...and the Strangest Things Seem Suddenly Routine

I knew it would happen.  I knew it.  The moment I hovered over the Publish button on my last post, I muttered to myself, "they're gonna call." And they did!

If you remember, in my last post, I mentioned going to the emergency room for what turned out to be a kidney stone.  I also went on to explain how I managed to successfully pass it the same day and joke about the episode like it was something funny that had happened on Who's The Boss.  However, despite my casual tone and the fact that I was pain-free in less than 24 hours, my parents kind of wigged out, leading to me looking at my phone at one point, having missed three calls from my mom.

They called to make sure I was OK.  Which I was.  Because, you know, I had said so in my last entry.  I had laid out the whole sordid tale, as it were.  And I know I'm being a bit hard on them, but I guess I've felt that way since I turned from a precocious math-loving child into a surly math-liking teenager.

I don't want to speak for the whole human race, but I'm going to.  I feel, as children, we start to have the attitude - around the age when we really become independent autonomous beings - that our parents kind of wig out at all the wrong things.  My kidney stone, for example.  Sure, it was a little scary, but had something been seriously wrong, I clearly would have first informed friends and family through something other than this blog.  As a younger human, I often remember instances where I would just think: it's really not a big deal.  As an adult, I think aside from the one time when I made a bomb threat to a girl to try to seduce her, I was right.

But - and here's the rub - now that I have kids of my own, I totally understand.  How can you not wig out?  They're my children.  I don't care how much you tell yourself you won't do it, but when your kid faceplants for the first time on the playground, you're inhuman if you don't run over as fast as you can, screaming, "Oh GOD, did you BREAK your FACE??"  I feel beholden to them, like they are the shareholders of my very soul.

So, I get it.  As a parent, when something happens to your son or daughter - however small or insignificant they may think that event to be - it is perfectly acceptable to let them know that you care about them so much that everything is a big deal to you.  Even if that makes them a little uncomfortable.  Maybe, especially if it does?  That may be a subclause in the parenting handbook I forgot to pick up.

After all, I'm sure in a few decades, I'll wig out over something that Simon or Cecily does or mentions, and they'll turn to me, sigh and say, "It's really not a big deal, dad."  Or whatever kids are saying in the future.  Probably something like, "Zipper down the valve, Joe Jonas."