What it Means to be an Adult Child with Kids

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I attended a writing class this week with the full intent of discussing a non-fiction book I am working on about traveling- as a family, with my spouse, solo and with friends..  As I was hashing out the idea with the speaker (who was gracious to sit down with a rambling hopeful writer), he couldn’t quite grasp what I was hoping to achieve.  Being unable to state your point is probably not a good thing if you are hoping to make it as a writer.  At one point, he said “But what is your field of expertise?”  I could hear my eyelashes blink in the silence. “If you aren’t an expert in traveling, and this is not an advice book about traveling with children, then what are you hoping to achieve with this?”  Blink, blink.  I suppose I want to write a book to introduce my charm to the world but I also wouldn’t mind if I got a reality show called “Fuck Dynasty” (so called because of all the cussing).

A bit of my soul died when I told him that I really have no expertise in anything.  He asked me to discuss one of the essays I am working on for the book so I told him about visiting Canter’s Deli in Los Angeles with my kids and my mom and how that deli was once a special place for my family when I was a teenager.  Long story short (and because I hope to post that Canter’s story sometime on here), the speaker told me that he feels that the stuff about traveling is incidental to what the real story may be.  After a few more minutes of discharged stream of consciousness manure being flung at this poor man, we discussed that the direction I could be taking in my writing is in being both a parent and being an adult “child” to my mom.

So that is one explanation for the name of the website “Adult Child With Kids”- how I am dealing with being an adult child to my mother.  The other explanation comes from the fact that I am a little scared to say goodbye to my wild youth and I merely want to put it into my pocket for occasional opportunities of craziness.  (Shhh, you are going in here, my precious, until I have my third drink and then you may come out again.)  One of my weirdest/ proudest moments as a parent was when a friend of mine told me, “I love your Facebook posts! It’s like you are always checking in at great bars or restaurants.”  While I do “check in” most times I go out, I am not away from home so much that the babysitter must show a picture of me to the kids lest they forget who lost her figure bearing them.  But date nights, girl’s nights, trips to Vegas (followed up by an inevitable sobering up), are sometimes needed to keep my inner youth satisfied. And I am okay with that. Hence, I am an “adult/child” in some ways.

That being said, I have tried to avoid writing about being a mom, for so many reasons.  Writing about parenting is more personal than I like to get with strangers, which is odd because I have discussed medical procedures with folks I just met (mine diseases, not theirs).  Also it’s hard to write about shortcomings in your parenting and to display to the world that you have as much knowledge about raising kids as a potato has about Tolstoy. Most days I get called “mommy” when really on the inside I feel more like “aimless college student trying to pick a major while living in her parents’ basement.” Even with all that, I do want to write about it and I do want A&E to consider “Fuck Dynasty” knowing that I would never say anything homophobic.  The opposite is the case: I am quite likely to take my kids to a gay bar (when they are old enough to appreciate a good cocktail).

So there it is. What this blog starts as and what it morphs into could be two separate things.  I will often be crass and immature- as my youth urges me to be- but I will also be helping
parents (and non-parents) recognize that life does not end when you have kids. However, the morning after with kids can be quite the little bitch.

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