It must be a phase they go through – parents. Like a time continuum … adventurous adolescent, adventurous teenager, responsible adult, responsible parent, responsible adult, adventurous parent, adventurous adult.
And the kid is like: what is happening? Slow down. Do not run with scissors.
I’m the kid. My mom is at her adventurous adult phase. And I’m stressing.
I rode wingman to her recently. We were on jet skis in the open water and I shit you not, I had to talk myself out of a panic attack watching her.
My thought process: These waves are getting choppy. These waves are getting choppy. THESE WAVES ARE GETTING CHOPPY. OH MY GOD. She’s going to fall off. And drown.
Because all of my exaggerated thought processes usually end in death.
I think I’m going to go for a before-sunrise walk in an unfamiliar neighborhood with my dog. Uh-huh. AND DIE! And no one will know who your body is because you’re in an unfamiliar neighborhood. They’ll be like: who’s this dead chick? And no one will know.
So she was on the jet ski and I rode wingman-style, trying to keep my wake out of her path so it was less choppy for her. She didn’t really get that, though, so some of the time she was dead center behind me all up in my wake and in my head, I’m yelling: Get out of my shit! You’re going to fall. And die.
My eyes scanned furtively across the lake at all times. At one point, another jet ski and then a speed boat were headed in our direction and I dutifully catered right, they went left. I have no idea where the fuck Mom went. I mean, I’m trying to drive myself, I’m trying to watch traffic, and I’m trying to make sure she sees all the incoming death-mobiles. And sometimes they don’t seem to see her.
You son of a bitch, do not play chicken with her. DO NOT PLAY CHICKEN.
But mainly she was going way too fast. I get wanting to have fun and all. But there comes a point when fun crosses the line into danger and danger becomes fatal.
She kept talking about how she wanted to flip, how she wanted to catch a wave and fall off, how that would be SO COOL, and I was like, “Are we about ready to wrap things up? Sun’s hot. We should go. We should leave,” much like a parent’s relieved when their kid decides they hate football, or they want to quit wrestling. Well, good. Football’s stupid anyway. And in their heads they’re thinking, “No more risk of concussion. Or heat stroke. Or thirsting to death.” Honey, how do you feel about chess? Mom, there’s a pinochile club down the highway. I’m sure of it. And there aren’t a whole lot of ways you can die playing pinochile. Well, unless some crazy fool in a clown suit…never mind. Pinochile is 100 percent perfectly safe. So is a rousing game of dominoes.
It’s a strange transition going from being the irresponsible kid with a responsible parent to being a responsible kid with a parent walking a fine line between fun and danger. You might think it’s cool. It’d be so awesome to do dangerous adventurous stuff with my parent.
Until you’re the one with your heart in your throat for three hours straight because they’re acting like a damn fool. Want to do flips and shit. What happened to floating in ankle-deep water? What’s so wrong with that?
Basically you’re realizing right now how freaking cool my mom is. And you’re right. She’s ridden a bull, barrel-raced horses competitively, lived in Israel for awhile, pulled a calf out of a uterus with a tractor. Adventurous stuff.
And I love her for all of it.
I also love her for breathing every day, and that’s the other thing you’re realizing. About me. That I’m insecure.
Slow down on that jet ski. Because if you fall off, I have no idea how to save you.
But judging from the Facebook post she just tagged me in – FLYBOARDING! – we’ve a long way to go before the next phase settles in.
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