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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Hanging upside down at 45 mph is definitely NOT the time to start fretting about your child’s hip-to-shoulder ratio.

I mean, if I were going to become obsessed with whether or not the overhead restraint system on a roller coaster could ACTUALLY prevent my child from plummeting headfirst to the earth, it would have made a LOT more sense to consider that with our feet planted firmly on the ground.

Instead, we were winging our way skyward at startling speeds. The people, and midway, below were receding like ants as the coaster climbed up and away. Honestly, I think I saw cloud cover.

This was the first time I had ridden a coaster with the mindset firmly set less on “thrill-seeking fun lover” and more “terrified overprotective mom.”

You see, when it’s YOU getting on the ride you have a rather savoir-faire attitude about the whole thing. It’s safe, it’s bolted down, and it’s inspected, right?

That trickle of fear as your lap bar locks you in place is part of the fun. That lighthearted moment when entertaining ride operators opine that they “hope” to see you back in 90 seconds is all part of the theater.

That momentous climb and stomach-dropping descent is all part and parcel of the adrenaline rush you came for.

Risk. Then they snapped the restraint bar over my “baby” and I just about lost my mind. This is the child I obsessively buckled into a car seat inside an airbag-laden minivan to drive 25 mph through the village.

Yet I was now allowing a teenager with a laminated badge to buckle him in preparation of being hurtled through the air at warp speeds with our feet dangling below. How does that make any sense?

Our son first expressed an interest in roller coasters last summer. Because he was 9 and of average height, I still had a little wiggle room (as did he). He did not, thank the Lord, meet the height requirements.

Fifty-two inches tall is the magic number for all the really good, high-velocity, rip-the-flesh-from-your-face roller coasters. This is crazy because any mother knows that 52 inches is not tall at all.

I would have preferred it be something a bit more substantial, say 7 feet or 8 feet.

Even before the “train” (as they coyly call roller coasters because “hurtling death cars of doom” didn’t test well) rolled out of the station, I knew we (OK, I) had made a terrible mistake.

As we hurtled through the space-time continuum, I could think only of tragic miscalculations. Did they mean 52 inches for anyone, or just those husky kids I’m always reading about? My kid is skinny. What if he slips out? He’s so small, after all. He still has a safety rail on his bunk bed for Pete’s sake!

I don’t think I breathed for the two-minute duration of the ride. Well, that’s not technically true; I did take a couple of deep breaths, primarily to provide ample oxygen for my screaming. I am not what you call a good role model.

Then, just as quickly as it began — it was over. As the car came to the much-ballyhooed “complete and final stop,” the teenage ride operator and resident sadist assured us we could now put our arms and legs outside the car if we so desired. As if I could unclench my white knuckles from around that restraint bar.

He’s funny, that kid. Finally free of the g-force, I could look left and see my child again. His eyes were closed and his face was pale. Climbing out of the car on shaky legs, he clutched my hand, pulling me forward as we nearly jogged down the ramp back to safety.

We were leaving that terrible steel beast in the dust! We were nearly free of the terrifying experience, my baby and I.

I said as much with the opinion that I was sure glad that was over. Turning to me, still shaky, his eyes opened wider and a huge grin split across his face: “That was awesome, Mom! Let’s do it AGAIN!”

Six “agains” later, our son was essentially fearless.

Grown. Leaving the park that night, the lights on that big steel monster twinkling behind us, I took note of a very prophetic sign: “Lost and Found is Located at Guest Relations” and I thought how wrong they really were.

Lost is the heart of a mother who arrived with a little boy and left with a “big kid” who is braver than she. Found is the courage of one small(ish) boy who arrived that morning having attained exactly 52 inches and left feeling 10 feet tall.

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