Mama Has Bad Juju


My son’s black belt test in tae kwon do is in a week.  I may or may not be permitted to attend the test.  I have already been banned from:  soccer games that mean anything, soccer tournaments, tae kwon do tournaments, certain restaurants which shall remain unnamed.  We really hope I am allowed on the cruise ship…

For those who know me really well, my banishment will come as no surprise because, if I’m honest, the Wee Banshee is a bit…high strung at certain times, especially at her children’s sporting events.  Well, not at the events but usually in the days and hours leading up to said events.  I can be…again, if I’m honest, hysterical.  Maniacal, even.

I won’t even go into the types of things that I do before such events; suffice it to say I bring everyone’s stress level from “Mild & Manageable” to “CODE RED!!”  I don’t mean to but I get so nervous.  Will we get there on time?  Do we have proper directions?  Does son or daughter (depending) have their uniform in order?  What do you mean we have to stop for gas?  WHY COULDN’T YOU FILL THE CAR UP WITH GAS YESTERDAY???

Case in point,  a particularly disastrous tae kwon do tournament: We left late, had to get gas, my son spilled chocolate milk all over the front of his snowy white uniform, when we stopped to buy wet wipes the directions to the tournament got caught by a gust of wind and flew out of the car, NO ONE was speaking to each other upon arrival at tournament, result not good.   Before the next tournament, my son had a little chat with his dad:  “Does she have to go?”  Dad (no doubt biting the inside of his cheek, hard): “Do you want her to go?”  “No.”   I didn’t go, son got gold medal.

My daughter, although she is like the Rock of Gibraltar tempermentally, probably prefers me not to attend her important games.  The sound of the Wee Banshee shrieking at her from the sidelines is just too much for her, forget the pre-game hysterics.

I want my children to do well at their respective sports.  I want them to be well prepared.  I want them to be able to walk out the door without forgetting things.  If I wasn’t hovering and snapping at their heels like a well-trained Border Collie, they’d wander out the door half-dressed, with no directions, and no gas in the car.  But even as I write this, I realize that its my fault they can’t walk out the door on their own.  Woof.

I will ask my son if he wants me to attend his test.  If he says no, I’ll understand although I  will try to negotiate a compromise (like standing just outside the door, peeking, no sobbing)  When he passes (and he will),  I will silently run out of the building and do a little dance on Danforth Avenue,bringing a few minutes of joy to the elderly Greek men who hang out at the taverna down the street.  Before the test,  I will even volunteer to take the subway instead of riding in the car, leaving the driving to The Calm One (my husband).

The Big Trip looms – another “event” that will cause me to fly into hyper-Banshee mode.  The OCD is kicking in, the repetitive checking of passports has already begun.  I see the children huddling with their dad, no doubt devising ways of slipping a strong tranquilizer into my latte before we board the plane.  They don’t want to be embarrassed.  They don’t want to be forcibly de-planed in Newfoundland.  But, how to keep Mama calm or at least, reasonable?  When my kids ask, slyly, if I can take another plane to Barcelona, I will politely decline but yes, I will sit in another row.  If I have to.




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