People I Want to Punch in the Throat: The Parents of Storm Stocker-Witterick

People I Want to Punch in the Throat: The Parents of Storm Stocker-Witterick

Motherhood is hard to define....

I've decided to begin blogging about what I have read recently in addition to the activities in my daily life. Perhaps that will help me be more consistent with my posts. It's not that there isn't a plethora of fodder for blogging occurring on an everyday basis. Au contraire. But sometimes the reality is too close for me to post! Or perhaps I am too exhausted from the actual events of the day to collect my thoughts and post them. It could be that I think most readers would insist that the events are too wild to be true. Regardless, I do think commenting on what I have read is a good springboard - and I have to admit here that I did not come up with this plan on my own. I must tip my hat to Cynthia Newberry Martin's blog 'Catching Days.' Check it out if you can.

But on to my recent read. Night Road by Kristin Hannah is a wonderfully powerful book. Full of twists and calls to understand the ties that bind us to others. But, perhaps most powerful to me is the winding and convoluted road to understanding what motherhood actually is. And, as a mother who is working through complicated times and is facing having a newborn again after 10 years (and at age 40!), I was touched at the ways Hannah approaches the things we do as mothers. I found myself identifying with Jude, one of the central characters and the mother of twins. She's an overprotective mother who wants what is best for her children. I can identify with her in so many ways; however, the marked difference between her motivation and mine to become perfect mothers is that she is motivated by her own mother who was distant and seemingly uncaring. I, on the other hand, had a mother much like Jude, one who was present at almost every school function, who planned parties, who encouraged us to have our friends over and opened our home to them, who checked up on every invitation we had, who called parents and chaperons before parties, and who was more wonderful than words.

The other central character, Lexi, has grown up in and out of foster care with a mother (now dead from an overdose) whose addictions took precedence over doing what was best for her child. As a teacher of children who are labeled "at risk," I have seen too many of them who are just like Lexi - in and out of foster care and marked by the actions of parents, mothers who were more interested in the next high than the welfare of the children. And for Lexi's character, when the time comes, the decision of how to be a good mother is crucial. She knows all too well the impact of a bad mother, and she desperately wants her daughter to have the love and attention that Jude gives to her children.

The novel centers around what it means to be a family, what it means to truly love and feel, and what all mothers wrestle with once they see those little hands, feet, lips, and eyes for the first time. "What in the h$%# am I going to do now? How do I raise this little one right? Is there a set of instructions on how to shape this little life so that he or she feels loved, secure, protected, and able to face what life will throw at him or her?" That moment of sheer joy mixed with panic is one that so many of us have shared, and that only experience can answer.

We can look to those who have provided models for us, but even they will say that much trial and error is involved in raising children. There are books out there that try to steer us in the right direction, but even those are not exact for every child and every family. And the complications of real life often make finding the "right" answer most difficult.

The one thing that Hannah did not give her characters was a spiritual side - a relationship with God. And, as a parent, I must say that a relationship with God might not make the difficult times go away, but He does give us strength, wisdom, and guidance to handle the joy and grief that come with parenting. For the characters in her novel, there is a huge void, especially when tragedy and difficulty strike. They are able to function well during the good times, but the moment when the world turns on its ear, they are at a loss for what is best for them and the children. I ached for the characters in the book at that point, knowing what a difference a relationship would have made for them.

Kristin Hannah's books always provide an escape for me - one that keeps me smiling in spite of myself and crying quietly when characters face difficulty. She is able to create characters who call to mind friends, family, and acquaintances. Motivation for the characters is so believable and I find myself not only identifying with parts of them, but also grieving or celebrating with them. It also helps that she alludes to great literature and has her characters reading the classics! And, in Night Road, she has created a discussion about what being a 'good mother' really means.

Winter Aches...

