The boy is at his first NASCAR race today. Grandma Jo took him for the weekend so the hub and I could have a little alone time. Which just ended up in us having a nice dinner for two, and that's about it. (We're such exciting people.)
I know the kid is going to love this NASCAR stuff, not because white trash is in his blood, because he loves this adventurous stuff. And because anything dangerous scares the shit out of me. The first thing he ever sat and paid attention to on the TV wasn't Elmo or Mickey Mouse, it was NASCAR. He sat there, at about 6 months old, glued to the TV as if the races were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in 6 short months of his life. His favorite movie is Disney's Cars, his room, decked out in Cars stuff, he owns and plays with tons of cars. He still loves watching NASCAR on TV. He likes to get down to the core of things, to see how things work, take apart and fix things. He also likes to go fast, he likes to push it to the limits, he is fearless. He is going to be a NASCAR driver. And I will probably die of a heart attack because I will be afraid for him.
I try really hard not to be one of those mom's who never lets her kid do anything because she's afraid. I want my kid to have every experience he wants, to taste all of the sweet juices that life's cup offers him. But it comes at a price to me. Every time he gets too close to the edge, every time I feel that their is the potential for danger, I'll want to jump in and protect him. But he needs to learn, and fall, and get hurt in order to grow and learn. So while he takes his lumps in life I'll sit back and hate every minuet of it. I'll die a little inside when things don't go well for him, but he will jump up and brush himself off and keep going, just like he has done from the very beginning. And someday this boy's sense of adventure is going to kill his poor, frail, play-it-safe momma!