Baby Blues

By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher

Kolton W. and Momma at his four-year-old preschool May celebration just yesterday.

I’ve always said that as a mother, May and December are the most hectic months out of the year.  But this particular May, something has happened, and it’s not good.  There were no proms to plan, no graduation parties to throw, no college festivities to attend, no apartment moves to undertake, no end of the school year pomp and circumstance.  This month has been just – normal.  And I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like it.

Sure, there was the annual Derby Day party that I always love, we celebrated a dear friend’s 5-0 with a big bash, and praise the Lord, baby boy still has his birthday. I get to take him to dinner – pre-birthday of course – but I’ve been informed I’m not on the guest list at his birthday bash, nor do I get to help plan it.  Apparently at 288 months, my newborn is a big boy now, and he’s got this.  I don’t need to book a venue, make goodie bags, send amazing invitations, procure the perfect décor, set the menu, secure the perfect cake, manage the responses – nothing, nada.  “I’m good Momma,” he says.  Me, I’m not so good.  Mr. Kaminski says I have control issues.  So not only am I not loving this May, I must confess, I’m not loving Mr. Kaminski right now either.  There’s just no call to be hateful.  Jesus doesn’t like hateful.

It’s a mystery to me why I have the baby blues, but as I ponder my current predicament, I realize this is the very first May in over 26 years I haven’t been in the throws of May madness.  It really has nothing to with control; it’s all about loss.  Now that Kass and Kolt are grown and flown, there’s no May mayhem centered around the kid craziness that happens like clockwork each and every year in May, and it’s flat out unsettling.  There’s no end of the school year frenzy, and I feel like something is missing, like I’ve lost my purse – one of my good purses – and I absolutely cannot find it no matter how hard I look.  And that’s downright disturbing for me, because I tend to keep up with my business.

And this Saturday, he turns 24-years-old. Happy Birthday Kolt – you’re still Momma’s baby – and always will be!

Yesterday after I was feeling so out of sorts, I went through a couple of old photo boxes.  Not the move.  Now, for those of you under the age of 21, I’ll clarify.  Back in the day, we used to take photos on real cameras – no the digital gizmos today where you can instantly see what the photograph actually looks like, but real cameras where you took multiple shots of the same dang thing, because you just never knew if it was coming out right.  Then we would wait for coupons for double prints so we could share, take the film to the drug store to be developed, and come home a few days later with actual printed photos. We then would stuff these photos in boxes for an eternity, or some more enterprising mommas actually made scrapbooks with said photos. Not to be confused with crafty mommas, my photos reside in boxes.

I came across baby boy’s photo from May when he graduated from four-year-old preschool.  He was proudly showing me his wish list.  Numbers One and Three were absolute no go’s:  He wanted a jet pack so he could go faster.  Way too dangerous for my precious baby.  I wasn’t going to allow him on anything that I couldn’t outrun – in heels.  He also wanted to ride on a dolphin in the sea.  Be in close proximity to a wild creature in the treacherous sea?  Not on my watch.  Number Two was reasonable:  He wanted to go to Kemah.  I could work with that as I could strap him into rides with safety harnesses while sitting right beside him keeping both of my arms firmly grasped around him at all times.  That was a done deal.

You know, on second thought, I may not want to go to his big boy birthday bash.  What if the event includes some activities that are not up to my safety standards and end up putting my precious newborn in harm’s way?  That is just something I could not abide by. Just the other day he came over with a nasty wound on his hand telling me a story about some foolish game he and his friends were playing in his back yard involving a hammer and a tree stump, and beer I feel quite certain, hence the injury. And this from my smart baby with a college degree?  No, I think I’ll sit this one out and just go buy him some Legos.  That will make us both feel better.  See y’all next week – on the porch!


Patti Parish-Kaminski

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