Rules, Shmules...

When it comes to rebelliousness, I'm a late bloomer. Most folks "sow their wild oats" in high school; a few do it in college. Me? I waited until I was in my 30s and had 3 kids.

I understand why rules exists, I just don't always believe they should apply to me. Yes, some rules are made for the protection of the public and should always be followed (kids in car seats, for example). Other rules, however, are made to punish the majority because of a minority fringe (hair cut guidelines in schools: because there are a handful of parents who would let their kids wear purple 3-foot mohawks, there must be a line drawn, and the school board arbitrarily picked that line to be above the eyebrows and the shirt collar).

I believe - right or wrong - that there is an exception to every rule. Now, I'm not talking about Biblical Truths, so don't go gettin' wadded up over a theological issue. I very much believe in absolute Truth when it comes to the Bible. When it comes to schools, companies and other earthly institutions, however, it's a different story.

Problem is that this idea was cemented in my mind whenever Paul was going through treatment. There were so many "Nevers" and "No ones" and "No Exception" policies that we blatantly ignored, that we began to believe that, as parents, WE were the ones who made the rules. The truth is that when your child is dying, there are no rules and you are willing to confront anyone who dares to tell you otherwise.

I remember my inaugural defiant act against authority. Paul had just been diagnosed, and he was having an abdominal CT done at Cook. This requires something called contrast to be mixed with clear liquid and then a certain amount taken over about a 2 hour period. They handed us his sippy cup full of contrast and told us to be back in 45 minutes for his next round. Well, on the second round of contrast, with only 15 minutes remaining, I found myself in a small waiting room with a VERY water-logged 2-year-old who was quite done with his sippy cup. The nurse kept returning to the room, holding up the sippy cup and disapprovingly looking at me. You know, like I had some power, some magical words that would make my sweet and obedient boy drink the last 6 ounces. I had just spent the last hour and a half using every bribe, threat and game I could think of to get the stuff down him. At this point, he was completely ignoring me and the cup. Of course, we were told, he absolutely HAD to drink that contrast. If he didn't, they would cancel the CT, and we'd have to come back and repeat the test another time (like some other day when he was incredibly thirsty or I had improved my mothering skills).

Well, I was not about to waste the amount of time we'd already spent in the hospital. I was determined that we would have that CT on that day. In an act of fierce protection of my son, I turned to the only other person in the waiting room (another mom) and said to her, "Not a word to anyone!" With that, I lifted that cup to my lips and guzzled the last ounces of contrast. It is one of my proudest moments as a mom! Paul was oblivious (he was busy watching the fish in the aquarium), but I was triumphant! The nurse returned, I held up the empty cup, she smiled and escorted us back to radiation.

And thus began my love of rule-breaking. It's something that I'm actually quite proud of. I'm just trying to figure out how NOT to pass it on to my kids!