A Pocketful of Pennies

When we were young, my sisters and I were allowed to roam the neighborhood on our bikes. We'd be gone for hours, unsupervised. As long as we were home by dinner time, which we always were, all was well. When it was raining, we stayed inside and played Barbies, or My Little Ponies, or house with our dolls, always barring our baby brother from the play. But you can only play nice with conventional toys and be cooped up inside for so long, before you start getting rambunctious and creative. We'd run around the house like crazy, bouncing off of everything, and climbing the walls, literally. We lived in a single wide trailer which is pretty small for a family of six. The hallways were narrow and perfectly spaced to climb when you were bare foot, bracing yourself on the moulding. I liked to do this daily. Dad would always yell at me and say I was going to warp the walls.

Sometimes we'd take over the living room and play a made up game of "don't touch the floor" in which you'd pretend that the floor was a swamp filled with alligators, the pillows and removed couch cushions were rocks that jutted above the surface, and the couch was a boat that occasionally sank into the depths stranding us on the precarious rocks. A jump rope was a perfect rescue line that helped to get pulled to safety on the shore - the kitchen.

But one of our favorite games was baseball - inside. We'd use the couch, pillows, and bar stools as the bases. We usually used a pillow as the bat too. Various items played the part of the ball. It was only a few steps between bases, even for a child, in that cramped space. But we imagined it to be a vast ballpark. We each played the role of multiple ball players on each team since there were only three of us - we didn't include our brother most of the time. (He was just a baby so he was probably napping.) Being the oldest and bossiest, I also filled the role of the announcer. I would invent different names for each player. We even had pinch runners, a Cabbage Patch Kid, who would be stand ins when the bases were loaded. Now don't get me wrong here, we were not allowed to play ball inside. We were definitely not permitted to throw things, no matter how soft. But we did these things anyway reassuring our mother that we were careful (as we bounced off the walls from a combination of sugar and boredom).

There is one particular game that sticks out in my mind as I do believe it was the last game of our illustrious careers as amateur pre-adolescent indoor ball players. It was a rainy day, not a downpour, but wet enough that we were inside until it tapered off. The bases were loaded. Our mother had once again told us to "knock it off" because we were "going to break something". And wouldn't you know, a few moments later, we did just that.

One of us hit a fly ball to right field, a homer for sure. It flew just over the television and into one of our mother's prized knick-knacks, a small porcelain wishing well. We watched helplessly as it came crashing down and shattered into pieces on the living room floor. We froze for a moment, waiting to sprint to the bedroom as our mother rushed into the room to see what had just happened. Instead of turning angrily towards us, she began to pick up the pieces and then she began to cry. Overwhelmed with shame, we three began to cry as well. We slowly and silently went to our room, punishing ourselves.

While wallowing in our pity, we began to talk about how sad we had made our mom. She had never cried like that before and it was more punishment than if she had chased us to our room yelling threats of "wait til your father gets home." We devised a plan to make it right. We scrounged together what little change we had in our piggy banks and filled our pockets with the loot. We then did something we had never done before. We left the house without permission.

We snuck out the back door and onto our bikes. We rode as quickly and as silently as we could down the street and out of ear and eye shot of our home. We then roamed the neighborhood, stopping at every yard sale in search for the perfect replacement. We found a small crystal bud vase and a porcelain figurine of two doves. We pulled the change out of our pockets and offered it to the seller. We forked over handfuls of mostly pennies, not sure if we had enough to cover it. But the man, seeing our tear stained faces and overhearing our conversations, decided that we had paid him enough and it was a fair trade.

We swiftly and carefully returned to our home, giddy with pride. We snuck back inside and found our mother in the fragrant kitchen standing over a bubbling pot on the stove. We were sure she hadn't noticed we were gone. We cautiously approached her and gave her the gifts. We told her how sorry we were for breaking her wishing well. She silently took the gifts and once again began to cry. Confused and contrite, we returned to our room to cry some more and wait for the real punishment when our father got home from work. But at dinner that evening, Mom didn't even mention the incident.We had made our peace.