As I sit watching it snow and enjoying the fire, I am tending to an extremely ill husband. Not "irritated" ill, but extremely sick. Bless him. I have been up with him since about 11:30 last night and had to demand that he stay home from work and get some medical attention. At the moment, he is fitfully sleeping after keeping down some broth and ginger ale. Pray for a cure soon. As much as I am feeling for him, my tired self is beginning to lose patience with this "Nurse Betty" role. I guess that thought about becoming a nurse as my second career when I grow up isn't such a good one.

But, what is even more forefront on my mind during this difficult day is the disappointment my elder child is feeling because of a recent tryout. My heart is breaking because he wanted to be a part of something so badly, and he was not chosen. Now, I am not one to demand my child be given something he doesn't deserve and for which a better qualified child should receive. However, whenever they feel disappointment, I ache for them. I know in my heart of hearts that these are the moments when they learn the valuable lessons and become men of character, and my lead on how to handle the situation is what will help them develop the skills needed to be successful in life. But no matter how I try, I am the one who cries secretly and aches inside for their disappointment. I would love it if they always were chosen for teams, always hit the ball, never struck out, caught every pass or ball hit to them, ran the fastest, swam the best, sang the most on key, played instruments well just by picking them up, made the highest grades, knew poems without hours of practice for a recitation, created the best display or presentation, and more. But, just as my extremely wise and kind mother reminded me during times of competition and disappointment in my youth, "there will always be someone smarter, prettier, more talented and better at what you are doing." And although that doesn't always remove the sting of the loss, it does make one's attitude going in realistic.

I stress to my children that if they can say to themselves that they did their best, then I ask nothing more of them. I will forever be proud of what they have accomplished and will do whatever it takes to help them if they truly want to improve and attempt a goal again. But, I HATE the disappointment they feel. I wish I could take it from them and replace it with that "tickle in your tummy feeling on Christmas Eve," as my younger son once called it. But if I did that, I would in no way prepare them for the unfair situations that life throws at us ad infinitum. And I desire to help my sons become men like my father and their step-father: men of honor; men of their word; men who know it is okay to feel and to grieve, but understand the need for decorum at times; men who can lose with dignity; and men who can end each day knowing that they did the right thing.

I just wish it didn't require on the job training on their part....

Crazy Cooters Comin' At'cha!

Believe it or not, Hooters has a dress and appearance policy for its "service personnel" (heretofore known as "waitresses"). If you weren't aware - or haven't been to said establishment before - let me avail you of that fact. But, what you may not know is that there are age qualifications, too. And, in addition to that, there are many spin off businesses that attempt to make a go using a similar selling technique - and I'm not speaking of those "bunnies" or those "touch and go" places.

Let me tell you a story....

Years ago, after my college years had recently ended and my friends and I were becoming teachers and other professionals, I had a friend (no, really, this is a historical account of a friend's experience. IT IS NOT ABOUT ME!!! Although, as funny as it is, I almost wish it were!) who was recently divorced, teaching, and had moved to start over. Since there were bills to pay, trips to take, and fun to be had, this friend decided to wait tables after her teaching day was done to earn some extra money and to "get out a little bit."

"Friend" was in her mid 20s and was exceedingly attractive, well-spoken, affable, and able to multi-task (all qualifications needed for a good waitress - ahem, service care representative .). So, she applied at Hooters, figuring that the tips she could earn there would be great - and the hours would be conducive to her teaching schedule. In addition, they were hiring. Imagine her horror when she was told - between the lines - that she was a bit older and more educated than their standard employee and they were not certain she would be a good fit. She was momentarily crushed, but quickly picked herself up and proceeded to restaurant/club #2 on her list.

This establishment was built on the Hooters concept, except that their menu mainstay was seafood. Local seafood caught that day and served fresh that night. The "Catch of the Day" was a special and the nautical theme was present before one ever entered the door. Yes, "Cooters" was a local favorite!! (No, I am not making this up - and all the innuendo that is therein contained as well as the snickering that I know is occurring as you read this has only gone through my mind many times!!). So "Friend" quickly made her way to this establishment and filled out an application. Oh, the heavens opened up and the angels sang!!! She was just what they needed - a female! And one that would wear their green short-shorts, "Cooters" cut-off shirt, and make nice with the customers!! Oh, joy!!!

