So, I’m sick. Not dying with the flu or even puking sick, but up at 3 a.m. because I can’t really swallow or sleep sick. Which is great for writing. Not so good for anything else.
I’m not a very good sick person. I sort of feel like I deal with enough physical irritation on a daily basis that getting sick on top of it pushes me over the edge. In other words, I’m kind of a wimp. This is especially funny because I expect the kids to buck up and power through whenever they have colds (non-febrile colds). They actually do a pretty good job of it, considering their nearest role model.
Illness aside, my husband and I have come to the conclusion that the kids are essentially wusses. Again, not that I’m anything to write to the Discovery Channel about. But, as a friend of mine pointed out, our kids haven’t had to deal with any adversity. At all. Sports aren’t scored. Everything on the playground is padded, and if it isn’t, the kid is. Cars and buildings are air conditioned. Eating out and flying aren’t “special treats.” The schools keep them in for recess when there’s a sprinkle of rain. And, hell, my kids haven’t even had to puke for hours and hours on end because their doctor father rescues them with medication (thank you Baby Jesus).
A few weeks ago, I was riding the ski lift with my, ironically, febrile daughter (which is an entirely different story that I promise will appear someday at World’s Worst Moms), and I struck up a conversation about skiing with some fellow 40-somethings. Basically we concluded that “kids these days” have no idea how easy they have it with their ultra-fast lifts, arctic-ready ski wear, and heated boots. That they’ll never experience the joy of their asses getting soaked on a slushy chair lift, their heads being smacked by the handle of a tow rope, or their skin chafing and freezing after skiing in jeans. My kids practically don’t even know what it’s like to be really, really frickin’ cold.
Probably the “hardest” thing they’ve ever done was to drive across the state of Nevada on our road trip. They don’t do very much TV watching or computer playing, so we aren’t the “DVD in the car” family. We could’ve let them while away the hours messing around on our iPhone and iPod, but instead, the only option we gave them was to zone out on Nevada landscape and just. . . Zen.
We thought we were on the right track with them when we stuck them in a Waldorf preschool — they went outside everyday, rain or shine, for hours. We figured this would toughen them up (or at least make them able to survive the elements for a longer period of time than their mother). It worked for a while. But then they ended up in public school, and while we were carting them from one after-school activity to the next, they got soft.
So our solution? Australia camp. If we ever have to go into a land war, I want Australia. We’re talking Outback — no, not the one with the deep fried onion. And swimming with sharks — no, not like watching it on TV during Shark Week. And Galipoli — yes, the one with Mel Gibson (old Mel, not new “weird” Mel). We’re talking people who make fun of our beer for tasting like water, eat Vegemite on purpose, and think Gila monsters are “cute.” There’s no crying in Australia.
I don’t know if Australia camp exists, but if it doesn’t, my friends from Down Under need to get crackin’. The children of America need you. They need some calluses. They need some sweating. They need some drive.
But, incidentally, you could probably leave out the swimming with sharks and running at bullets stuff. That might lead to puking.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.