle on the road WITHOUT US there to help her watch out for the complete lunatics who drive as if they own the road and make up their own rules doing so…and they don’t care a jot about the precious one that we’ve nurtured and protected for the past sixteen years.   So after she passed the driving test with flying colors, it was my duty to bring her down to earth.

“We’re taking this slow,” I told her using my firm mommy voice, “You’re limited to school and back this next week and then we’ll start slowly stretching out.”

She was disappointed that I wouldn’t let her drive herself and her two friends to the football game less than a mile from home but my mind spun when I considered how rowdy football game fans can be both before and especially after a game.  I wasn’t ready for her to solo at night with friends in that kind of crazy teenage traffic. 

Her friends were staying over after the game so after a pit stop at the grocery store for some all-night goodies, we headed home and I realized I was incredibly tired.  Odd for me because it wasn’t even ten and I’m a night owl.  I got ready for bed, too tired to even shower, and kissed them all goodnight because each of them are my special girls. 

Morgen, my 5 month old kitty, and I have a special game we play every night at bedtime and though he got into position to pounce on my hand as I moved it under the comforter, I was just too tired to play for long.  I settled in and almost felt asleep but suddenly felt something very wrong.  It was as if I were fading and the not the good kind where you fade into sleep but the kind that made me wonder if I were dying.  I felt my pulse and instead of a steady beat I felt a beat, a long pause, a couple of beats, a long pause, a beat, a very long pause, three fast beats, a long pause, and then a steady drumming followed by beats with long pauses.  Knowing that wasn’t right, I located my wonderful little Omron BP machine that measures BP and pulse, and alerts to irregular heartbeats.  I forced myself to sit still for a full five minutes before taking the first reading and it showed 158/87 for BP, 47 for pulse and the little heart thing was vibrating like mad to tell me I had an irregular heartbeat. 

Hmmm. 

Not wanting to panic, I made myself wait and took it again.  On the third reading with the little heart symbol wigging out the entire time I called for Hannah and told her to get me a couple of aspirin (I have no idea why), and I took them.  Several more readings and the stupid little heart thing was almost bouncing off the machine so I called for Hannah and told her I was calling 911. 

When you call the fire department/paramedics, you just never know what you’re going to get.  One of the three who came into the house asked what was wrong and after I calmly told them he said, “So you called us to make sure your machine was calibrated?”

Hmmm.  That wasn’t nice. 

“Run a 12 channel strip,” I said.  Amazingly, and maybe because the tone of my voice indicated I’m used to calling for those types of orders and having them followed, he did.

By the time the first part of the EKG strip was printing out he was backtracking and telling me I was definitely  having irregular heartbeats and needed to go to the hospital immediately.  And by that time I would have had to be unconscious to go with his crew in a bus to the hospital.  I looked at Hannah and asked if she could drive me.  She nodded confidently and said she could.

We dismissed the nice firemen and headed to the hospital with Hannah’s special girlfriends along for moral support.   

During the next twenty hours my heart continued its dance, hop, skip and jump on the wild side.  A Fib, PACs, PVCs, V-tach, V-tach with bigeminy, and repeat, again, and again, and again.  The alarms sounded steadily until they moved me to a room without the monitor but with a portable unit that sent signals to some private area where “someone” was always monitoring.  But I felt it anyway.  I didn’t need a monitor sounding its alarm to tell me my rhythm was seriously off.   And I knew enough about that to know it meant my heart’s electrical pathway, or wiring, was weird.

Sometime around 1:30 or 2:30  in the morning Hannah’s friend who had an event at 7 a.m. the next day needed to go home.  Hannah asked if she could drive her and I was in no condition to protest so off they went, three girls, and two returned.  Sometime around 4 or 5:30 in the morning Hannah took her other friend and they went home to let our dog out and then on to her friend’s house to sleep.  Sometime around 8 in the morning Hannah came back to our house to let the dog out again, feed the kitties, and sleep some more.  And on it went.  Hannah driving back and forth from home to the hospital, stopping at Circle K for a soda, going through McDonald’s for something to eat, stopping at Safeway to get me some gummy bears.  On Saturday she took care of the cats and dog and then came back to the hospital to spend the night with me.  On Sunday morning she drove home to get dressed, went to church to teach Sunday school, then came to the hospital to get me to go home, then back to church and later back home to sleep. 

Around 5:30 I realized I had to get the prescription filled to take the heart medication they had prescribed and because I was feeling as if I were moving through mud I asked Hannah to drive us.  As I watched her confidence in backing out of the driveway and then turning from our street left into traffic, I asked her how she felt about driving.

“It’s really weird, mom.  It’s like I got on a plane to go to Hawaii because that’s something you really look forward to doing someday like getting your license, and halfway over the ocean they opened the doors and said ‘okay, now jump!'”  

“My poor girl, we were going to take it slow, weren’t we?”

She grinned, “So much for that.”

“So, how do you feel about driving?” I persisted.