Believe it or not, this job was one my friend kept for more than a year. She made awesome tips - and had tales to tell more than I can describe. But, the uniform she still has in the depths of her closet says volumes... and the irony abounds!!!

Maybe, if you live right, you, too, can become a "Cooters' Girl!" Dream big!!

Snow Day.... Bring on the "Pit Boss"...

I find myself watching "Snooki" on the Today Show and wondering what my mind could turn into if I watched such drivel all day long. However, my "high-mindedness" is short lived. I have found on these "snow days" I am watching the most frightening host of reality shows imaginable. And I am ADDICTED!!

Could there be a show about me now?!? Instead of "Hoarders," maybe there could be a show about 40 year old English teachers who sneak to watch such tantalizing and titillating television as "My Strange Addiction," "Celebrity Ghost Stories," "Snapped," "Swamp People," "Toddlers and Tiaras," "Disappeared," "Hoarders: Buried Alive," "Animal Hoarders," "Oddities," and "Pit Boss." These women find themselves identifying with the subjects of these shows, and often offer advice to the television in an attempt to aid in the resolution of the conflict at hand.

In addition, there is a uniform required for all the female stars of this show - worn, thread-bare yoga or exercise pants, a stained tank top with stretched-out spots, and either an old, over-sized sweatshirt or a snuggie. Hairstyles range from a messy pony tail with tendrils held back with a large expandable headband bought for that brief moment when "I am going to start running," to a headband thrown into messy bedhead, to a baseball cap.

So, I raise my glass of Coca~Cola at Snooki and check the cable guide to find my favorites so I won't miss a thing. I am making myself feel a bit better by folding clothes that I am running upstairs to wash and pull from the dryer during the moments that I pause my "shows." Let me just adjust my tank top so I can reach those socks at the bottom of the basket....

First Loser to the Big Girls....

The only crown I ever won in a beauty pageant, I won by default. True story. I wish I could say I competed lots, and always got to take that walk down the stage, waving to my fans, doing my mouthed "Thank you, oh, thank you!" But I didn't. I practiced when I was little. We had pretend pageants in our basement after the Miss America pageant ~ my sister was the BEST! And her friends were hysterical... but even then, I didn't get to win. I was still the "stupid little sister." Sigh.


But, I have to admit that the only beauty pageants I was in growing up really centered around our school pageants, and they were fund raisers and ways to wear my Easter dress again when I was in Elementary and Middle School, and ways to wear my Prom dress again when I was in High School. My parents were practical people, you see. Now, when I was a senior in high school, my best friend was crowned our high school queen and I was first runner up and my other best friend was second runner up. We were ecstatic! That was, until one of the "little" girls who did not place (and I say little because she was one of those under 5'3" less than 85 pound girls who ALWAYS won or placed!) came up to us and said, "They must have been going for that 'Big Girl' look this year." What the hell? The Queen said, "Well, there you go. I'm Queen of the Big Girls." To which I replied, "At least you aren't the First Loser of the Big Girls!" A banner moment in my life. I so love that one! :)


But, back to my "Default Crown." When I was a junior in college, Mrs. June Ramsey called and begged me to come home and compete in the Jefferson County Miss Southern Sweetheart Pageant, as she had few entrants and needed some. I agreed, as I didn't have much going on that weekend. When I arrived at the high school lunch room (yes, you read that correctly... this pageant was being held at the local high school lunch room ~ high cotton here!), I was informed that I was the only contestant who was coming to compete that day in the "Miss" division, so I was the winner. Therefore, I needed to change into my gown and help with crowning and emceeing all the other events. Ta da! I was so excited!!! Plus, I got to ride in the Christmas Parade and.... compete in the State Miss Southern Sweetheart Competition! (This is where I should have run away... run far, far away.)


