Black Friday

I never thought of myself as much of a grudge holder. I’m sure there are people who’d disagree, but the truth is, all I really need is a sincere and appropriate apology and I’m over it, given a little time. I certainly never thought of myself as one who could hold a grudge against a child, but it seems the lessons I am destined to learn about myself through motherhood are endless.

Not two weeks after declaring “Naked Tuesdays” as the most effective potty training technique at our house, my oldest son found a way to prove me wrong. As I put in yet another load of laundry on the day I now call “Black Friday”, I found myself floating through one of those moments in time when all is quiet…a bit too quiet, for I know that with children, it is always quietest before a storm. So off I trudged to survey just what destruction my boys were on the verge of creating.

As I wandered through the house looking for the tattered remnants of a toddler tornado, I caught a whiff of something that made my eyes squint and my brow furrow. As I turned my head to bury my nose in my shoulder, I rounded the corner to my bedroom to discover a sight that will probably, before my life is over, send me (and my child) straight into therapy.

As I examined the room, my jaw dropped and my heart pounded faster than if I’d just run a marathon. I was speechless at the sight that was before me, and when I looked to my three-year old for an explanation, he was grinning up at me, with all the nonchalance of a pig wallowing in the mire.

I looked at his legs and feet which were smeared with the substance I knew I was smelling, but the lack of blood to my brain would not allow my intellect to register with my senses until his brown eyes and cheesy smile confirmed what my emotions already knew.

“Cooper, what did you do!?”
“I pooped in the floor, hee hee, hee hee!”

If there was ever a time for a parent to call 911, this was it. It must have been my child’s guardian angel who saved his life that day, because through my shock and fury, all I wanted to do was to rub his nose in the pile he had strung across my bedroom floor. I settled for a spanking and a cold shower, however, and a 20-minute scrub session in which I touted the maxim, “You made the mess; you clean it up!”

So what is a parent to do at nine o’clock in the morning after an episode such as this? Through anger and tears, we loaded into the car and headed straight for Grandmother’s.

As we drove those 55.5 miles that day, I was boiling. I couldn’t seem to get over what my child had just done. I glared back at him in my rearview mirror. It was clear from his sweet smile and “I love you, Mommy!” that he had gotten past the incident. Why couldn’t I?

I decided to search the air waves for some form of comfort or distraction but found none, so I grabbed the closest CD and shoved it into the player. I decided if I couldn’t drive my anger away I’d at least drown it out with some tunes.

What happened next was most unexpected. As the banjo player began to pick and the fiddle player began to fiddle, I noticed a quiet hush come over the passengers in my back seat. I turned up the volume to encourage their tranquility, and as I did, the kick that was in that bluegrass began to consume my two kids. I looked back to see the boys bouncing in their seats with their legs flailing about as if they were dancing the Irish River Dance. It was so fitting and so amusing, that I almost forgot the misery of my morning.

I turned up the music even louder, and felt myself tearing up as I did. I had been so angry with my child’s behavior that morning that I had allowed myself to hold a grudge against a three-year old. I took a breath and told myself, “Ok, so he pooped in the floor. Get over it already.” And at just that moment, I did.

There are a lot of things that parents expect to encounter when we are raising our kids-fevers, sleepless nights, spilled milk. But we don’t always expect the crazy stuff, like kids trying to change their own diapers, or driving the car into the side of the house, or Black Fridays. These are the things that catch us off guard. Test our loyalty. Test our strength. Test our love. After all, I know I love my boys, but there are things that I endure for them that cause me to daily prove that love. And on those days when the anger turns to resentment and the resentment sends you running straight for your own momma, there’s just nothing left to do but shed a few tears, force yourself to laugh, and breathe.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Sunday Morning Meltdown

Why is it that the clock moves faster and the kids move slower on the first day of the week? Why is it that no matter how hard I try I can’t get the hundred and one tasks of the morning completed, regardless of what time the alarm goes off? Why is it that any other day of the week the house would be full of children who are wide awake at sunrise, but on this day, everyone wants to sleep in?

