Early morning entertainment

Every so often, a mother has a morning when she just needs a few extra minutes to get around. West coast ball game, sick kid in the night, terrorizing dreams of being swallowed by piles of dirty laundry--whatever the cause, sometimes it just takes more than the typical 36-seconds to get the job done.

It seems these slow-moving mornings are the ones when the kids need us for everything. The independent one who needs no help doing anything suddenly can’t eat, drink, dress or pee alone. He can’t pick out his shoes, find his glove, or look at a book without complete mommy supervision.

These are the mornings, I have decided, that have led millions of parents to introduce their children to the big, purple dinosaur. However, since we don’t allow that annoying old bag of bones in our house, this week, our youngest child was forced to turn to something a little more modern: my ipod.

After the third attempt to wash my face with a rag that I couldn’t seem to get past lukewarm, Brisco, yet again, snuck around the corner between my bedroom and bathroom begging for my undivided attention. He looked up at me with his brown eyes wide. He had his hands behind his back, holding the one, personal, only-for-momma techno-gadget that I own, and a grin on his face that told me he either needed to be squeezed or spanked. And after my fifth deep breath of the morning, I said, “What have you got now?”

Again with the grinning, and viola, my little red music machine appeared, wadded up in his four-year old hands. “I wanna put these in my ears.”

Despite my better judgment, I caved. “OK, get up on my bed, and I’ll find you something good.” I of course, had no idea what I’d find that would keep him contained for longer than it would take me to actually find something to keep him contained. Little did I know what a great form of easy entertainment this device would prove to be.

I started him out on something I knew he’d love: “Yankee Mambo”. I could hear him from the bathroom trying to keep up with a song he’d never heard before. “A little bit of na na na na na. A little bit of Jeter na na na.” It was classic, but it didn’t last long. The song ended, and three minutes and 51 seconds later, he was standing at my feet, again, with the grin.

“OK,” I said. “Let me find you something else.” I knew I had a play list saved that I used for working out, and I figured he’d like the upbeat tempo. Boy was I right. I heard him singing from the other room and had to stop what I was doing to check him out. “Let’s get ready to rumble!” he said as he moved his shoulders up and down to the funky beat. He’d see me looking at him and he’d stop moving and start grinning.

Suddenly I’d hear, “I like to move it move it!” Thank goodness for Madagascar and those crazy, dancing lemurs. The next time I looked in, he was down in the floor doing some kind of fast footwork that I haven’t seen since Electric Boogaloo. As he popped and locked his way past “Space Jam” and the choo choo train song, I could hear him chanting, “I think I can. I think I can.” right on the beat. I think this little music gizmo may have just saved my sanity. In fact, it had bought me so much time that I decided to actually brush my hair before tying it back into a pony tail. Wow. Who knew.

I wanted to see if I could really get a bang for my buck, so I snuck out of the bathroom to throw in a load of laundry. I closed the lid and crept back to the bedroom just in time to hear him ask me a question. “Mom, what does it mean when they are clapping?” I explained what a live recording was and then started wracking my brain to figure out what song he was listening to now.

“What’s it saying?” I asked. “Boots,” he said. “Boots?” I asked. “One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you!” And then he burst into hysterical laughter. Like I said. Easy entertainment--for us both.

As I continued my morning regimen, I heard him again, alone in my bedroom, talking--rather, singing to himself. “What are you lookin’ at?” With the perfect rhythm and rhyme, complete with the Madonna whisper and attitude. I asked him a minute or so later what he was listening to now and he said, “Come on, Pose!”

I guess a mother never really knows where she’s going to get her next big laugh. I didn’t think it would come on a morning when my face was swelled up like a watermelon, and my neck was aching from trying to share two lousy feet of a king-sized bed with a four year old boy.

But that’s just one of the joys of motherhood: A miserable night’s sleep, followed by the realization that my body has aged years ahead of my mind, topped off with one of the most fulfilling belly laughs I’ve had in a long time. Early morning entertainment. Courtesy of the one and only.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

The loneliest job

I took to the yard a few weeks back, trying to tidy things up and enjoy some of the day’s untimely sunshine that’s been so hard to come by this spring. There were a hundred and one jobs that needed to be tackled, but it seemed I was the only one who could see past the ball field constructed in our yard.

From the porch, I watched for a moment those two little sluggers who kept hitting and rounding and yelling out the score. It made me smile to see them playing together, sibling rivalry aside, joining forces in like uniforms to help their chosen team win yet another World Series. It wasn’t until I ventured further into the yard that I smelled, rather than saw, this game up close and personal.

Apparently, a ninety-pound lab with a healthy appetite, and a very clean colon, can really wreak havoc on a backyard ball diamond. She doesn’t understand fair or foul territory, and it seems she quite favors the base paths. I suddenly knew which of my 101 jobs I should tackle first.

So, as I stood in between home and first, during the seventh game of the World Series, a shovel in my hands, loading up that plastic-lined, five gallon bucket, I thought to myself, “This has got to be the loneliest job in the world.”