My mother, sister and I thought we had the State Competition under control. We looked over the paperwork, typed up my application, and began to get my wardrobe together. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my Talbots/Old Maine Trotter/L.L. Bean/Laura Ashley loving mother and my ultra-conservative sister and I (the girl who looked like a 40-year-old woman in high school) put our heads together to plan my wardrobe. This had to be good! There was sportswear, bathing suit, business attire, and evening wear. And, I was just perfect! (I am being facetious, I hope you know... I cannot tell you how out of my league I was... oh, bless me!).


When we arrived in Atlanta at the hotel (I cannot remember the name of it, but it was downtown near the Fox) and began to unload and go up to the room, we noticed the other contestants in the lobby and in the hallways. That's when we realized my hair was not big enough, my makeup was not nearly dramatic enough, my clothes were not tight or flashy enough, and I was not..... ready for the ass whooping that was coming. In fact, it was so obvious that my Mama told me to get dressed for the first competition and we promptly went down and ALL had a drink in the hotel bar. It was hilarious.


Oh, those women (and I say "women" because they were coached from birth to compete for these titles and had coaches and "professional" pageant dresses and sportswear and interview wear and so forth... I had some cute things from Talbots and the Peachtree House in Louisville with some button covers for some added sparkle... not enough!). I thought my banana clip in my long brown curly tresses and some eyeliner and red lipstick would be dramatic enough. Hahahahahah.... No! I needed a different style for each outfit and I needed eyes that "popped" and some "glitter in the eyeshadow" and heavy liner and shading for contour.... What in the hell? And my poor conservative blue evening dress. These girls were in full liquid sequins with slits up to here and plunging necklines down to there.... and they just looked at me and rolled their eyes....


Mama and Becky sat in the back and clapped and cheered for me, but I knew it was just the Whiskey Sours talking. Or maybe by then it was the White Russians.... at that point, they may have been doing shots or playing drinking games. It didn't matter to me; I was just thankful to have them.

I did have enough pride to go back for the crowing ~ I may have been Jefferson County's "Default Queen," but I was representing them at the State Southern Sweetheart Pageant (I guess I can say I have competed on the state level.... just like I have plans to one day go to a Rockettes audition... I know I won't make it past the first round, but at least I can say I did audition for the Rockettes. See, it's all in how you present things... Spin, baby!). But I learned a very valuable lesson from it all.... when my Mama says, "I don't know about all this pageant business," I should listen to her. 'Cause "business" when my Mama says it regarding anything ("this marriage business," "this tattoo business," "this snake business," "this burning the front yard business") means she thinks whatever I'm talking about is a "not very good" idea. In other words, something she doesn't think very highly of, not in the least bit, young lady.

Ah, the lessons I have learned. And you know what... I don't even have that crown anymore. It got crushed in my hope chest and I threw it out several years ago. Me, the first loser to the big girls....

We Were Discussing Hemorrhoids, Officer... Honest!

It was a typical Georgia summer afternoon and I was enjoying a drive to Dublin and back with my son Zach. Since we rarely get to have time that's "just the two of us," we were listening to the radio and chatting away, with him asking questions about various topics and my answering to the best of my ability. And we were singing songs and being silly (as you can imagine we are wont to do in my family - immediate and extended).

Well, we had driven to Dublin via I-16 (for those of you who don't live in rural Georgia, we do tend to drive quickly on back roads, but they sometimes are full of (a) varmints that can cause damage to your car, (b) small towns that can slow one down because they are speed traps or because they have the obligatory one stop light or four-way stop, and (c) octogenarians who are out making sure the family automobile is driven at least once a week so it won't go "bad." So, if we can make a trip via the interstate and really have fun, well.... we take advantage of it. It's the little things in life, you see... I believe in having fun however I can get it ~ hence the reason going to a Sam's Club is right up there with walking the Streets of Gold... sigh...), done our errands, and were coming back home. Our ride on I-16 had just ended and we were back on the country road that led us back to Swainsboro, but I was still deep in conversation with Zach and had not really noticed that I was not driving under 65 miles an hour ~ in fact, I had just hit the cruise and had resumed my "interstate" speed. (And I am going to play the part of the Tar Baby and say nothing here about what that "interstate speed" actually is... but close to 65 mph, it ain't...).

