When I married into The Smith family almost 16 years ago, I felt lucky and excited to be surrounded by such a close-knit group of kin. Being the youngest of only two girls, I had no idea what my future would look like with six sisters-in-law, a brother-in-law, and over 20 first cousins--just on one side.
I have to admit, it was a bit overwhelming at first. I was used to one person talking at a time, and I was certain this family had a defective “hearing” gene since I was the only one who seemed to have trouble tuning out all the excess noise. Having lots of girls all sharing one bathroom meant scrambling for mirror time on Sunday mornings. And getting that privacy one sometimes needs didn’t always come easy.
But there was never a loss for good food, a game of pepper, or a sweet little girl to fix my hair. Now they’ve all grown up. Even Little Robyn--only one year old when I started coming around--is old enough to drive.
Yes, much time has passed--rather quickly, I might add--and with it has come the creation of new memories and stories which are exclusive only to this unique and one of a kind family. Tales are often told about and among siblings of any family, but especially a large one, and these folks are no different. But the stories I have locked away as lessons for myself come from the creators of this fine group, Randy’s parents, Larry and Donna Smith.
It’s hard to believe either of them are old enough to have been married for 40 years this Sunday. But I guess that’s how it works when you marry as a teenager. The two began their life together in a foreign country during the Vietnam War, and with only ten short months to be newlyweds, as their firstborn, my husband Randy, arrived on a Tuesday in July to the smell of sauerkraut and Weiner schnitzel. OK, maybe not. But it was Germany, nonetheless.
Starting out as they did, these young kids no doubt had to rely on each other in a way some couples never know. I can’t imagine being nineteen and having my first child on an Air Force base in a foreign country with my own mother hundreds of miles away. Lesson number one: All they had was God and each other, whether they realized it or not.
Seven more kids, five children-in-law, and eleven grandbabies later, they are still married--in spite of us all.
In the sixteen years that I’ve been a part of this family, I’ve learned many things about how to be a Christian, a spouse and a parent. I’ve been touched by the deep devotion they each have to their kids, their grandkids, and their God. And I have been made into a better person simply by being granted membership into their amazing family.
So what kind of things have I learned from being a Smith? Here are a select few:
*Worship, work, play. In that order.
*Sometimes, a mother just needs to yell.
*Spare the rod, spoil the child.
*To some, it might seem completely insane that a grown man would spend five full minutes totally destroying a lawn chair--kicking, throwing, bending its metal--all for pinching the flesh of his precious child. It might seem insane until one has a child of her own.
*Silence can be deadly, but sometimes it’s better than the alternative.
*Planning is for sissies.
*This too shall pass.
*Being an accountant is a lot like coaching baseball only harder. Nobody provides a bag of seeds or a covered set of bleachers so that willing wives can be a part, cheering their mates on to the end of another successful season.
*Working hard is not an option.
*There is still good to be gotten from a twice-used Ziploc. Waste not, want not.
*Go with the flow.
*His mama’s biscuits may take 10 years to perfect, but they’ll never be as perfect as his mama’s.
*Nothing that we do is too trivial to God.
*We may not always be able to anticipate our partner’s next move, but we can always be there when he makes it.
*Nothing works better than prayer.
I said before that I felt lucky to be a part of such an amazing family. Another lesson I’ve learned? None of us are really lucky. We are blessed!
And that’s All in a day’s Work!
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The turtle with no name
When you’re a mom with two boys, you do things that would once have seemed completely out of character. Top of the list? Taking care of a turtle. I balk at calling it a pet since the boys won’t name it. They don’t feed it. Now that the new has worn off, they scarcely look at the thing as they charge past him and into the kitchen for a snack.
But I, the Queen Nurturer of man, child and beast, find myself changing out water and searching for bugs just so this scaly little reptile won’t die on my pea-green countertop.
He declines to eat the tiny creatures I leave scattered across his terrain. Maybe he’s particular—or just insulted that he is expected to eat day old beetles or flies squashed beyond recognition. He refuses to stoop to my offer of road kill. I revise my tactics.
At night, when the kids are in bed, I find myself turning on the porch light just to attract a few bugs…ones un-grotesque enough for me to maim with my hot pink fly swatter and carry into the house for his supper. Oh, the irony.
