Ants in her pants? All part of parenthood

There are sacrifices we make for our children that they will never, ever know about -- until they have children of their own.

There are the obvious sacrifices -- right before I found out we were expecting our first child, my husband and I were about to put the down payment on a little farm. Weighing mortgage vs. labor and delivery, the kid won.

We bought a Chevrolet Celebrity when the second child came along instead of the little Miata I wanted. We went to theme parks instead of on cruises, and we pretended we liked Great Aunt Flossie's turnip green casserole so the kids would eat it too. (They didn't -- they were a little gullible, but not totally stupid.)

We won't even talk about the sacrifice my figure made. Or my skin. Or my hair. (I was actually a natural, non-Clairol blonde before the first baby came along.)

Having that third "surprise" baby has upped the sacrifice ante, too. Before he came along, we thought that by now, with Ben only a year from high school graduation, we'd be perched at the edge of the nest, our boots planted on his backside, ready to give him the old heave-ho into the real world so we could fly south ourselves.

Instead, we're looking at least eight more years, and I doubt that. You know how at least one of your kids says, "Oh, Mom, I'll never leave you ..."

I'm afraid it might be true in Buzz's case. Even if he does go, by that time we'll be so old we'll need Hoverounds to escape the nest and the only thing we'll be shaking, rattling and rolling on the senior citizens dance circuit will be dentures and artificial hips.

But these are the sacrifices we make.

I can't think of how many times I played taxi just this year, ferrying the 16-year-old to rehearsals of all types -- plays, band and show choir -- when I would rather have been snuggled up in bed with the cats, watching Jeopardy. Rare weekends have been spent huddling in cold football stands, waiting two hours for my son's 10-minute performance with 120 other band members on the field.

Karate practice, church trips, field trips, school plays and art shows ... the price of over-scheduled kids is over-scheduled parents.

Just this week, I spent a precious lunch hour(s) this week at my 10-year-old's "Picnic Day" at school. I sat on an old blanket in the grass and ate prepackaged peanut butter and jelly pockets, nibbled on carrots and tried to ignore the ants marching up my pant leg. The sun chose that hour to make its first appearance in almost three weeks and I felt like I was being broiled, without butter.

Normally, for my lunch hour, I would have been down at quiet Fisherman's Park with a couple of chicken tenders, reading in the shade at a nice, elevated and almost ant-free picnic table. (One good thing about the flood -- it did some serous damage to the ant population. I have no doubt they'll recover, but until then, I'm enjoying my meals without the pungent ambience of Deep Woods Off.)

Kids yelled and ran and chased each other with handfuls of ice and carrots; it was the chaotic, frantic, total opposite of my usual noontime respite.

It was the nicest lunch I had all week.

Buzz and I played "I Spy" while we ate. We laid down on the blanket and watched the sun glitter through the branches. I found out all about his friends and he found out how much his school has changed since I went there 35 years ago. (Same librarian, though, and same secretary!)

After all those play rehearsals I had to shuttle Ben to, I got to see my son shine on stage. I watched him defend himself when he was 8 against two 12-year-old bullies at the Little League field, using the self-defense moves he learned in karate.

I've seen the incredible artwork Scott produces that had its origin in those tedious drives to art classes when he was barely old enough to hold a crayon.

Are they really sacrifices when the payoff is so rich?

I'd rather think of them as investments. I'm not expecting Academy Awards or huge paychecks from my sons' successes. The payoff I'm discovering in my children is their happiness.

That's worth a few ants, right there.

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com.