Okay, about this time, a commercial came on the radio about hemorrhoids and Zach asked what they were. I was doing my best to explain them to him and why people acquire them and how they are treated and what in the sam hill Preparation H does for them (and, of course, I wanted to go on a diatribe about how "PH" also helps dry up pimples in a pinch and I had often used it growing up, but I resisted because that would just have blown his mind... and again... I digress.... Granny Weatherall, you see... Go back to my first posting...). I desperately wished my Daddy were still alive at that point because I would have called him and just given Zach the phone, but would that have taken place, the next part of this story would have been tragic.... kinda. Sorta. Maybe.

In the middle of our hemorrhoid discussion, Zach and I both look up to see a State Patrol cruiser topping the hill ahead of us. We both look down at my speedometer and see my speed. Zach looks at me. Even if I slam on brakes, I am busted. I sigh. I turn off my cruise control and allow the car to slow down gradually as the cruiser pulls over and turns around to follow me. I begin to tell Zach that in situations like this, it is ALWAYS best to tell the truth. Lying is a surefire way to get into trouble (and I don't add here that I am a horrible liar and it doesn't work for me). And I pull the car over and get out my license and registration and insurance cards.

The officer comes up to my window and asks for my paperwork and then asks the proverbial question, "Ms....., is there any good reason for you to be driving so fast today? I clocked you at [the speed of light]. That's mighty fast on this road and you've got precious cargo there."

Me: Officer, there is never a good reason to break the law or to speed. But to be honest with you, we have been to Dublin and were talking away and my son asked me about hemorrhoids and I was doing my best to explain them to him and answer his questions and I just wasn't paying attention to how fast I was going. I am so sorry. I don't have any excuse. I really don't.

Now, while I'm saying all of this, he is slowly turning his body away from my window and back towards his vehicle. And he is no longer looking at me at all. I find this odd, but am thankful he is not staring me down. He tells me he will be back in a minute and steps back and gets into his vehicle.

Now, I have to tell you, Zach is close to tears at this point. Not because I have gotten caught for speeding or that the State Patrol officer is being so stern with me. Oh, no! He is mortified that I have just told the man that we were discussing hemorrhoids. Yes! Zach is not believing I vocalized the word to someone outside the family and that I told the man about our hugely private conversation. Whatever! A scant 3 minutes earlier we had been trying to find words that rhymed with it... and then I was trying to give him mental images of what they looked like and he was comparing them to chicken fat... ewwww! Anyway.... I was doing that "Mama bulging-eyed, talk-through-your-teeth, don't you get smart with me" thing with Zach and praying to the Good Lord that I was not going to get a huge ticket. That and trying to remember who all I knew who might be able to help me get it reduced... maybe, possibly, perhaps....

I look in my rear view mirror and I see the officer on his radio and writing frantically on a clipboard and he is gone for several minutes.

Zach asks me if I am going to jail. Given how fast I was going, I am beginning to think he is calling for backup. Either that, or because of the tale I just told, he has just radioed to Milledgeville to have them send a special "car" for me.

Well, he finally walks back up to my window, grinning, giggling, and wiping tears from his eyes. He has been back in that car, laughing at me, radioing all his buddies, telling this story, writing it down verbatim so he won't forget it.... and he says to me, "Ma'am, I am not one to normally let people out of tickets. Ask around and see. But I also have a policy that if I hear a story that I've never heard before, I have to let people go. And in 17 years out here on the highway, I can honestly tell you, I have never, and the men and women I work with have never, ever heard of hemorrhoids as an excuse for speeding. So y'all go on now, slow it down, and have a good day."

Hemorrhoids have never done me better!

Honest!

Queen B