My mother barely recalls that day, but she did confess that although she never let on, she knew we had snuck out as our whispering and the squeaky back door gave us away. That day I learned all kinds of invaluable lessons. I learned to respect others - especially my mother's things, everything is replaceable, silence can speak volumes, never play ball inside, what your father doesn't know can't hurt you, and it is not good to make your mother cry (unless it is from happiness - but that's another story).

A Word From The Wise

I lost my temper today.  It was bound to happen after only getting 4 hours of sleep.  The early birds woke complaining of hunger so I brought them downstairs before the sun even rose.  So after several hours of eating, playing, dancing, cluttering & repeat they are still going strong, not a nap in sight.  I am exhausted, cranky, and need more caffeine.  I was about to walk into the kitchen to refuel with a cherry coke, which is something I should not be drinking with a history of kidney stones mind you, when something caught my eye.  Lil R had a book, a book where it is not supposed to be.  She was not reading this book.  No.  She was eating. yet. another...  If you've read my previous posts you know this is an ongoing problem.

"NOT FOOD!" I boomed.  I swiped the book from her hands and out of her mouth in such a way that she began to cry.  "Good," I thought, "that'll teach her!"

Big brother R immediately stopped playing and went over to comfort his whimpering sister.  Meanwhile I stormed from the room like a pouty teenager to go cool off.  He then came directly to me to have a little talk.  I was still fuming, futilely wondering, "Why? Why does she eat stuff that's not food?"

"Mom," he began, patiently waiting for me to make eye contact.

At first I wanted to yell at him too.  Snap a "Get out of here! Leave me alone!" while I wallowed in my mean-mom guilt for losing my temper.  But when I looked at his sincere little face, I just couldn't.  My heart was tongue-tied.  The smoke was now clearing.

Making sure I was really listening, he calmly continued, "Mom, you can't yell at Baby Ro."

I sat there stunned and listened intently to this child of mine.  "You must use your inside voice", he wisely instructed.  "Yelling is for outside."

I started to stammer like a child who's hand was caught in the cookie jar.

Then he proceeded to hit me with the exact thing I tell him during one of our time-out talks after he has a screaming tantrum.  "If you get mad just scream in a pillow and then you won't yell anymore, and you won't be mad anymore, and it'll be all better!"  He said it so cheerfully, so judiciously, so sensibly.  He is very animated when he speaks, his head tilting and nodding, his shoulders, hands, and arms were poised in one of those "I don't know" poses.  He smiled at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for my response.

I sheepishly pouted.  Now what am I supposed to say to that?

Here I was, a grown woman, a mother of two, the disciplinarian, or so I thought, and this small, physically frail but strong in heart & spirit, three-year old boy, just taught me a lesson.

"Now promise me you'll never do it again," he recited again from memory with a gentle sternness.

I felt myself blush with embarrassment.  This was the most awkward situation I have ever found myself in as a parent.  I didn't know what to say.  Perhaps I should've gone with the old standard "I make the rules and what I say goes!" followed by a rude "Just mind your own business" for smarts.  Or maybe instructed him with one of the classic place-putting lines "I'm the parent and you don't speak to me that way!"

But he was right.  How could I argue with my very own rules?  How could I possibly deny something I've said to him?  Then, foolishly perhaps, I dove straight into the sea of awkward.  I opened my mouth and out came a "But..."  ...insert my big stinky mom foot here...

I stammered, "B...b... but... how am I supposed to stop her from putting things in her mouth and eating things she shouldn't?  She doesn't listen to me."  I shamefully admit that I actually whined.

Is this really happening?  Am I desperately seeking parenting advice from my own three year old?  Nice.  In that moment I imagined a slew of future Mother's Day cards with a big 'ol X over the word BEST or GREATEST.  "To the X mom"  Yep, that's me.  The stuttering, push-over X parent.

"Well," he started with a long sigh, sounding wiser than his years (heck, even wiser than my years) shaking his head, "I just don't know.  He then finished with a final matter-of-fact, "But don't yell at Baby Ro."

I immediately felt ashamed as hot tears stung my eyes.  I became the child and he was now the parent. 