It’s a discovery that I made thirty seven months ago-a weekly nightmare that moved in with the first child and unloaded his dirty laundry with the second. I’ve accepted the fact that this is one bad dream that’s apparently here to stay, but until now it has remained nameless. It’s horrible, dreadful, unwelcome, unpopular, indiscriminate, irrational, and insane, and it's known to mothers around the globe as Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it toddlers suddenly have an opinion about what they wear and how they wear it when typically they’d be satisfied to run around plumb naked? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it when I make time to fix Sunday breakfast, nobody wants it, but if I don’t, everyone is starving to death and there isn’t enough food in the church bag to feed a flea much less two little boys who haven’t eaten for 12 hours-and of course we’re out of goldfish? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it no matter what I pull out of the closet, it is either too tight, too loose, too stained or wrinkled, mismatched, misplaced, or simply a fashion mistake so it takes me twice as long to put on the same outfit I wore last week? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it that the whole reason I take the kids to church is to learn about God and Christ and doing good and living right and the fit I threw as I stomped out the front door and slammed myself into the car might just be enough to undo any of the good I’m trying so hard to instill? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it after I’ve screamed at my kids, ignored my husband, and kicked my dog-and we are still 10 minutes late for class-I sit alone on the pew at least five feet away from my now totally estranged spouse and drown in my own guilt over the way I have just behaved in front of my family? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

I don’t know why this agonizing phenomenon transpires, but it must be a natural occurrence in life, like the rising of the sun or the wind in Oklahoma. For no matter what I do or how hard I try, it always creeps in on that sacred, first day of the week. It’s ruthless. It’s harsh. It can make a mother crazy. It’s a get-down-on-your-knees, beg-for-mercy, give-me-a-break, one-Sunday-at-a-time kind of problem.

It’s like that ugly, nagging cough I get every winter. No matter how well I prepare to beat it, it always finds a way to get me. But there’s one thing I know for sure. If I can live through the misery that Sunday morning brings, I can without a doubt make it through the rest of the week.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

I used to be a grown-up

We took the boys to a local restaurant last week for supper. When we finished eating, I went to the register to pay for our meal. As the waitress and cashier stood patiently waiting for me to retrieve a pen out of my purse, I continued to dig and finally pulled out a bright, orange crayon by mistake. I just shook my head, sighed, and said, “Hmm. You know, I used to be a grown-up.”

I never cease to be amazed at the many ways life changes when we have children. No longer do I thumb through Country Living or search for the latest do-it-yourself, home improvement show on television. I’m much too busy reading the instructions on how to put a silly railroad track together, or checking the local listings for the official show times of the latest episode of Meteor the Monster Truck.

I used to keep a tube of lipstick and a bottle of perfume in my purse to help me freshen up when I’d had a long day. Now I have a pocket load of race cars and a purse full of sippy cups-items which are much more important than looking fresh or smelling good.

In my former life, I took pride in crafty things like scrapbooking and fashion and home décor. Now I keep all my photos in a shoe box in the closet, I only wear clothes that have already been stained, and I have a shower curtain duct taped to the bench at our kitchen table. A couple of toddlers can really wreak havoc on an oak finish.

There’s rarely a sitcom on prime time that I can watch with my boys much less a morning DJ or a block of “new country” on the radio that’s kid friendly. I guess maybe that’s why I abandoned listening to my own music and resorted to Burl Ives and other CD’s loaded with kids’ music in the boys’ collection.

Just the other night as I was preparing supper, I found myself mashing potatoes and bobbing my head to the tunes of “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Three Blind Mice”. I had to smile at the notion that I might actually be entertained by the simplicity of such songs.

A few minutes later, Brisco made his way into the kitchen. He heard children’s voices coming from the radio. They just happened to be singing, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”. He knows the tune well, and as he recognized the song, his eyebrows lifted and a smile crept across his face. He started dancing around the kitchen, clapping his hands, and spinning circles. At the end he shouted, “Hooray!” just like when we sing it together.

I guess when I really think about it, it’s not so bad living in a toddler’s world. When else can the innocence and ease of life be so fulfilling? Watching my kids being effortlessly entertained in a world that to them is still so uncomplicated is a place in which I’m starting to take refuge. Besides, I have the next 50 years to be a grown up.

