I have failed in my duties as a mother. I have not prepared my children to go out into this world and survive on their own. The other day my 19 year old asked me how one would get a package from our house to her friend’s dorm in San Diego.
I wanted to tell her that all she had to do was box it up, label it, and wait out on the curb for the next Pony Express to ride by. I was, however, concerned she may follow my suggestion, because bad advice is the only advice my kids ever seem to take from me. However, I didn’t want my youngest daughter waiting on a street corner for a undetermined length of time; that could have other implications, which none of us are prepared to deal with.
Why didn’t she Google search it? Google is why kids literally know everything these days. Then my thoughts turned to my apparent lack of mothering skills. How could my daughter not know how to mail a physical package? She figured out how to order and pay for stuff online on her own; she has received many a parcel. The mysterious names on the colorful trucks must have her stymied and wondering how a person finds these trucks and asks them to ship a box all the way to the southernmost part of our coast.
I could have told her she needed to catch one of those big trucks as it dropped a box at our house. She just better hope one of us has ordered something around the time of her friend’s birthday– because that’s the only way anyone can ship something from one place to another. Then she better watch carefully that it wasn’t delivered by the US Postal Service because they fly right by our house to the mail box. She’d have to sprint down there to stop them.
I didn’t toy with her as the above commentary would suggest, even though I raised my children on garlic and sarcasm. And all those thoughts took but a second as I pondered, in astonishment, that my daughter didn’t know how to mail a package at 19 years old. So I simply said, “There’s this place. It’s called a post office. We have two conveniently located, both just a short drive from our house.”
Perhaps I should’ve given her the sarcastic version, though. She gave me a look that was a cross between, “I knew that,” and, “Do those places really exist?” I figure when the time comes she’ll ask me to take her hand and lead her down the wooded path, five miles, through the dense underbrush, uphill both ways, to that dark and scary, unknown building.
After the conversation, I retreated to my bedroom to ruminate over all the holes I must have left imparting my infinite wisdom to my daughters. I know they’ve gone to the post office with me, but they were probably young. Or maybe they didn’t because I didn’t like taking them places where there was a chance they could run rampant while I was helpless to stop them with arms full of packages. So it’s highly possible I never exposed them to that major part of our society’s social infrastructure. I dropped the ball.
To make up for that grave lapse in maternal management, I think I’ll introduce my oldest daughter to her car tab renewal form and let her pay for it. I’ve always taken care of this aspect of her life, but I don’t want that real obligation to be another oversight of my motherly duties.
Gretchen Leigh is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Covington. You can read more of her writing and her blog on her website livingwithgleigh.com, on Facebook at “Living with Gleigh.”or follow her on Twitter @livewithgleigh. Her column is available every week at maplevalleyreporter.com under the Lifestyles section.