And delivering dinner straight to his jaw-clenching little mouth with a silver plated pair of tweezers is not good enough for me. I then feel compelled to watch him chomp, rip, mutilate his delicacies until he has swallowed every bite and looks up at me for more. It’s riveting. And a little twisted.
So maybe it’s no surprise that on the first day of school, when I returned to an empty, quiet house, it wasn’t my boys I sat down to write about. It was my turtle. My turtle with no name.
The turtle with no name
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
Tough and strong on the outside.
Soft and saggy in the middle.
Indifferent little box turtle, captured and contained in a sad replica of his natural habitat.
Dirt from between the barns.
Dead leaves from the azalea bushes.
Broken sticks and twigs fallen from the decaying old elm out front.
Small, scared, hiding under the fallen foliage like a camouflaged soldier ready to attack…
Yet he doesn’t.
He barely moves, except to pull his head back inside his shell. Safe. Protected.
Tiny little turtle, burrowing himself into the cool of the dirt, searching for a break from the heat, from his life.
He eats not while we are watching; his privacy, he doth relish.
A flailing fly is in no danger from him. A baby beetle, begging for his last breath will be granted mercy from this peculiar creation.
When the house is quiet and I am alone, I hear him scratching. Marching through the downed brush. Valiantly scaling the dying vegetation that must seem to him like mountains, deserts, the barren landscape that is his new world.
Is he searching for sustenance? Craving companionship? Or is he desperately clawing, fighting to set himself free from his existence, this pseudo residence fashioned from an old foil baking pan.
I stop to watch him, hover over his world. He can sense my presence, stopping him in his tracks, retreating to the safety of the one place no one else can enter.
What an amazing creature, this turtle with no name. He asks for nothing. He complains not. He sustains himself by water and pure will and through the exquisite design of his flawless Maker.
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
But I, the Queen Nurturer of man, child and beast, find myself changing out water and searching for bugs just so this scaly little reptile won’t die on my pea-green countertop.
He declines to eat the tiny creatures I leave scattered across his terrain. Maybe he’s particular—or just insulted that he is expected to eat day old beetles or flies squashed beyond recognition. He refuses to stoop to my offer of road kill. I revise my tactics.
At night, when the kids are in bed, I find myself turning on the porch light just to attract a few bugs…ones un-grotesque enough for me to maim with my hot pink fly swatter and carry into the house for his supper. Oh, the irony.
And delivering dinner straight to his jaw-clenching little mouth with a silver plated pair of tweezers is not good enough for me. I then feel compelled to watch him chomp, rip, mutilate his delicacies until he has swallowed every bite and looks up at me for more. It’s riveting. And a little twisted.
So maybe it’s no surprise that on the first day of school, when I returned to an empty, quiet house, it wasn’t my boys I sat down to write about. It was my turtle. My turtle with no name.
The turtle with no name
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
Tough and strong on the outside.
Soft and saggy in the middle.
Indifferent little box turtle, captured and contained in a sad replica of his natural habitat.
Dirt from between the barns.
Dead leaves from the azalea bushes.
Broken sticks and twigs fallen from the decaying old elm out front.
Small, scared, hiding under the fallen foliage like a camouflaged soldier ready to attack…
Yet he doesn’t.
He barely moves, except to pull his head back inside his shell. Safe. Protected.
Tiny little turtle, burrowing himself into the cool of the dirt, searching for a break from the heat, from his life.
He eats not while we are watching; his privacy, he doth relish.
A flailing fly is in no danger from him. A baby beetle, begging for his last breath will be granted mercy from this peculiar creation.
When the house is quiet and I am alone, I hear him scratching. Marching through the downed brush. Valiantly scaling the dying vegetation that must seem to him like mountains, deserts, the barren landscape that is his new world.
Is he searching for sustenance? Craving companionship? Or is he desperately clawing, fighting to set himself free from his existence, this pseudo residence fashioned from an old foil baking pan.
I stop to watch him, hover over his world. He can sense my presence, stopping him in his tracks, retreating to the safety of the one place no one else can enter.
