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.