“I’m comfortable driving.  I’m cautious and I watch everything.  I’ve had a lot of responsibility these last few days, but I think I’ve done well.” 

And she had.  She had jumped suddenly from being excited about being allowed to drive to school and back to being the one who had to drive for reasons beyond her control or mine.  There was no time for second thoughts or hesitation – it had to be done and she did it. 

As we started errands tonight I asked her if she wanted to drive. 

“No, I’ve been driving so much I’m kind of over it.  You can drive, mom.”

How proud I am of her.  How thankful I am for her.  How I’ve prayed for her safety.  And God has answered those prayers with every text message.

“Leaving, love you.”

“Home, love you.”

One more milestone of growing up and she didn’t just pass, she jumped.  And God provided the parachute just in time for her safe landing.    

PDPHD…this one is for you.  You continue to be more than I ever imagined.

Who’s Talking Now?

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“Do you think they have them there?”  I asked my daughter as we pulled out of the driveway, going to find a little sock like thingy that attachs to the key ring and holds the car remote with the broken plastic piece that allows you to normally attach it to the key ring.

Hannah, texting while answering me, “I don’t know everything in their inventory.  We’ll have to see.”

“Ah,” I said, “but we expect you to know these things as you are the only one of us who has been there.”

She put down her phone and stared at me suspiciously, “And who is this “we” who expects me to know this?”

“Just me, myself and I,” I countered, thrilled to have that comeback.

She smiled and picked back up her phone that had buzzed.  “That would be the trio that has the crazy conversations.”

She knows me too well.  I am notorious for talking to myself, arguing with myself, questioning myself, answering myself, and maintaining a running conversation with just me, myself and I.  When I drive, I constantly talk to cars and streetlights.  I talk to the computer when it doesn’t do what I want it to do or when I’m trying to figure out what to do when I hit something I shouldn’t and the screen does its own thing.  I talk to the cats, but they listen and sometimes meow back.       

When my office was a cubicle in a large room with others, my poor coworkers were constantly saying “What?” or “Are you talking to me or you?”  When one was moved to another area he told me he had picked up my habit and now others were always asking him those questions.  When I told him I was sorry to have passed that on, he said, “Actually, I’m not, because it’s helped me sometimes.”

I think, seriously, that I am ADD and self-talk helps me focus on what I need to do, my thought process, my action plan one step at a time.  If I don’t talk myself through my tasks, I get lost as my mind flits, runs, flirts and wrestles with dozens of unrelated and irrelevant  thoughts and I find myself off task, off track, out of focus and floundering to get back to whatever it was I was supposed to be doing, or thinking.   I seem to only be focused when I am writing or talking – only at those times do the flighty trio of me, myself and I somewhat collaborate and stay, if not on the same line, at least on the same page.  

I have had people tell me this should make me a quick comeback person, but that is so not true for me.  I rarely, as in never,  have quick comebacks.  I’m the person who thinks of the comeback at 4 in the morning three weeks later.  And by then it is so good that I could kick myself for not having it when it could have been useful!  I wonder if talking to myself so much makes it difficult for me to respond in a timely manner to others?  I seem to fail miserably at sparkly social interaction outside my very own trio.  Someone gave me a magnet one time that said, “I live in my own little world, but it’s okay – they know me there.”  I can identify with that one. 

I also talk aloud to the Lord – Jesus Christ – and I know with all my heart He listens. 

I don’t buy into the positive self-talk stuff but I do buy into what God says about who we are and His promises.  When I googled talking to oneself aloud, however, this little tidbit came up.  “When you talk out loud to yourself you cause yourself to focus intently on the challenge, situation, or circumstance. This activity increases the likelihood of obtaining a desirable solution more quickly. It is easy to daydream nonproductively for an hour or two, but it only wastes time and doesn’t give you the results you’d like to have. It is incredibly powerful hearing your own voice emotionally proclaiming what you intend and expect to accomplish. Talking out loud to yourself can go a long way in helping you to move on.”
— Bill Wayne (from The Power of Talking Out Loud to Yourself)

 I actually like that because to me it makes sense. 

As Hannah, who is a student driver, was driving the other day a car seemed as if it were going to pull out in front of her. 

“No, car, don’t you do that!” she said and then glanced at me, grinning.  “Don’t say anything.” 

I couldn’t because I was laughing. 

When we came to the stoplight she looked over at me and laughed.  “Oh my gosh, I’m going to be just like you, aren’t I?  I’m already talking to cars and I don’t even have my license.”

 And the trio approves.

A Daughter for Life

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There is an Irish saying that you’ve probably heard – “A son is a son till he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life.”  I’ve also heard it as “A son is your son till he takes a wife, a daughter is yours the rest of your life.” 

I’ve quoted the latter version often, and especially in conversation with my daughter as we’ve driven around on our shopping days speculating about the future.  When I say the verse she jokes, “Yeah, yeah, mom, I know.  I get to take care of you in your old age.  Better start saving up for a nursing home.”  We refer to that as her “Rosie” sense of humor.

