As a mother, I have heard myself say things that I never imagined uttering to another human being: “Take that bug out of your mouth,” “Where is the rest of the poop?” “Stop touching your butt and go wash for dinner.”
I have stood in stoic solidarity beside my husband as he demanded, “Izzy, put your tongue in your mouth,” and threatened, “If you do not stop making that horrible, horrible noise, and dunking your spaghetti in your juice, there will be no cartoons tonight.”
I have heard that one of the roles of parents is to dispense meaningful advice at just the right moments in our children’s development. But, I confess that most of my motherly advice seems to come screaming out of my mouth in response to acute annoyance and/or immediate danger.
“Ask before you touch a strange dog!” “Where did you get that? Don’t eat it.”
Every once in a while I hear myself saying something almost sage-like; something that seems to reach beyond my immediate caché of wisdom.
“Choose the shoes that feel the best on your feet, not the ones the sparkle the brightest.”
This is a very rare occurrence, now and as far back as I can remember. The good, bad and ridiculous advice that now flows so freely in our household calls to mind some of the gems that have been passed on to me throughout the years. Some that came from a helpful place, but in the end weren’t all that helpful:
“Nice girls don’t wear jewelry below the waist.”
Some that applied to the moment, but had no real lasting value:
From my father and brother while attempting to teach me to water ski, “Keep your knees bent, and your arms straight, and you’ll pop right out.”
And some that just did not span-well the generation gap.
“You will never land a husband until you learn how to properly make a bed.” My grandmother offered this advice as my mother stood behind her smiling and shaking her head slowly in disagreement. And then, “It’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.”
Once I had a husband, I heard, “Follow your husband wherever his career takes him.” I think this one might have been more helpful had I had the patience to follow the latter advice above.
There was the straight no-nonsense advice that hurt like the dickens when delivered, but proved to be helpful later on. From my ever-sensitive father as I stood crying before him because I had yet again failed college algebra, “When you’re dumb, you’ve got to be tough.”
And from the wisdom of my great grandmother, who came to this country through Ellis Island in 1919, offered in a stern Middle-European accent, “After laugh, comes cry.”
There was the advice that came in veiled statements and sheepish questions. On my first day of college, from my mother who looked just as terrified as I felt, “You are not afraid of anything.” And from my grandmother, regarding my high school boyfriend, “Did he get fresh with you, (and then in a whisper with her eyes turned down),” Did he try to touch you up top?”
I smiled, “try, um, no, no.”
“Oh, Nicky, leave a little something to the imagination,” she snapped.
Some of the best advice I have ever received came from friends and family closer to my age. From my brother, when I broke things off with my second fiancé, “We work hard at our education, our careers, to maintain our bodies, our homes and friendships. But we expect to ‘fall into’ the thing we need the most."
From my girlfriends, “Boys are like shoes, the cuter they are, the more likely they are to hurt you later,” and, “If you want something you’ve never had, you have to do something you have never done.”
And my favorite, “In every act of bravery, there is just a little bit of stupidity.” I test that one often.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to offer my daughter the type of wisdom that was so readily available to me, but I do think I am getting better. Just the other day, I advised Izzy that it would be wise to put a little something on, as she ran out of the front door to play completely naked.
And, I also mentioned to her that it would work better for her and the dog if she opened the door to share her cheese with him rather than mashing it through the screen.
I hope Izzy is blessed with a lifetime of wise friends.