I was a slobbering contrite mess scooping him up in my arms and apologizing in a whisper.

When I finally put him down and let go, he stood there with that bashful, smiling, head-cocked, tilted shoulders, hands-behind-his-back, stance that he does when he is so pleased with himself.

"Bubba, I am so very proud of you." I gushed, holding his pale little face in my hands, looking in his deep dark eyes, and planting a kiss on his fuzzy head.  "I love you! Thank you for teaching me."

He made that clicking sound, a sort of  tongue-click/lip-smack, as his chest swelled with pride.

"Your welcome!  I love you too!" he cheerfully chimed and sprung from the room to continue playing where he had abruptly left off.

I dried my eyes and felt humbly solemn as I walked into the next room.  I saw the two little angels playing and giggling.  I scooped up lilRo.  Big brother joined in the love fest and we all hugged and kissed each other.

I returned her to the floor and went across the room to the computer desk.  I was basking in the happy Hallmark-moment watching my beautiful, intelligent children playing merrily.  Lil R smiled at me, her cherub cheeks glowing, her evenly spaced baby teeth showing in a cheesy grin.  She then picked up the book and began to once again feast on it's spine.  Well, that lasted about as long as a commercial.
 
I let out a defeated sigh as I searched for the nearest pillow.

Disaster Strikes

There I was, cooking a delicious, healthy meal... oil popping... food sizzling... onion and herb aroma wafting up on waves of steam and heat... giddily daydreaming of celebrity chefs' jealousy of my creation when suddenly, without warning, I am pulled from my fantasy by deafening silence.  It's coming from the other room.  Silence can only mean one of two things.

I turn off the burners, dread rising up in my throat, and swiftly bound over the baby gate into the dining room.  I didn't even get a chance to react to the crunch beneath my feet.  In fact I didn't even notice it.  As I round the corner to the living room I am stopped in my tracks at what lay in front of me.  I think I even stopped breathing for a moment.

I first take in the rubble strewn on what was once a lovely living space.  The casualties are many, poor souls face down, lying there motionless, covered with debris, unable even to cry for help.  My eyes scan the floor, the chairs, the couch, the table... not an inch was spared.  It's everywhere.

I can feel my heart stop for a moment then start to race.  The blood boils in my veins and I can feel it throbbing in my head and neck.  The heat is worse here than in front of the stove.  I'd rather be in front of the stove.  I'd rather be there than starring at this mess, this disaster.

Then slowly my eyes catch site of the terrorists observing my every move, eyes gleaming and lips curling with delight.  They are obviously pleased with the result, it reads all over their faces.  They start to say something, yell something, or perhaps laugh, but it is stifled as they catch their breath.  They are spring loaded, ready to bolt but seem hesitant to make the first move, not knowing which direction to go.  Leaping into the air with glee or running away in fear of retribution, unsure of which, they are contemplating my reaction.

We stare at each other a moment, in silence.  The small henchman looks from me to her mastermind, smiling, confused, looking for his lead or my approval.  He knows she's looking to him, but he is a confident leader, unwavering.  His eyes stay focused on me, twinkling mischievously.

My lips purse and every muscle in my face tightens.  Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed.  My nostrils flare as I attempt to suck in air, puffing out my chest as if to show authority.  I try to think clearly, blink away the anger, try to regain my composure.  I must stay ahead of the game.  Stay one step ahead.  Just once come out victorious.  But I can't.  It's too late.  I fail.  Once again.  I let the anger get the best of me.  I take one step forward and transform into a fire breathing dragon.  Venomous words lash from my tongue.  I fly across the room.

The culprits waste no time.  They spring onto the couch, bursting with excitement, squealing with delight.  The chase is on.

I grab one in my talons and carry her away.  Dropping her off in a clothes basket prison, I'll deal with her later.  But no bars can hold her.  She's clever, quick, and agile.  She escapes and chases after me as I turn toward her accomplice.

Now for the head honcho.  He bounces up and down in place, bubbling with joy, fizzing with energy.  He darts left and right trying halfheartedly to avoid my grasp.  He wants to be caught.  And catch him I do.  I seize him around his belly and hoist him sideways through the room over the rubble, one arm wrapped around his middle, his arms and legs failing perpendicular to mine.  His laughter turns to terrified pleads as I carry him to the lair of time-out.