What an amazing creature, this turtle with no name. He asks for nothing. He complains not. He sustains himself by water and pure will and through the exquisite design of his flawless Maker.
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, August 29, 2011
Things I’ve learned this summer
To five and six year old boys, baseball season never lasts long enough.
Top bunks and cement floors don’t mix.
No matter how many times you warn them, someone will eventually break a window.
Surprises can be life-changing.
During a drought, kids suddenly notice things like who has a well and who does not.
Driving east on Washington is guaranteed to elicit the same response from our boys every time: “There’s the good grass!”
Instructions from the six year old on how to get “good grass” of my own: “You need to mow it and then mow it again.”
No matter how bad you think you might not want what you’re getting, as soon as you’re not getting what you didn’t really want, you wonder how you could not have wanted it to begin with!
Kids take wishing wells seriously.
Shots are still the pits.
There are certain things in life that are unavoidably addictive to a child: card games, video games, and picking weeds.
PreK is only three hours a day. PreK is only three hours a day. PreK is only three hours a day.
While it has been excessively hot in Oklahoma this summer, one thing’s for sure: hell will be hotter.
In 14 years, we’ll be watching Brisco in the All State games…“if we’re still alive.”
Good friends and sisters are truly a blessing.
Kids don’t have to be coached when it comes to hamming it up for the camera.
We are no less competitive when it comes to playing pool than we are at playing baseball.
No one is man enough to eat the pink popsicles.
Twelve polished rocks make the perfect infield when playing backseat baseball.
Animal Planet’s Finding Bigfoot is not conducive to the sleeping patterns of children under age seven.
There’s nothing more un-apropos than a malfunctioning air conditioner in 110 degree heat.
There is definitely a quantifiable number of items on my bucket list. Touching live Sea Urchins and Starfish--check. Petting Sharks and Manta Rays--I’ll pass.
It’s never too hot to mow the infield or play ball in the back yard.
Never underestimate the power of a good book.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Top bunks and cement floors don’t mix.
No matter how many times you warn them, someone will eventually break a window.
Surprises can be life-changing.
During a drought, kids suddenly notice things like who has a well and who does not.
Driving east on Washington is guaranteed to elicit the same response from our boys every time: “There’s the good grass!”
Instructions from the six year old on how to get “good grass” of my own: “You need to mow it and then mow it again.”
No matter how bad you think you might not want what you’re getting, as soon as you’re not getting what you didn’t really want, you wonder how you could not have wanted it to begin with!
Kids take wishing wells seriously.
Shots are still the pits.
There are certain things in life that are unavoidably addictive to a child: card games, video games, and picking weeds.
PreK is only three hours a day. PreK is only three hours a day. PreK is only three hours a day.
While it has been excessively hot in Oklahoma this summer, one thing’s for sure: hell will be hotter.
In 14 years, we’ll be watching Brisco in the All State games…“if we’re still alive.”
Good friends and sisters are truly a blessing.
Kids don’t have to be coached when it comes to hamming it up for the camera.
We are no less competitive when it comes to playing pool than we are at playing baseball.
No one is man enough to eat the pink popsicles.
Twelve polished rocks make the perfect infield when playing backseat baseball.
Animal Planet’s Finding Bigfoot is not conducive to the sleeping patterns of children under age seven.
There’s nothing more un-apropos than a malfunctioning air conditioner in 110 degree heat.
There is definitely a quantifiable number of items on my bucket list. Touching live Sea Urchins and Starfish--check. Petting Sharks and Manta Rays--I’ll pass.
It’s never too hot to mow the infield or play ball in the back yard.
Never underestimate the power of a good book.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Who we become because of our kids
Oh for the days without worry or grief. You know. That time we often refer to as B.C. Before Children. Our world revolved around us. And our spouse. And maybe a good job, if we were lucky.
Those were the days when we planned for the weekends. For vacations. For dinner and a movie on a Tuesday night, if that’s what we wanted to do.
Things were different back then. If we saw a new pair of shoes and we wanted them, they became ours, even if we already had plenty in the closet. We wouldn’t think of dragging out those same stretched and snagged swimsuits we’ve squeezed into for the past six summers. We’d simply go out and grab another. And none of this pinching pennies for school supplies or for new tennis shoes that we just pray will make it till fall break. And Saturdays? Those belonged to us as well.
