And Now for Something Different

The snark’s in full effect most weeks over at my Suburban Turmoil newspaper column, but I also like having room for a little sensitivity every now and then. This week’s column is a perfect example. I was so moved by the subject matter that I actually couldn’t even tell my husband about it because I knew I’d start ugly crying.

Check it out and forgive the virtual tear stains that dot the entire thing from start to finish. The full column is below…

The Ride of My Life

“Are you scared?” I asked my 5-year-old daughter as we huddled together in the plastic car of an amusement park ride.

“No,” she replied.

Punky nestled closer to me, and I hugged her, smiling to hide my nerves. She’d spent the morning on the kiddie rides at Holiday World and had proclaimed herself ready for something with a little more oomph. Now, though, I wondered if this particular attraction was more than she had bargained for.

Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride was a speedy, swirling, stomach-churning extravaganza that made even grown men shriek with fear. Punky was small and sensitive and had only recently braved a tube slide alone. Yet at times, she also displayed a mental toughness and physical endurance that floored me. Which side of her would emerge during this ride? Would she discover the same love her father and I share for controlled danger? Or would she be reduced to a whimpering bundle of fear?

Suddenly, the machine lurched into motion, and our little car was tossed into the air. Up and down and around and around we spun. “Are you okay?” I shouted to her as soon as I caught my breath.

“It’s just that?” she gasped. I looked over at her. Her eyes were wide with fright. “I don’t think I can breathe!”

As the car spun I held her closer. “Don’t be afraid,” I told her. “This ride makes you think you can’t breathe, but you really can!” She sputtered beside me. “Take deep breaths,” I instructed. “Make yourself take deep breaths.”

I continued talking to her until, after what seemed like an eternity, we began to slow down. Suddenly, she lifted her head from my shoulder and giggled.

“Mommy!” she shouted exuberantly. “I’m not scared anymore!”

“Good!” I said, relieved. At last, the ride came to a stop and we climbed out. As we headed back to meet the rest of our family, we held hands.

“That was so fun!” she giggled, skipping beside me.

“Punky, I am really proud of you,” I told her. “You rode on a very scary ride, and you did great. I couldn’t believe how brave you were!”

“Thank you mommy,” she said, beaming.

“So, now that we’re done with all the rides, which one was your favorite?” I asked her.

“The Midnight Ride,” she said decisively.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think it was too scary?”

“I don’t think you have to really be scared on a ride,” she said, “not when your mommy is sitting right beside you. Because your mommy won’t ever let anything bad happen to you.” She looked up at me with a shy, proud smile.

I could feel my heart expand in my chest. I squeezed Punky’s hand.

‘I have this girl’s heart,’ I thought to myself. ‘I have this precious, beautiful girl’s heart.’

From the time she was born, Punky has given herself to me and me alone and sometimes, I have to admit, I feel suffocated by the intensity of her devotion.

Lately, I’ve had so much going on that her constant requests for me to snuggle with her and play games with her and read to her and sing with her have been hard to meet. I snap at her more than I should. I say ‘no’ more than I should. I have not been a bad mother by any means, but if I’m honest with myself, I could have been better. I could have been so much better.

As we drove home from the amusement park and Punky dozed openmouthed in her booster seat behind me, I thought about my own mother. I had adored her when I was 5 and she had devoted herself to me. Consequently, she seemed unable to let go when I got older and began to struggle for independence. I was so afraid to go down that same path of hurt feelings and heartache, and so tempted to hold some of myself back from my own daughter, so that it wouldn’t be quite so hard when she inevitably broke away.

And yet, Punky had given me her heart. Didn’t I owe her mine in return? I mulled over all of this for a long time, my thoughts tipping back and forth like weights on a scale. I took a deep breath. I came to a decision.

“I am going to be a better mother,” I said quietly to myself, staring at the endless rows of crops that lined both sides of the highway. “I am going to be the very best mother I can be. No matter what it costs me.”

Punky had made me her hero. I owed it to her to at least try to live up to that status.

And I’m so glad I figured this out before it’s too late.