Dim-witted laments in our go-go world
I can't figure out how, as a parent, I can give my children the tools to deal with the fast pace of change, when I'm flooded by information on daily basis that is beyond my ability to process?
Three thousand books are published every day. Scientific information doubles every two years, so that knowledge gained by a college freshman is often obsolete before graduation day. And I'm not even talking about the Internet, television or video game systems.
I'm so slack jawed, dim witted and slow that I referred to the online community space I visit as MyFace, morphing MySpace and Facebook into one entity.
I'm, thankfully, not alone in my dim-wittedness. The man of the house has a similar processing disability. He referred to our hospital as Little Richards, combing the Little River Healthcare Systems with the old name of Richards Memorial Hospital.
I wasn't as generous as he was when he told me about his mistake because I sang, "Womp-bomp-a-loom-op-awomp bam-boom" the rest of the day.
I can't figure out if speeding up or slowing down is what will help my children in the long run? I've been guilty of both. I have sat in front of our television watching a movie while working on a laptop, and then sworn off television and electrical devices for weeks at a time.
I've got acceleration schizophrenia but the kids don't seem to suffer from it. They just want to go, go, go.
Here we are already in fourth week of school, and the first week of new school excitement is a distant memory. I can hang on to the fact that the new school smell still lingers in the intermediate hallways and classrooms.
As if the quick pace of technology and information weren't enough to knock me off my perch, my kids are slamming it home in their daily declarations of independence.
The oldest didn't want us to walk him into his "new" school the first day of class and he was pretty ticked that Dad did anyway. He wasn't even placated by the fact that his dad had to take pictures for this newspaper.
On the second day of elementary school, the youngest didn't want me to hold his hand when we walked inside the school, and by the third day he didn't want me walking inside with him.
I was strong though. Took his declarations of independence well. I didn't cry until after I had gotten inside the car and had driven away from the campus.
When I got home I got out my cellphone and sent Mr. Womp-bomp-a-loom-op a text about the sad news, and the sensitive soul replied, "Keep a knockin."
His apropos response to my not being able to "come in" to my children's lives made me cry-laugh, and if you've never done that let me say that it hurts physically.
By the second week of the school year, this crying business was old hat for me.
I boo hooed, again, this time because the baby of the family (in every sense of the word) insisted that I kiss him goodbye in the driveway of our home because he didn't want anyone at school to see us.
I comfort myself with the fact that "he still wants a kiss." I've been told by other mothers even that stops.
Funny how the things I don't want to slow down do.