Haunted Trail

Last week First Born Prince was invited to the Balboa Haunted Trail, which has been around every Halloween since I was a teenager.  I only went once and remember it being over-the-top creepy.  The people who do the haunting chase you with chainsaws and touch you with slimy hands, crossing boundaries, seeming like they might be escapees from an asylum.  The other boys who were going attend a different school that starts an hour later than my son’s.

The mother offering this spooky treat asked me for permission to invite him, and even though I was tempted to just say no for him, I decided to test his ability to self manage.  I explained to my son that I thought it wasn’t a good idea and that I’d rather he wait until he was older and go on a weekend instead.  I am struggling with the balance between being a good mother and being a total killjoy.

He declined the invitation and then, afterwards, cried and pouted (confirming he was tired and needs to get his ass to bed on time) and accused me of being mean.  I ignored him (more meanness) and continued helping Charming Baby with his homework.  Eventually he snapped out of it and joined us in the family room, happy to be in pajamas, home, with us.

Later that night my friend texted me that they had to leave the haunted trail early because one of the boys got too scared.  I wished I could have saved her the gas and entrance money but she is trying to be a nice mom and sometimes that gets lost in translation.

High Price of Privilege

I realized last night sitting around a beach bonfire that my dark tales from childhood are par for the course in most of my friends’ upbringings.  It's comforting to know that I wasn't the only one raised with my parents goosing as much free child labor out of me as possible.  Listening and laughing to everyone’s stories brought back some of my best memories.

Like the way I spent my weekends not performing dance recitals or taking music lessons but helping my dad fix up the rental properties we owned.  I was a master at removing contact paper and old linoleum.  My brother and I both knew the difference between a Philips head and an Allen wrench. 

It wasn’t the middle ages.  My parents did take us to the beach, signed us up for baseball and we swam a lot in our backyard pool, but I got to know them the best when we were working together on a project or doing errands.  The way my mother effortlessly planned out a week’s worth of family meals and shopped from a list in her head, all while keeping both me and my brother from slipping sugar cereal into the cart when she wasn’t looking, still impresses me.

It was my mother and father who taught me how to cook, clean, garden and run a home.  I am not sure what to do with my skills and knowledge as the Professor and I employ a housekeeper, gardener, and handyman.  The Professor was at least trained how to pay for all of it.  I am just straddling the two worlds and trying to make sense of what exactly are privileges.

Case in point:  I now know two people that pay a dog poop scoop service to stop by their homes to clean their pets' messes up from their lawns.  Both of these families have strapping, capable children.  All I could think was maybe their sons and daughters were too busy doing all those things I never did as a kid to find the time to learn how to deal with the shit that is a normal and natural by product of owning a dog. 

I thought about it for about two seconds and then happily instructed First Born Prince and Charming Baby to get busy.