I have never been terribly good at punctuality. I’m generally late for just about everything.  Granted, I was born early but that may, in fact, be the very last time I was even remotely on time. Thus it is perfectly fitting that I am only now writing the column - months after the fact - marking the occasion of the 20^th anniversary of my entrance into adulthood. 

 In truth, I think I may be having a mid-life crisis – sans the sports car and the comb-over. I have spent much time lately dwelling on the past. Where did twenty years go? How is it that I’ve been a “grown up” longer than I was a child? When did the soundtrack of my life end up on the classic oldies station?  

What would I do over?  

Everything?  

Nothing?  

Some things.  

Tell. The funny thing is that as corny country song as it is, what I wish more than anything is that I could go back for just one day, face my 18 year old self, and tell her all the things I wish I had known back then.  

Such as, 

That the harder you work the luckier you are. For pretty much everything you do in life, you get out exactly what you put in.  

That life isn’t fair. It really isn’t. Not “he got a bigger cookie ” unfair, but rather “people can die in the blink of an eye” unfair.  Prepare for that.

That no matter how kind and polite and thoughtful you try to be, there may just be someone who doesn’t like you or what you stand for, so stop trying to please everyone. If you plan to become a writer - this will be doubly true. 

That a size nine isn’t “fat.” 

That you will never, ever need advanced algebra. 

That you will need sunscreen.

That you really should “save for a rainy day.” Yes, I know the Firebird and the Guess jeans are a lot more enticing, but they are absolutely useless when it finally “rains.” And trust me, it will rain. So save a little money from every paycheck, even if it’s only ten dollars. 
That under no circumstances should you accept all those credit card offers you are going to get within minutes of turning eighteen. Really. Trust me on this.  

That you will never, ever, look good in either short hair or a spiral perm. I really can’t stress this enough.

That if you act stupid to attract boys, you will attract stupid boys. I spent a lot of time in high school “dumbing down” because I thought that’s what guys liked. It turns out only dumb guys like that. You are not going to marry a dumb guy. I promise. 

If you do, however, date a dumb boy you will not “change” him. Your love will not “save” him and no, he won’t be nicer/different/better when you are married (and/or pregnant).  

That you should cherish your hometown. You will not live there “your whole life” (or much longer) and you will miss it dearly later on. 

That God is real and you should listen to him. Always.

That you should realize how smart the adults in your life really are. Hush up. Take notes if necessary. You will wish you had listened more. I know this will come as a shock but having a complete set of Led Zeppelin cassettes and a car payment does not make you wise. You really don’t know everything. 

That you are no longer a child and in virtually every important aspect of your life there will be no “do-overs.” Think carefully before you burn bridges. Getting the last word may seem like a pleasant victory – but you can win the argument and still lose it all. Really. 

Finally, I would tell my eighteen year old self that if you learn nothing else you should pay attention to that very small voice from within – even when it gives you that uncomfortable feeling that questions certain life choices. Especially then.Try and listen to it because that voice will – more than once – try mightily to direct you down the right path.  

And if that voice should happen to sound a lot like a pushy, know-it-all, twenty years older (and thus totally ancient) you – listen to her.  

Definitely.

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Today is my kids’ last day of school. Just the thought of summer break strikes a crippling fear in my heart and now, it is on my doorstep, ringing the doorbell. “I’m not home! Go away!” I’m yelling from under my blanket of denial, but he refuses to leave. I know that I have to open the damn door. I know it. I just cannot bring myself to leave the comfort that has been my denial for the past few days.

I have all of the teacher’s gifts, wrapped and ready to give. It is my last ditch effort to plead with them to take my kids home for the summer. My second grader’s teacher asked if we would keep the class pet, a frog, for the summer. I offered her an even trade…the frog for the second grader. She laughed. I didn’t. Maybe nobody will notice if I forget to pick up the kids after school today. Maybe I can bribe the custodian to lock them in the utility closet for ten weeks. Maybe I can pay her to slide some food and water under the door, so they survive. Maybe I can find a mission trip to send the kids on. What better way to spend the summer than learning about how good life really is in the United States? So they risk Malaria and other unpleasant side effects of third world visitation, it is all part of the experience, right? With great rewards, come great risks!

Okay, so I sound a little desperate. I am. The little beasts were off of school for one extra day, last week. Our house and my temper suffered greatly, that day. They “accidentally” spilled a smoothie in the cable box and broke it. They “accidentally” rode their scooters in the house and made several gouges in the wall, before I caught them. They “accidentally” poured a bottle of baby shampoo all over the bathroom floor, to clean up the ink pen that “accidentally” broke and splatter painted the floor a lovely shade of midnight. They “accidentally” killed my last shred of sanity. I’m not sure how I’m going to avoid being the next “Parent Gone Mad, Drowns Her Children” news headline, but something has to be figured out. I decided to seek out divine intervention, yesterday. I emailed my husband’s uncle, who is a priest, to seek some advice. I kid you not, this was our correspondence:

“Hi Uncle John. How are you? We are fine. The kids will be out of school on Friday. I’m a little scared. It makes me wonder how your sister (my mother in law) survived summer break with 13 kids! Any guidance that you can offer me? Love, Kadi”

“Dear Kadi, I am doing well. Find a summer program for the kids…quickly. Love, Fr. (uncle) John”

I was expecting some words of wisdom, a prayer, a novena, or even a suggestion of exorcism. Nope. He told me to find a place to shove my kids for the summer. Even the priest knows I’m doomed. I’m heading to the store now, to buy a lot of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, Clorox Wipes, duct tape, rope, Lexapro and other survival essentials. Then, I’m going to schedule some weekly phone “confessions” with Uncle John, because I’m going to need some major absolution of sin, for the next ten weeks! Now, how am I going to leave the house, without opening the door for the grim reaper who is still lurking on my stoop?

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