He begs to be released as I place him into the dreaded rocking chair.  He grimaces with displeasure.  His cohort sympathetically begins to wail as well.  The jig is up.

I storm into the living room and focus on the task at hand.  The clean up.  I surveyed the damage.  Yes, there have been many, many, MANY before but each hits me with such sinking, sickening disgust that you'd think I'd be used to it by now.  There was the Famous Sanitizer Slip N Slide, the Chalk & Bubble Incident, the Watermelon Food Fight of June, and that's not even counting the weekly Cracker Bombs, the daily Dinner Disasters, and the seemingly hourly showers of Leaky Sippies.  I've seen it all.  And none of it was pretty.

A frown stamps its mark on my face as I let out a sigh of defeat.  Where to begin... hmmm... I drop to my knees and start to gather debris but realize I am surrounded.  There is no way my small hands can possibly remove it all at once.  And I must work quickly to resolve this lest the wailing shadow at my heels  begins to either devour the rubble or attempts to disintegrate the pieces beneath her feet or crumble it in her hands, strewing it about, raining down like ashen rain after a volcano.

I scramble to the kitchen to gather supplies. I quickly grab a bowl, the paper towels, and Clorox wipes.  I am temporarily distracted by the smell the once hot, fresh meal that is now turning to soggy mush.  It is a reminder of my previous existence, before the storm.  A reality I can not return to at the moment while my other occupation takes precedence.  This saddens and angers me all at once.

I stomp back to the living room, like a pouty child, and start my work.  My ears fill with the simultaneous sounds of piteous cries and wails pleading for forgiveness.  The decibel level was difficult to ignore.  And the more I avoided confrontation, the louder it grew until they became screeches and roars, competing with each other for my attention.  I grit my teeth at the noise.  It is like fingernails on a chalk board.  They know my weakness.

They are a devious bunch.  Plotting out each scheme before I can even begin to grasp the effects of the first, let alone do any sort of decent clean up from the last.  They are clever masterminds, able to destroy entire rooms in a matter of minutes.  They take advantage of each and every instance of back turning, cat napping, neighbor talking, phone calling, potty going, laundry switching. dinner cooking distraction.  They are at the ready with a new outrageous plot.  They do unimaginable things to toys, books, and let's not even mention food.

I narrowly have averted few disasters. I mostly just delve into the occupation of clean up and discipline, two things I despise the most in this world.  And they know it.  They know it and relish in putting me to task.

They have everyone fooled, too.  "What sweet, adorable, well-mannered children!" they coo and coddle. "Little angels!" they gush.  "Why, they aren't destructive at all!" they proclaim as my head fills with images of myself being drug down a long white corridor in a straightjacket with mocking insane laughter echoing through the halls.

I finish the majority of the clean up and realize the screaming has subsided.  There is a solemn quiet.  The little R has stopped clinging to my leg and has gone off to play with the dolly that I pulled from the rubble, saved from being suffocated from crackers and blankets.  The older R is eagerly awaiting "the talk".

I start to notice that my blood pressure has returned to normal.  The weighty anger and annoyance has left my chest.  I am breathing easier.  I brush my hands over my knees as I stand to walk to him.  I crouch down and look him square in the eyes.

This is my court now.  I refuse to lose.

Calmly, and slowly I ask him if he knows why I put him in time out.  Without missing a beat, he answers my every question.  He promises never to do it again.  Then he looks at me with those hopeful eyes, melts my heart with a smile, and plants the wettest kiss on my cheek and wraps his loving little arms around my neck.  "I love you mommy!" he effuses in his adorable tone.  Witnessing all this love, the little R runs to us to join in the hugs and kisses.  The warmth is overflowing.  The smiles and giggles dissolve the tears and screams.

I am renewed.  All is forgiven.

I return to the kitchen to finish what is now a cold pile of mush, unknowingly leaving a trail of smooshed Kix in my path.

They have won once again.  I am a sucker.