Indeed, the loneliest on a list of lonesome, labors of love we mothers take upon ourselves for the sake of our children. But this dirty job is not alone. He has many friends who come to visit from time to time. Some stay for a day; some for a week. Some drop by so frequently we wonder if they will ever leave our children alone and give us, the overworked mothers of the world, a break.

Allow me to acquaint you with some of our friends.

Laundry. The Bermuda Triangle of raising kids. The Black Hole of motherhood. Give me another year or two and I’ll put this spiraling out of control, never-ending, natural disaster on their to-do lists.

Holding a sick baby. There aren’t many things worse than a child giving you the wide-eyed look, the whimper, and the dry, gravely cough that tells you whatever’s left down there is about to come up here, and there’s not a thing you can do but hold them tight and help them aim for the bucket.

Maintaining a working vacuum. Between two boys, a dad, a dog and a stringy-haired blond, we’ve killed half a dozen of them. Where are those Rainbow guys when you need them?

Separating squabbling siblings. I hear it happens more often as they get older, but for now it usually stems from the little one wanting to do/be just like the big one. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Yeah, that kinda flies right over the head of a five year old and as of yet, hasn’t done much to defuse any situation.

Grocery shopping. We went from being unable to afford the things we wanted, to buying everything we wanted because we finally could. After the kids came, I’d get so excited about a trip to the store because it was the only thirty minutes of “me time” I’d had in a week. And now? It’s just another lonely endeavor. Everyone complains when there’s nothing to eat, but nobody’s quite big enough to help out.

Quelling a fever. Definitely one of life’s loneliest jobs, leaving a mother feeling powerless but for the small consolation that comes from a cool rag, a simple rocking chair and a comfy lap.

Having to say “No”. I never wanted to be anybody’s “yes man,” but it’s no fun being the "no mom" either. However, I just can’t seem to get on board with the idea of Cokes and candy bars as meal replacements.

Answering the unanswerable questions. “Momma, are you gonna die?” When will you die?” “Do Mommas die first and then their kids?”

Sending my babies to school. While I’d give my right lung to get them outa my hair for an hour, I’m not sure I’m prepared to turn them loose on the world. Seven hours a day, away from the protective eyes and ears of their mother…how will they ever survive?

Still, with all of this, we mothers wouldn’t have it any other way. Oh, we’d take an on-call nanny or a full-time maid, or even just a couple extra hands to fold laundry on those really lonely days. But we’re moms. A sisterhood of the toughest, brightest, most resolute minds in the business.

Yes, shoveling dog poop may certainly be one of the loneliest jobs in the world, but it’s also a lot like life. Even though sometimes we find ourselves standing in the middle of a lonely, stinking mess, it’s a lot easier just to clean it up…before it gets smeared all over the bottoms of our feet. Besides, what else would a good mother do?

And that’s All in a day’s work!

True Stories

The newest thing around our house is “True Stories”. It’s not the latest cartoon or supposedly family-friendly reality show. It’s more like “Real Stories of the Highway Patrol”. Except without guns. And fast cars. And cops and criminals. It’s whatever little blip of the history of our family the storyteller can conjure up from the depths of his or her memory.

“Tell me a true story.” That is what the little guys will ask for, usually when it is half-past lights out on a school or a church night, when they are fighting the darkness of the bedroom and the stillness that comes with trying to fall asleep.

They like stories about everyone. Grandmother tells of when she and Uncle Max used to play in the mud by the little bridge at Grandmother and Granddaddy Jones' house. And when Uncle Kim got hit in the head with a bat. She tells of Aunt Keri falling off her bike into the cactus plant in Dumas, while her little sister ran all the way home, crying for help.

They like to hear about the big pine tree falling in Grandmother’s backyard during an ice storm because it was so heavy, and the loud, crashing sound that it made. They like stories of broken arms and broken elbows and of choking on free, Pizza Hut, peppermint candy.

And they always want to hear stories about their dad. “Tell us a story about Daddy,” they will ask. But nobody ever seems to have one…until recently.

We’ve been working with Brisco on the transition from “orange, squishy-ball” to “semi-soft, rubber T-ball”. He’s been fighting us all the way, still a little afraid of the white ball and the damage it might do should he miss it during its flight. “You can do it, Brisco! Besides, you can’t play ball with Cooper this summer if you don’t learn to use it.”

So within the last two weeks, he has decided that yes, he can do it. Not every day. Not every time, but he’s trying. And for a just-four-year-old, he was doing pretty great…until he created a true story of his own to tell.

As he and his brother stood on the outskirts of the softball field, no doubt in the way while the girls were trying to start practice, they were receiving a little practice of their own: fly balls from someone’s big brother and their own summer league coach. Just as they were about to be ousted from the practice area, and on the “Gimme just one more” pop fly, Brisco took one to the nose.

With screams of combined shock, agony, and the sight of his own blood, Brisco dropped his glove, and that not-so-soft T-ball and started running toward Coach Grant, until he realized Coach Grant wasn’t the person he was looking for.

