From black socks to dirty sox

Moving is never easy, but when it’s done with two small children in tow, it adds a whole new element of surprise to the mix.

The boys were too young to remember our previous move, but only the changes in scenery and schedules were at hand to cause confusion. This move, however, will take some explaining.

We decided to tell the boys after our last big event in purple: the Sports Banquet. Randy had picked up some red-legging socks for Cooper, and we hoped they might help to explain to our oldest the events that were about to transpire.

We sat them both down and tried telling the boys, in two-year old terms, that we would be moving to Sentinel. Brisco heard the word “Sentinel” and immediately started spinning and spouting, “Gram-Gramother! Gram-Gramother! Marfaaaa!” like a life-size bobble head all torqued up on chocolate. It seems he was fine with the move.

Cooper’s reaction was a bit more hesitant. His first concern was if “Daddy’s boys” could go with us. I told him that the big boys would have to stay in Hydro, but there would be other big boys in Sentinel that he would get to know.

He rolled that thought around for a moment, at which time Dad gave him his new, Sentinel red socks to help persuade him on the matter; however, we did not get the reaction for which we had hoped.

Upon seeing those red-legging socks in his own father’s hands, he curled up his nose, found his best grouchy growl and said, “Those are Dirty Sox!” (in reference to our most loathed Boston opponent). He snatched the socks away from dad and held them from the ends like they were blazing with fire. Boy, have we trained him well.

After the initial horror of the moment, he seemed to relax somewhat and spent the next half hour running around the house in one sock (because of course Brisco needed the other). Typically the “uniform” is saved for game days, but he had discovered those “dirty sox”, stretched thigh-high, were quite useful for perfecting his slide on the carpet. It seems our plan hadn’t quite worked out like we’d imagined.

After a whirlwind move, a week at Grandmother’s, and three long days of tournament play, I’m not sure if the shock of the red is gone or just forgotten for the moment. Last Thursday morning before his first ballgame as a Bulldog, he asked who it was that would be playing that day. I told him the Bobcats would play the black team, and the Bulldogs would play the orange team.

Without a second thought, he said, “We want the purple Bobcats to win!” My response to him was, “Yes, we do…” but I was interrupted with a quick addendum: “Then if the Bobcats play the Bulldogs, we want the Bobcats to win.” After a moment of thought, I tried again to explain, “Well, Cooper, if the Bulldogs don’t win, that means Daddy doesn’t win.” With a squint of his eye and a firmly set jaw, he said without even a moment’s hesitation, “Well then, we want the Bulldogs to win!” It seems blood is thicker than baseball.

Between the trauma and confusion of changing homes and teams to the fear that his parents had turned to the “dark side”, Cooper has definitely had a week and a half to remember.

He’s still learning the ins and outs of the new ball park. He loves the gator, and is amazed that the lawn mower can turn a complete circle sitting still. He has discovered a new tool for plowing up the dirt, and he can’t seem to get enough of the muddy water hydrant…no matter how many spankings he receives for his fun.

He and his brother have finally mastered Grandmother’s stairs, and they are almost convinced that there are no monsters living in the basement. They have their trains, their trucks, their racecars, their lounge chairs, and they have their new Sentinel-red T-shirts. Maybe given some time, they will come to accept the red socks, too. Regardless of the color, one can bet that no matter which team we follow, it will be Dad’s team that my boys champion.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Road trip

Scene One: Father and Mother packed into the front of the incredible shrinking, car. Electronic cords jutting out of every available socket. Merle Haggard playing too loudly on the car radio. Father stretched out to the hilt in the driver’s seat, zero obstructions, maximum leg room, only moments away from the “man zone” where no sight, sound, or smell can penetrate his thoughts. Mother, squeezed into the passenger seat with purse, make-up bag, diaper bag, two sippy cups, one liter bottle of water, daily newspaper, camera bag, Reader’s Digest, and laptop computer, knees touching the dash. Two children in the back, strapped into carseats, neither of whom have had naps. Mother prepares to work as she stares at a blank page, attempting to collect her thoughts.

(Children in the back):
“Can I have my computer?”
“I have an owie on my knee and on my thumb. Not this knee; not this thumb. This knee. This thumb. I want Daddy to kiss it. Not you kiss it, Daddy kiss it.”
“Look, Mom, a garbage truck!”
“Are we off the innatate, Mom? Are we on the highway? Are we going on the highway after the innatate?”
“Dad, you need to pass that Jeep!”
“I need a dwink!”
“Why we going this way? Why we going down, down, down?”
“OK, Mommy, we won’t talk.”
“Sorry Mommy.”
(Talking to himself, under his breath) “You gonna get a panking for talking back here.”
“Walking down the street. Walking down the street. Walking down the street.”
“Look! It’s Daddy’s bus!”
“Are we going this way? Why we going this way?”
“Are we off the innatate, Mom? Mom-mom; Mom-mom; Mom-mom.”
“Look, Mom, it’s Barney Backhoe!”

Scene Two: One hour into the Road Trip; oldest child finally sleeps in the back; youngest child reaches a state of delirium.