B.C. we were rested. Energetic. Organized. Focused. We knew where we were headed, and if we veered off course, that was OK too, because life’s an adventure. And it’s a lot easier to pack when you’re a one-man show.
But then it occurred to me. What about all the things we weren’t B.C.? What about the people our children have molded us into? What about the Who that we have become because of our kids?
Children have a way of forcing us to change. They can make a sweet person sweeter…or make him able to break the sound barrier with a single word. They can force an honest person to lie…or at the very least, help him perfect the often more popular art form of omission. Kids can get a lazy person up off the couch for a quick, two-hour stroll, or they can drive him to the darkest recesses of his home to curl up in a fetal ball, just waiting for the insanity to pass.
Yes, kids have amazing powers over our lives, which often forces us to think in new and sometimes ridiculous ways. Let’s face it, what childless man, creative or not, could come up with “Sink the Cheerio” or have success potty training his three-year old in only a half a day’s time by bribing him with candy? And who besides a mom could so ingeniously get her kid to eat broccoli by serving it and a half dozen other green goodies in a muffin tin…with a side of green milk? If only we could bottle that power.
And yet sometimes, our kids teach us lessons we could never seem to teach ourselves. We may have thought we were self-disciplined B.C., but you can believe if there is a chink somewhere in the armor, our kids will find it. We preach “control your temper” but have trouble maintaining our own when that crazy driver is doing 45 in the fast lane. We insist on using soft voices and nice words no matter how frustrated we become, yet we find it difficult after nearly breaking an ankle on a random, rolling baseball to maintain our own soft tones. And our angels see it. They point it out. Sometimes, much to our dismay, they emulate it.
And if our pride was something we formerly relied heavily upon, our kids can fix that problem too, with that innocent way they have of forcing us to be humble. They bring us down at just the right moment. Just when we start feeling a little too good. They’ll point out our bad breath or laugh at the hair on our upper lip, or proudly announce in front of a crowd that our legs feel like daddy’s whiskers. They don’t do it to grieve us; they are merely giving honest, unpretentious commentaries on what they see before them. And oh, how it can bring us back down to size.
Our children are our levelers. Our meter readers. They keep us grounded and keep us in line. They show us how to be resilient. How to rely on others. How to ask for help. And above all, they make us understand what it means to truly live as selfless human beings. We suddenly understand what it means to “die to yourself”. And maybe we just might learn to live it out not only with these beautiful kids, but with all those around us.
Yes, B.C. was a wonderful time, and if I tried, I could sing louder and longer than Archie and Edith ever thought about singing. But it doesn’t compare to pop flies and popsicles, early mornings and bed times, hair twirling and Berra hugs. These are the times of our lives. Whomever we are, and whomever we become, it is all because of our kids.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Those were the days when we planned for the weekends. For vacations. For dinner and a movie on a Tuesday night, if that’s what we wanted to do.
Things were different back then. If we saw a new pair of shoes and we wanted them, they became ours, even if we already had plenty in the closet. We wouldn’t think of dragging out those same stretched and snagged swimsuits we’ve squeezed into for the past six summers. We’d simply go out and grab another. And none of this pinching pennies for school supplies or for new tennis shoes that we just pray will make it till fall break. And Saturdays? Those belonged to us as well.
B.C. we were rested. Energetic. Organized. Focused. We knew where we were headed, and if we veered off course, that was OK too, because life’s an adventure. And it’s a lot easier to pack when you’re a one-man show.
But then it occurred to me. What about all the things we weren’t B.C.? What about the people our children have molded us into? What about the Who that we have become because of our kids?
Children have a way of forcing us to change. They can make a sweet person sweeter…or make him able to break the sound barrier with a single word. They can force an honest person to lie…or at the very least, help him perfect the often more popular art form of omission. Kids can get a lazy person up off the couch for a quick, two-hour stroll, or they can drive him to the darkest recesses of his home to curl up in a fetal ball, just waiting for the insanity to pass.