I scooped him up like momma’s do, and after the blood and tears of the moment, he decided he was ready to go home, but not before going onto the baseball field to tell Daddy the story of his newest battle wound.

With a look and a sigh, and an apparent jog of his memory, Dad had an on-the-spot fix for our little feller. “One year, my birthday was on a Sunday. I got a new, white church shirt and a ball glove. Granddaddy and I went out to play catch before church, and I got hit in the nose with the ball. I had blood all over me and my new, white shirt.”

With that one true story, the boy perked up, gave a little Brisco grin, and decided he wasn’t ready to go home after all. “I wanna play some more catch, Mom.”

And so, like an old pro, he got back on that horse and rode. Not without a flinch or little bit of fear, but still, he rode. With the true story of his daddy---just the one he’d been looking for---tucked right into his hip pocket.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

You gotta love Maxine

As a general rule, I like to look at the bright side of life. I try to take every thought captive, thinking positive and encouraging my kids to do the same. But let’s face it; I’m only human. And every once in a while, a mom has one of those days where nothing seems to go her way. From daylight till dark, one kid or the other is barking or bawling or begging for a beating. Whether they’re fighting or fussing or being just plain mean, some days, that glass-is-half-full philosophy can get a little hard to swallow.

It is on those days that I love to read Maxine. She’s the tell it like it is, seasoned old gal who can put into words whatever cut-throat, sarcastic, borderline-shameful thought everyday women like us would never think to utter…at least not loud enough to be overheard. She makes the truth seem funny and reminds us, in her own special way, to take life in stride. And while she has opinions on everything from men to aging to being just plain stupid, I’ve discovered that most of her witty espousals are pretty applicable to being a parent.

You gotta love Maxine. And here’s just few reasons why.

“There is no vaccine against stupidity.”

“When gas prices reach $5 a gallon, it should include a free box of wet wipes.”

“I’m ready to listen. Are you ready to think?”

“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable…like a coma.”

“Never go to bed angry. Stay up and plot your revenge.”

“Well aren’t you just the most adorable black hole of need.”

“Shhh…that’s the sound of nobody caring what you think.”

“I don’t know what your problem is…but I bet it’s hard to pronounce.”

“Don’t make me use UPPERCASE!”

“If you have something to say, raise your hand and place it over your mouth.”

“I’d like to help you out. Which way did you come in?”

“Everyone seems normal, until you get to know their children.”

“If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You have another chance.”

“My social life isn’t dead, but the buzzards are circling.”

“How do you prevent sagging? Just eat till the wrinkles fill out.”

Thanks, Maxine. I feel better already.
And that’s All in a day’s work!

Questions kids ask

Years ago, I vaguely remember a show called, “Kids say the Darndest Things”, hosted by Bill Cosby, I believe. I remember thinking how quick and witty those little kids were, without even trying. It almost seemed too funny to be real…until we had a couple of quick, witty kids of our own. Lately, though, instead of answering those questions about life, our boys have been the ones doing the asking. Sometimes scientific, sometimes philosophical, and sometimes in a category all their own, the questions these kids ask can really keep a mom on her toes.

Brisco: Who is stronger, Superman or Spiderman?
Me: Hmm. What a question. Let me see. Superman can fly, but Spiderman has sticky webs that he shoots out of his wrists. I’d say it’s a tie.

Brisco: (With a little nervousness in his voice.) Mom, do you only have to go to “Scare School” if you’re something like a ghost?”
Me: Oh baby, that’s just for Casper.

Brisco: Is John like the king or something?
Me: No, honey. He’s the preacher.

Brisco: Do me and Cooper have wifes?
Me: Not yet, but you will someday when you get big.
Brisco: How many will we have?
Me: Just one a piece. That’ll be enough.

(While looking at online pictures of 40 inches of snow)
Me: See how much snow they got in Maryland?
Brisco: Where’s Maryland?
Me: It’s another state, like Oklahoma is a state. See the igloo they built?
Brisco: What’s an igloo?
Me: It’s where the Eskimos live.
Brisco: What’s an Eskimo?
Me: They are like Indians. They live in Alaska.
Brisco: Then what are they doing in Maryland?

Cooper: How many RBI’s can you get in a game?
Cooper: Why didn’t he steal second base?
Cooper: Are the Yankees on TV today?

How long till Christmas?
How long till summer?
How long till my birthday?
How many is several?

Brisco: (While watching the real Pink Panther): “Why can’t that man say ‘phone’?”

Brisco: Am I ever gonna have a baby in my belly?
Me: Nope.
Brisco: Why?
Me: Cause God gave that job to women. Men weren’t made to have babies in their bellies.
Brisco: What about when I get big?
Me: Nope. Never gonna happen.
Brisco: (Lets out a sigh, with a sad, pouting face.)
Me: Don’t be sad, Bubba. This is good news for you.

Brisco: Will Uncle Max ever come back to the earth?
Me: No, baby, he won’t.
Brisco: Can he see us right now?
Me: I think that maybe he can.

And the question that both begins and ends every road trip ever taken with children under age 13: “Are we there yet?”

And that’s All in a day’s work!