This week’s guest blogger is Jody Robbins. Jody is a Calgary-based freelance writer and mother to three children (one husband, one dog, one daughter). Whether it’s luggage, time, or just life, she tends to cram as much as possible into small compartments. Follow her adventures on Twitter or on her blog, Travels with Baggage.
Just You Wait….
There’s a little tradition that goes on in our house every night after dinner. One parent has the glamorous job of doing dinner clean up, the other takes eight-year-old Eve upstairs to get ready for bed. And you know how this all pans out, don’t you? Mom gets stuck scrubbing pots while Dad and daughter get to play.
To be fair, I’m always given the option of getting Eve ready for bed. But after years of being a stay-at-home mom and collecting her after school, I’m content to let Dad have some QT. I know I’m always welcome to join in their bedtime ritual that typically involves wrestling and wedgies, but for one reason or another, I don’t. I used to think it was because their play was too rough for me. Now I know better.
It started out innocently enough. The dishes were done, I made my way upstairs, changed into comfy clothes (read: sweats and no bra), and jumped into the fray. I was tackled. I was pummeled with pillows. And yes, I received the obligatory wedgie. Then Dad escaped, leaving more room for maneuvers on the floor.
First I had Eve tied down in some version of a half nelson, then she rallied, slipping out from under my grip. Finally I had three of her limbs pinned. But it was no longer fun and games. She was upset and not because of my wrestling prowess. With her one free arm she swatted me away – my breasts to be exact.
“Get these udders out of my face,” she cried, as I lay crouched above her.
And that’s when the metamorphosis into my mother became complete. Not because I too now had saggy boobs, as was so blatantly pointed out, but because of my response:
Naturally, I don’t wrestle anymore. And I no longer wander around the house bra-less, much to everyone’s relief. But spouting off “just you wait,” comments? I’ll take droopy boobs for that license.
Did you wrestle with your parents/relatives/kids?
Did anyone ever get injured, physically or verbally?