Yes, having children changes every aspect of a woman’s life. I look forward to the days when I can again participate in adult conversations without having to simultaneously wipe a snotty nose or referee a sibling slugfest. I’m learning to look beyond those insane moments of toddlerhood and take the good moments as they come-and savor them.

“If You’re Happy and You Know It Stomp Your Feet.” I do.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

House of Payne

Mrs. Payne is a friend and former co-worker of mine with whom I frequently exchange e-mails. She and her husband have two boys, and she always has great stories to tell. So when I have one of those days when my kids are packing for the orphanage and I’m preparing for the nut house, I give a shout for Monica. She always has something reassuring to say and can almost always outwit me with tales of her two boys’ antics and other goings on from her crazy world.

When I first told her I would be writing a column, she was the first to scream, “DO IT!” She is a natural encourager, and she promised that if I ran out of things to write about she could supply me with tons of ideas from her own experiences raising two boys. Over the last eight months, she has done just that.

A born storyteller, I tried to encourage her to put her words to the pen, but she just laughed and said, “No, no I can’t write. I just vent. The kid stuff I can find humor in, but tell me, sister, WHEN, WHEN, WHEN will I find humor in raising a 38 year old MAN!” Well, that’s a topic for an entirely different column, but I asked for permission, and with her blessing, I would like to share some of her insights and experiences raising kids…from the House of Payne.

Monica on life with children: “Tara, you have to write about why it is a mom can beg for kisses and love from her sweet boys, but the first moment the phone rings all you-know-what breaks loose. Or just as you lean back to enjoy the warm bubbles, you hear banging on the doors. ‘MOMMMMMMYYY! You in there? Mom, he hit me!’ And when you finally get to bed after taking temperatures all night and rocking people to sleep, you can just smell fresh linen sheets, and you hear, ‘Mommy, I need a drink.’ And then the alarm goes off.”

Monica on “What I wanna be when I grow up”: “Eber (Ethan) is the big 3. And my Big-C (Caleb) is now 8 going on 38. He is so smart; he’s going to be a paleontologist and work at the Sam Noble Museum, and at night he is going to be a mad scientist for a lab somewhere. ‘And prolly work somewhere they make tacos,’ so he tells me. All I see for Ethan’s future right now is that either he is going to be a stripper, because I can’t keep clothes on him, or a burglar because I keep finding my stuff in his toy box.”

Monica on bathing: “Never tell your two year old his Big Bubba is in the tub if you don’t know that Daddy helped him out. Ethan checked on Caleb just as the tub was draining and couldn’t find him. He let out a hysterical, bloody cry when he thought that his brother had been sucked down the drain. Try sticking a 25 pound kid in the kitchen sink to bathe until he gets over his fear of the tub. I had to get in the tub with him to show him it was okay. Next thing I know I feel warmth on my back. Yeah, he was peeing on my back, but don’t worry. That wasn’t as gross as seeing the floater that went by me. Who says white girls can’t jump? White mommas can. AHHHHHH! Mommy doesn’t get in the tub anymore unless she’s alone.”

Monica on doctor visits: “Guess what my son just did to me in the Dr.’s office? The doctor was asking them what their favorite food is, what they like to drink etc…Ethan said juice, Caleb said water. Then Ethan said, ‘My mom likes beers. Yeah, she puts them on the chickens a lot.’ I wanted to fall out of my chair! We use beer a lot for marinade, and he has become fascinated with the fact that he isn’t allowed to drink it, and doesn’t understand why we cook with it. Caleb says, ‘Yeah, my mom tries to get us drunk at dinner every time my dad uses the grill.’ I didn’t even return Caleb to school today in fear they are sending DHS to the school as we speak! Dr. Fields was rolling and said, ‘Mom, don’t worry. I have heard it ALL now.’ Great, now I have to find a new pediatrician.”

I used to think raising two boys so close in age was difficult, but it seems to me that raising children at any age can be just as tricky. Just when you think you’ve made it past the hard stuff like nap times and night feedings, they start doing things like talking, arguing, and playing tricks on their parents. I’m glad her kids will go through adolescence before mine do. I’m hoping to learn a lot from her Payne!

And that’s All in a day’s work!