Life in the Judy Lane

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February 2016: Your Mama Don't Dance...

Posted on February 21, 2016 at 8:55 PM

Parents strive to make their children happy. When they are infants, it’s not too difficult. You feed them, change them, bathe them and rock them to sleep. They cry, you cry, no one sleeps, but ultimately, everyone’s in love with each other. In elementary school they start telling you what they want. Mostly what other kids have and that they absolutely can’t live without. And it becomes a little harder to make and keep the little dickens happy but they still love you unconditionally, and consequently you’re happy to oblige. Then comes the mother of all stages—puberty. It’s like having a menopausal, flesh-eating bacteria-ridden small person with pms and PTSD blended for the perfect unsmoothie. It’s then that you realize the only thing you can be sure of is that you will make them UNhappy.

There is some satisfaction in knowing that you really don’t have to work at this. Just do what you normally do and voila! they are pissed. Here are just a few of the sure-fire way to make and keep the youngins unhappy till the day they leave the dungeon in which they are trapped with the likes of you.

“You make me feel like dancin’” Faster than a cat can lick its arse, their lopsided smiles will be wiped from their pusses if you even think about bustin’ a move. It could be as simple as rocking gently to a song on the car radio to striking a pose on the dance floor at somebody’s Bar Mitzvah. When Mama got low, so did their respective, pubescent faces. You would think that I had stripped down to my 36-hour and granny panties and slid down the drainage pipe or something. I only did that once and they were very, very young and couldn't possibly remember. But, I digress.

“Cheers!” Their life goals at this age can be summed up pretty simply: avoid being seen with their parents and play Strip or Dare Beer Pong. But at home, you suddenly have Carrie Nation monitoring you.

“Are you drunk?” Shea asked me as we clinked a glass of champers as the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve.

“Apparently not,” I replied, “Because I can still see and hear you.”

“SWAK!” A peck on the cheek, holding hands, smiling and winking at one another in public are signs of a happy, healthy marriage. But not if you’re their parents. You are disgusting aging porno stars invading your kid’s holy space. Once you gave birth to them, you became empty vessels from the waist down. Your goods apparently dropped out in the grocery store one afternoon and were swept up with the rest of the trash. When my sister was divorcing at the ripe old age of 41, her preteen daughter was understandably upset. She asked her if she was planning on ever getting married again.

“Maybe,” my sister said.

“Why bother?” she scolded her. “It’s not like you’re ever gonna have sex again anyway.”

“Buwahahahaha!” You may smile, chortle, snicker, and sputter through burlap sack, but whatever you do don’t laugh. Just don’t. Full frontal giggles, guffaws, and other face-consorting glee is apparently another no-no—particularly, if punctuated by a snort.

So what is the common denominator here? It’s the stuff we adults do when we are happy. Sing, dance, drink, laugh and get merry with our honey. While you spend your life wanting them to be happy--and you know it--they seem to want just the opposite for you--clap your hands.

But, hey! We’re in charge. We’re the ones who pay the bills. We’re the kings and queens of our castles. So, I say: Turn up music! Pop open the corks! Laugh and sing maniacally in your drawers! Right after the kids leave for camp.

 

-30-

COPYRIGHT 2016 JUDY LANE


 

 

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