Yes, kids have amazing powers over our lives, which often forces us to think in new and sometimes ridiculous ways. Let’s face it, what childless man, creative or not, could come up with “Sink the Cheerio” or have success potty training his three-year old in only a half a day’s time by bribing him with candy? And who besides a mom could so ingeniously get her kid to eat broccoli by serving it and a half dozen other green goodies in a muffin tin…with a side of green milk? If only we could bottle that power.
And yet sometimes, our kids teach us lessons we could never seem to teach ourselves. We may have thought we were self-disciplined B.C., but you can believe if there is a chink somewhere in the armor, our kids will find it. We preach “control your temper” but have trouble maintaining our own when that crazy driver is doing 45 in the fast lane. We insist on using soft voices and nice words no matter how frustrated we become, yet we find it difficult after nearly breaking an ankle on a random, rolling baseball to maintain our own soft tones. And our angels see it. They point it out. Sometimes, much to our dismay, they emulate it.
And if our pride was something we formerly relied heavily upon, our kids can fix that problem too, with that innocent way they have of forcing us to be humble. They bring us down at just the right moment. Just when we start feeling a little too good. They’ll point out our bad breath or laugh at the hair on our upper lip, or proudly announce in front of a crowd that our legs feel like daddy’s whiskers. They don’t do it to grieve us; they are merely giving honest, unpretentious commentaries on what they see before them. And oh, how it can bring us back down to size.
Our children are our levelers. Our meter readers. They keep us grounded and keep us in line. They show us how to be resilient. How to rely on others. How to ask for help. And above all, they make us understand what it means to truly live as selfless human beings. We suddenly understand what it means to “die to yourself”. And maybe we just might learn to live it out not only with these beautiful kids, but with all those around us.
Yes, B.C. was a wonderful time, and if I tried, I could sing louder and longer than Archie and Edith ever thought about singing. But it doesn’t compare to pop flies and popsicles, early mornings and bed times, hair twirling and Berra hugs. These are the times of our lives. Whomever we are, and whomever we become, it is all because of our kids.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
No greater assurance
How often in life do we look for assurance? Assurance that the new job we are contemplating is right for our family. Assurance that we are doing all we can to properly prepare our children for life. Assurance that their precious self-esteem isn’t being crushed by a few well-deserved swats on the behind.
Assurance is a valuable commodity in the world of parenting. But our world isn’t always certain. Sometimes it’s not even rational. Is that sought after assurance even possible? Or are we chasing after the wind. Looking to calm our fears and ease our conscience. Clinging to a fleeting hope that we’re doing a good job, doing everything right.
It takes a rational mother about 10 minutes to admit she is helpless to do it alone. The simple act of putting baby to breast is proof enough that without the help of a handful of experienced mothers and The Great Almighty, we are lost. We alone are insufficient.
Of course we’ll spend the next 18 years telling those same babes that “Moms know everything. Moms can see it all.” But that’s just a rouge. A farce. An attempt to keep our kids in line and convince ourselves that we’re up to the task.
So how do we survive when our limits are tested? When our patience is pushed? When the path becomes treacherous, and we’re no longer sure how this hand we’ve been dealt is going to play out? How do we gather our strength and move on?
“I lift my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
See, we were never expected to know all, to see all, or to do it all. We weren’t created to be super humans or super moms. That’s something we worked up all on our own.
Our assurance comes not from how many tasks we can accomplish in a 24-hour period. Not from how well we can provide for the worldly needs of our family. Not from how well we are able to explain to our children the unexplainable whys of this world.
Our assurance comes from knowing that we are all created, guarded, and guided by a Maker who does not slumber or sleep. A Guardian who will not let our foot slip. One who watches over us and keeps us from all harm.
One who is powerful enough to know every thought in our mind, every secret of our heart—yet, He loves us anyway. What greater assurance could we need? What greater comfort when our paths become rocky or the way seems uncertain, than to know that God has our back.
“He will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
Kinda makes that perpetual mountain of laundry seem surmountable, doesn’t it?
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Assurance is a valuable commodity in the world of parenting. But our world isn’t always certain. Sometimes it’s not even rational. Is that sought after assurance even possible? Or are we chasing after the wind. Looking to calm our fears and ease our conscience. Clinging to a fleeting hope that we’re doing a good job, doing everything right.