“I want out! I want out! Lettttttt meeee ouuuttt!”
“I’ve got two shoes, Cooper’s got two shoes, Mommy’s got two shoes, and Daddy’s got two shoes.”
“I’ve got a shirt, Cooper’s got a shirt, Mommy’s got a shirt, and Daddy’s got a shirt.”
“Why are we going this way? Why are we going slowly? Why are we stopping at this stop light?”
“I need a Kweenex. I do it myself. Schoooooschk” (before Kleenex is applied to the nose). “I did it, Mommy!”
Five minutes later…“I need another Kweenex, Mommy!” (Mother tosses first Kleenex she can find to the boy.) “Oooh, Mom, booga-booga. Can I have a clean one, Mom?”
“Clouds! Clouds! Get outa da way so the sun can wake up!”

Scene Three: Five minutes from the final destination, youngest boy falls asleep. Father continues driving in the “man zone” now blaring a 10-song, Jerry Reed medley of East Bound and Down, and other Smokey and the Bandit classics. Mom takes one last deep breath before she shuts down her computer, and as the car veers into Gramma’s driveway, she opens the door, and wakes up her two, sleeping beauties.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Old Yeller

One of the treats and traditions of going to Grandmother’s is spending more than a fair share of time at the office. Along with trips to the bank, rides to the courthouse, and lunches at the café are endless hours of Old Yeller in the back of the shop. I’m sure the boys can’t count the number of times they’ve seen that movie, and at some point they will probably start to ask how it ends, but for now, they are satisfied with watching a playful pup turn into a fast and friendly dog.

A few days ago, after a discussion with Cooper about that movie, I thought back on a conversation I had with a friend of mine, who is also a mother of four.

Our chat came in the form of an email, the way many conversations seem to occur these days. We happened to be discussing our children, and another breed of “old yeller” which tends to growl and show its teeth in moments of frustration, distress, or exhaustion. This is not the cuddly, friendly Old Yeller of the silver screen, but the “old yeller” of the early morning, sleep deprived, haven’t had my coffee, house is a mess, gotta pay bills, kids are fussing, Calgon take me away variety. Very common among mothers, I’d say.

In this particular conversation, my friend was venting her frustration over her eldest daughter’s lolly-gagging early one morning before school. Trying to get three kids ready for the day, and a baby to boot, I can only imagine her irritation when she walked in the child’s room at five minutes till the bus and her daughter was still in her nightgown.

Evidently the sweetheart had been upstairs for almost 20 minutes finishing her journal assignment for class, and in a moment of Monday morning, mommy madness, my friend had allowed her “old yeller” show his teeth. She said, “I yelled and I yelled at her. And then I yelled again. I just hate yelling.”

After rushing around to get her dressed and in the midst of the whirlwind of the morning, the child put on her coat for the bus, looked up at my friend, and said, “Mommy, I feel bruised and hurt.” My friend asked her why, and her daughter said, “Because you made me feel that way.” What a blow to receive from a six year old child.

Though I hate to admit it, I am guilty of being an “old yeller” sometimes too. I think it is the frustration of life and whatever situation my kids and I happen to be experiencing at the time.

A while back, Brisco was having “one of those days”. He wasn't listening; he was being whiney and hateful; he wasn't sharing. I’d had to get onto him constantly, and after a while of that, Cooper looked up at me with a concerned look and said, "Mommy, you're being mean to Brisco." Well, that was a slap in the face. I certainly didn't think I was being mean at all, but evidently to a big brother it seemed that I was.

Whether it’s yelling, nagging, or just forgetting that kids will be kids, it is sometimes easy to let life get the best of us. We spend hours teaching, helping, playing, cleaning up, diapering, wiping, nursing, rocking, and yes, sometimes even yelling. We don’t want to yell, but sometimes, getting down on our knees, looking them eye to eye and "talking nicely" just doesn't get the job done. Sometimes, when a three year old has his pants down in the middle of a state-tournament crowd shouting, “I just peed on Brisco’s leg!” a little yelling from their mother is all they seem to hear.

But even in the midst of the chaos and insanity that motherhood can become, it seems our kids are the ones who are the best at putting us back in our rightful place when things get out of hand. A little “Mommy, I’m bruised,” or a “Mommy, be nice,” goes a long way in calming the “old yeller” in us all. I see it as a sign that we are doing a good job as parents. Our children know how good parents are to act because we have taught them with our own behavior. And they have enough security and self confidence to tell us when we falter.

My advice to my friend that day was, “Don’t beat yourself up. You are a good Mommy.” Besides, every girl needs to own a sweet yellow dog who’s not afraid to let out a growl and show her teeth…every now and again.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

This is for you

I received this in the mail from a good friend of mine, who is a single mother of two. Aside from the obvious eloquence of the prose, I was stuck by the fullness of the message contained in these few thoughts. Happy Mother’s Day to all.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at baseball and softball games Friday nights instead of watching from their cars so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me?” They could say, “Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s ok, Honey, Mommy’s here.”

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can’t find their children. This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for all the mothers of the victims of the Colorado shooting and the mothers of the murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TV’s in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And for all the mothers who don’t.

What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Or is it compassion? Is it broad hips or is it the ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? Is it the jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? Is it the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies, and this is for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t.

This is for reading Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year and then reading it again, “just one more time”.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice-cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school, and for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they bleed when their 14-year olds dye their hair green.

This is for all the mothers who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all the mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls, “Mom?” in a crowd, even thought they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who can’t find the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just fine once they got there, only to get a call from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation, and mature mothers learning to let go.

This is for working mothers and stay-at-home mothers, single mothers and married mothers, mothers with money and mothers without.

This is for us all; so hang in there. Home is what catches us when we fall. (Author: unknown)

And that’s All in a day’s work!