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On a Lighter Note

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By Dawn Zamanis

Published: February 26, 2007

Last week while the kids were in school, I threw caution to the wind and accepted an invite from a friend (I'll call her "Donna") for coffee at her place.

I was hesitant to meet her as usual because my work load was such that if I had stayed at my desk for eight hours straight (assuming there were no kids around) I would only have scratched the surface.

So I left, coat in arm, 20-pound purse slung over my shoulder and a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I wore jeans (no business attire that day) and my accessories included a pen wedged in a barrette on my head and a reporter's notebook stashed in my back pocket. Classy.

I shuffled out the front door kicking a basket of laundry into the hall. I left blowing off all my motherly duties and chores - the laundry, a sink full of dishes (my dishwasher-the new one-is still on the fritz), and mountains of heaps of who knows what from one end of the house to the other. (And for the record, leaving heaps of who knows what scattered throughout my home sometimes throws me into a state of panic.)

Feeling culpable, yet resolute, I drove three blocks over to Donna's place and indulged in a pot of freshly brewed 'kawfee.' I have to tell you, Donna is not a stay-at-home working mom like me. She works outside of the home Monday through Friday. It is a rarity that Donna has a day off and I'd been reticent in the past in response to her former invites for coffee, so I really put forth an effort to be there.

Donna is my age, divorced with two children. She is what I jokingly refer to as a social butterfly. She's been dating steadily (by that I don't mean she's been dating the same man exclusively.) And there is no doubt in my mind that Donna is searching for "Mr. Right." Incredibly, she still believes in the happily ever-after fairytale many girls were duped into believing since they were old enough to talk. I'm glad she still holds out hope for her knight in shining armor, but personally think it's somewhat hopeless.

After coffee and some girl talk, Donna talked me into lunch at Panera's. Now she was really asking a lot. I had already calculated that coffee at her place had taken up two hours of my day; I'd left my house to pot and now would never get to the bank. My entire daily regimen would be a massacre at best.

There was nothing edible in my fridge and in about three hours I'd have five hungry cantankerous boys bellowing for food after raiding an empty fridge. And that would unquestionably screw up the rest of the night.

I could envision the whole picture clear as a bell. But Donna, the social butterfly with two kids could not. Especially since neither of her kids had entered the dreaded God-awful, put me out of my misery, shoot-me-now teenage years.

Just wait, I secretly thought. Donna's in for a rude awakening. A rude, rude awakening.
Donna and I had talked about the teenage years. I have two (well almost-my 12 year old will be 13 in a month- but it has already started.)

Donna reminds me of myself before I had teens. Oh, she predicts that all of her hard work and open, honest discussions will keep her kids in check. She foresees absolutely no trouble when they reach the teen years. I was once that gullible. I once thought that no matter what, I had given my kids a solid foundation and the teen years would be just another small bump in the road, if that. Ha!

She still argues with me about how things will be different for her. I tried to warn her, but it does no good. While sipping broccoli and cheddar soup at Panera's I glanced at her through my dark sunglasses and just shook my head. I sipped some more soup, tore off a piece of French bread and smiled.

Was I that naïve? I wondered. Had I really thought I could get through life without my kids becoming teenagers? Did I think those painstakingly nightmarish years would just quietly pass by while I vacuumed, or made beds while passing out new cans of Play-doh as a treat for a good test score?

I wish someone had warned me. I wish someone would have told me that the Play-Doh would wind up splattered on the blades of their ceiling fan as they watched it gyrate at top speed and that making their beds was futile.

I wish someone had told me that more doors would slam than there were doors to slam and that words would come out of my teens' mouths I didn't even know the meaning of. And that filthy socks and three-day old rancid pizza would become a part of their room decor. And that a curfew meant nothing to a teen unless is enforced by a penalty as severe as taking one's cell phone away for an hour, or disconnecting the internet. And that telling your teen (who is now three feet taller than you) to "snap out of it" or "go to your room" is almost embarrassing. (A word to the wise - invest in a step stool when doling out punishments to your teen that has grown like a weed overnight - you'll seem more convincing if you are at least a little taller than him or her.)

Poor Donna sat there slurping down the rest of her soup while my day went to hell in a handbag. But I tried. I tried to warn her. And I hope it was worth it. While I would later endure an evening of trying to tame five famished boys (that in and of itself is dangerous enough - you don't let a teenage boy go without food for even an hour), my friend Donna would still be oblivious to what lied ahead. For Donna, ignorance was bliss.

Still, I felt some sense of relief in that I warned her ahead of time. And now, two days later, I am still trying to get back on schedule from my day with Donna. I hope someday she thanks me when she calls to ask "when does it get easier?" I'll gently warn her that just when you think you're over the worst of it, a Play-doh covered ceiling fan blade will come hurling by you when you least expect it.
"Heads-up," Donna.

Dawn Zamanis is a Valrico resident and the mother of five sons. She has been a freelance writer for national magazines and news publications and can be contacted through thebrandonnews@mediageneral.com.

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