It takes a rational mother about 10 minutes to admit she is helpless to do it alone. The simple act of putting baby to breast is proof enough that without the help of a handful of experienced mothers and The Great Almighty, we are lost. We alone are insufficient.
Of course we’ll spend the next 18 years telling those same babes that “Moms know everything. Moms can see it all.” But that’s just a rouge. A farce. An attempt to keep our kids in line and convince ourselves that we’re up to the task.
So how do we survive when our limits are tested? When our patience is pushed? When the path becomes treacherous, and we’re no longer sure how this hand we’ve been dealt is going to play out? How do we gather our strength and move on?
“I lift my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
See, we were never expected to know all, to see all, or to do it all. We weren’t created to be super humans or super moms. That’s something we worked up all on our own.
Our assurance comes not from how many tasks we can accomplish in a 24-hour period. Not from how well we can provide for the worldly needs of our family. Not from how well we are able to explain to our children the unexplainable whys of this world.
Our assurance comes from knowing that we are all created, guarded, and guided by a Maker who does not slumber or sleep. A Guardian who will not let our foot slip. One who watches over us and keeps us from all harm.
One who is powerful enough to know every thought in our mind, every secret of our heart—yet, He loves us anyway. What greater assurance could we need? What greater comfort when our paths become rocky or the way seems uncertain, than to know that God has our back.
“He will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
Kinda makes that perpetual mountain of laundry seem surmountable, doesn’t it?
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Kids or canines
As mothers for generations have, I often find myself watching our kids play, sleep, interact with each other and with their friends. I’m amazed at the things they conjure up in their imaginations. The games they invent. The jobs they undertake to pass the time.
No doubt I’m not alone. Kids are and have been for years undisputedly the greatest improvisers, workers, investigators, and performers in all of God’s creation. And these are only a few of their most admirable qualities. Qualities we grown ups should take a lesson from once in a while.
However, there are times when I’m enjoying the blissfulness that is a little boy’s childhood, that I have to wonder if maybe something went wrong. Did our genes somehow mutate in utero or did my undying loyalty to our longtime family Lab somehow seep into my children’s utter being? It’s a question I sometimes find myself wondering and one I can’t help asking: Am I raising kids or canines?
It might sound like a joke, but seriously, kids and dogs really do have a lot in common. After all, who hasn’t caught their child peeing in the floor at least once in their early, developmental years? If I’d have had half the insight then as I do now, I’d have had my house lined in puppy pads. It’s true.
But kids just do crazy things like that; at least ours did. They were improvising. Trying their best to solve a problem on their own.
Take for instance, a dog’s innate drive to dig. Is it really so different for a little boy? Since they were old enough to sit up on their own, our boys have loved being in the dirt. Whether they are driving cars and trucks or sliding into home, there’s just something about being one with the meat of the earth. And it doesn’t end there. We have more than one hole at our house that looks as if someone is searching for a new route to China. “I’m digging for gold,” my little guy will say. I’m not sure he’ll find any gold, but he sure is learning how to work.
Another kinship between boy and beast? If you leave the gate open, they will both get out. This I’ve learned the hard way. Kids are investigators, just like our pets. If there’s an unusual scent lingering about the yard, ole Bessie will grind her nose into the ground checking it out. And our kids are no different--minus the nose grinding, of course.
And don’t they all love to perform? I learned early on that neither kids nor dogs will actually perform their little tricks on command. I had a dog once that would fetch till his feet were bleeding…if I was the only person at home. And kids really aren’t that much different.
“Where’s your nose? Where’s your nose?” Parents ask these crazy questions in their nonsense voices and expect their babies to break out in true Fred Astaire-ian style with a song and a dance about the location and function of their little button nose. Most times, however, the kid will look back at the parent like they are mad-silly. Oh yeah, they’ll perform. But on their own time.
And they don’t really grow out of that. We can catch our kids doing all kinds of amazing things if they don’t happen to know we are watching. I’ve peered through my kitchen window too many times to count, in awe of a six year old playing “fetch”. He throws the ball. He hits the ball. He fetches the ball. And he does it again and again, until his tail is too tired to wag and his tongue is hanging out.