I am, indeed, blessed to be the mother of this beautiful, talented, thoughtful, feisty, incredibly smart, and determined young lady! 

When I’m crying, sobbing, she puts her arms around me and holds me.  There are times I don’t think I can breathe but she is there, nurturing, giving, loving, supporting.  I am more grateful than I can say.  There are times I wonder where she gets her strength, but I do know, and I thank Him for it.  

When I fell asleep exhausted after so much stress, she ran around the house and did all my night-time chores rather than wake me.  When I asked her why she didn’t wake me, she curled against me on the bed and said, “You needed that sleep, mom.”  

She holds my hand every morning as we drive to school and prays with me.  And we are not “morning girls”.  We loathe getting up early which means we are both rushed, we are both irritable, we are both barely able to stumble out the door and when I’m on time, she isn’t, and when she’s on time, I’m running late, and by the time we feed the cats, feed the dog, wrestle the dog outside, fix lunches, gather our things, go back for all we’ve forgotten, we are both, to use a Southern expression, “fit to be tied!”  But as we turn the corner on 39th Avenue we hold hands and, together, we talk to God.  That is our time and it is sacred; I am so blessed to share it with her.  

When she is snappish, she is learning not only to check herself but to apologize.  As we’ve made adjustments, the girl who used to flounce about and never admit her wrong or faults owns her behavior now.  How proud I am when I see her visibly fight and win over self-control, when I see her consider her words before speaking them.  Just months ago she would have responded with flamboyant tantrums when her behavior was an issue.  Now, she makes the effort to be thoughtful in her words and actions, and she learns from each experience.  I cannot feel more blessed and I thank God for that.   

Together, we are walking through a thunderstorm looking for a rainbow.   

Mother-daughter relationships are complicated.  At sixteen, she is still a child who needs guidance, boundaries, encouragement, correction, and she still needs parenting…but not as much and not in the same ways as she did when she was little.   

She doesn’t need me to do her laundry since she turned ten.  That was our household rule: When you turn ten, you are responsible for your own laundry and it worked for all the kids.  Everyone learned how to use the washer and dryer, a useful life skill, win-win for all.  

She doesn’t need me to cook for her although she loves it when her brother comes home and I do cook.  She can cook as well as anyone and even better than many!  When she was about eight she made up her own recipe for cookies.  

She certainly doesn’t need me to do her homework though during my college math classes I needed her to do mine!  To me, math is a four letter word.  To her, it’s logical and, therefore, simple.  She’s in honors pre-calculus earning college credits now.

She’s doesn’t need me to show her how to use a computer.  Her skills surpass mine several times.

She doesn’t need me to help her prepare her lessons for the Sunday School class she teaches.  Her creativity and consideration for the children in her class warms my heart.  She recognizes the great responsibility of ministering to these children and puts much thought  into her lessons and activities for them.   

She doesn’t need me to choose her clothes, make up or hairstyle.  I’m proud of her own choices because the choices she makes in these areas are appropriate for her age, modest to reflect our values and beliefs, and she isn’t distracted by trends or the opinion of others.  A huge compliment is that others wonder if she is even wearing make up; another is that she is incredible with theatre make up.

She doesn’t need me to make decisions for her but she does talk through her thoughts, asks and listens to mine, and then comes to a decision of her own that reflects her maturity and forethought.  If we disagree, we continue talking until a compromise is reached.  If its something I am adamantly opposed to, she listens to the reason and respects the decision I’ve made, even if it’s not something she agrees with.  To me, that’s a sign of her emotional intelligence; the ability to both compromise and accept authority. 

No, she’s not perfect.  Her room is messy, her bathroom is somewhat messy, she doesn’t always do the dishes before going to bed, I have caught her drinking out of the milk jug, she sometimes stays up too late, she ate the last peanut butter cookie without telling me, and I have to nag her to get her homework done…but her heart is good, her head is good, and she is well on her way to being one amazing young woman.  How could I not be proud of that?

And I pray for God to prepare an equally wonderful young man who will someday have the privilege of capturing her heart.  But not yet and no time soon. I still need her.    

As I was wondering just what she needs from me besides the physical things like food, shelter, clothing, and drives to Circle K to get Dr. Pepper at all hours of the night,  I remembered the poem she presented to me when she was in grade school.  It hangs on my bedroom wall, a reminder of how she did, does, and always will need me.  I am her mother and she is my daughter.  That is for life.

My Mother

My mother is a storm: strong and brave,

Facing hardships and taking risks for what she believes.

My mother is a breeze: calming and gentle,

Taking away worries and soothing my soul.

My mother is a pool: refreshing and energetic,

She relaxes me with a sudden burst of energy.

My mother is a rose: beautiful and graceful,

She rises above the bad and changes with grace.

My mother is a teddy bear: snuggly and soothing,

She’s always there for me and relaxes my mind.

Love, Hannah