Finally, the most endearing quality of both kid and creature is their undying, unrelenting, lifelong loyalty. No matter how many times we rub their noses in one of their dirty messes; no matter how many times we cringe at the sight of a new hole; no matter how many times they escape through an open gate; our children remain steadfast.
They hug our necks when we are angry. They make us smile when we want to scream. They lick our wounds in ways only little children know how.
Am I raising kids or canines? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But one thing’s for sure, like any good pup, our kids are loyal to the end. Even after a good spanking.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
No doubt I’m not alone. Kids are and have been for years undisputedly the greatest improvisers, workers, investigators, and performers in all of God’s creation. And these are only a few of their most admirable qualities. Qualities we grown ups should take a lesson from once in a while.
However, there are times when I’m enjoying the blissfulness that is a little boy’s childhood, that I have to wonder if maybe something went wrong. Did our genes somehow mutate in utero or did my undying loyalty to our longtime family Lab somehow seep into my children’s utter being? It’s a question I sometimes find myself wondering and one I can’t help asking: Am I raising kids or canines?
It might sound like a joke, but seriously, kids and dogs really do have a lot in common. After all, who hasn’t caught their child peeing in the floor at least once in their early, developmental years? If I’d have had half the insight then as I do now, I’d have had my house lined in puppy pads. It’s true.
But kids just do crazy things like that; at least ours did. They were improvising. Trying their best to solve a problem on their own.
Take for instance, a dog’s innate drive to dig. Is it really so different for a little boy? Since they were old enough to sit up on their own, our boys have loved being in the dirt. Whether they are driving cars and trucks or sliding into home, there’s just something about being one with the meat of the earth. And it doesn’t end there. We have more than one hole at our house that looks as if someone is searching for a new route to China. “I’m digging for gold,” my little guy will say. I’m not sure he’ll find any gold, but he sure is learning how to work.
Another kinship between boy and beast? If you leave the gate open, they will both get out. This I’ve learned the hard way. Kids are investigators, just like our pets. If there’s an unusual scent lingering about the yard, ole Bessie will grind her nose into the ground checking it out. And our kids are no different--minus the nose grinding, of course.
And don’t they all love to perform? I learned early on that neither kids nor dogs will actually perform their little tricks on command. I had a dog once that would fetch till his feet were bleeding…if I was the only person at home. And kids really aren’t that much different.
“Where’s your nose? Where’s your nose?” Parents ask these crazy questions in their nonsense voices and expect their babies to break out in true Fred Astaire-ian style with a song and a dance about the location and function of their little button nose. Most times, however, the kid will look back at the parent like they are mad-silly. Oh yeah, they’ll perform. But on their own time.
And they don’t really grow out of that. We can catch our kids doing all kinds of amazing things if they don’t happen to know we are watching. I’ve peered through my kitchen window too many times to count, in awe of a six year old playing “fetch”. He throws the ball. He hits the ball. He fetches the ball. And he does it again and again, until his tail is too tired to wag and his tongue is hanging out.
Finally, the most endearing quality of both kid and creature is their undying, unrelenting, lifelong loyalty. No matter how many times we rub their noses in one of their dirty messes; no matter how many times we cringe at the sight of a new hole; no matter how many times they escape through an open gate; our children remain steadfast.
They hug our necks when we are angry. They make us smile when we want to scream. They lick our wounds in ways only little children know how.
Am I raising kids or canines? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But one thing’s for sure, like any good pup, our kids are loyal to the end. Even after a good spanking.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Taking things for granted
One day, many months ago, I was walking behind my oldest child into a building. Seems an easy enough task, but apparently my one, fatal mistake was looking away for the split second that it took for the door to nail me right between the eyes. That’s the moment I realized that when one is raising kids, absolutely nothing should be taken for granted.
There are so many things our little wonders simply don’t pop into this world already knowing. That fact seems logical. But sometimes we parents just don’t have a clue as to the magnitude of information about which they really don’t know until it hits us square in the face. Literally.
For example, when our boys started making trips next door to visit Ms. Corbin, I would walk them over. As they got a little older, I would stand at the door and watch them go. The first time they made the trek on their own, I stood observing as my two boys calmly and quietly walked up to the front door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Now in some circles, this might be called breaking and entering. I’m thankful Ms. Corbin is on the “kid friendly” side of the law.
It’s a simple mistake, or so one might think. But these social faux pas just seemed to be piling up. It’s one thing not to know that when you are the first person through a door you hold it open for those behind you. But not knowing that you must knock, be recognized, and be asked to come into someone’s home is a little too obvious. But maybe it’s not, for a couple little boys.
Yes, some errors are small and easy to correct. It seems logical that if there is always a trash bag in the trash can, that there should always be a trash bag in the can. And that if for some reason there is not a trash bag in the can, one might want to wait to dump his palate of wet paint or the remains of his supper plate until there is a bag in the can! Alas, once again, I have taken these things for granted. Still, a relatively simple slip-up to amend.
But the day, not so long ago, that I could not find my four-year old for a good five minutes—which is actually a lifetime to a mother with a missing child—was a slightly bigger blunder that would require my immediate attention.
I was working in the house doing my busy, stay-at-home-mommy things. I left Brisco playing alone, checking on him every couple minutes or so as I walked by, putting up laundry, picking up toys. The last time I saw him, he had gone to the back yard to retrieve his favorite race car. I watched him as he went, digging through that sandy bucket he’d dragged out from inside the gazebo.
I made another trip to the back of the house with yet another pile of clean clothes to put away, and when I returned, he had moved from my sight. I looked out the door and hollered his name, but he didn’t answer.
Not yet worried, I figured he’d come back inside without my knowing, so I made a quick walk-through with a hand full of clean socks, checking for him as I went. When I didn’t see him, I decided to take a closer look.
It wasn’t until I had walked completely around the house yelling his name…followed by promises of dad’s belt if he was teasing me…that I really started to panic. Where had this kid gotten off to, and why did he think it was acceptable to go alone?
As the blood began to return to my brain and I was able to breath through the racing heartbeats I could hear pounding in my ears, I had a thought: maybe he’d gone next door for a visit.
And sure enough, there he sat. My four-year old boy, in the middle of the biggest, all-ladies card party in town. Scanning the room for snacks and anything else that happened to look interesting. I was drowning in a pool of exasperation and relief.
It was at that point I decided not to take the simple things for granted. Kids don’t come into the world knowing how to hold open doors or “Knock Before Entering”. They get sidetracked. They chase butterflies. And they want to know why their neighbor has so many cars parked in front of her house. But still, I had to take action.
That afternoon, my boy and I discussed Stranger Danger. We discussed the fact that cartoons are fake and dinosaurs are dead. We talked about the difference between what’s happening on TV and what’s happening in real life.
“So what about those workout people?” he asked. “The ones on your video. Are they all really still right there? They are still doing the same thing!” So many questions, so little time.
From the moment we mothers realize we are expecting, our lives change. For nine months, we make promises and swear oaths that we’ll guide and protect our new, little life if God will just get us through the labor pains. And once we lay eyes on those precious babes, we fall in love. Some of us just never realized what adventures our pride and joy might bring along with them. I guess kids aren’t the only ones to take things for granted.
But in the end, it’s all worth it. The snuggle time and the “Will you read to me’s?” The goodnight hugs and the “I love you’s”. All the joys that sprinkle our days make up for the chaos and confusion our children dole out.
Now if I could just figure out a way to teach them about privacy in the bathroom.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
There are so many things our little wonders simply don’t pop into this world already knowing. That fact seems logical. But sometimes we parents just don’t have a clue as to the magnitude of information about which they really don’t know until it hits us square in the face. Literally.
For example, when our boys started making trips next door to visit Ms. Corbin, I would walk them over. As they got a little older, I would stand at the door and watch them go. The first time they made the trek on their own, I stood observing as my two boys calmly and quietly walked up to the front door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Now in some circles, this might be called breaking and entering. I’m thankful Ms. Corbin is on the “kid friendly” side of the law.
It’s a simple mistake, or so one might think. But these social faux pas just seemed to be piling up. It’s one thing not to know that when you are the first person through a door you hold it open for those behind you. But not knowing that you must knock, be recognized, and be asked to come into someone’s home is a little too obvious. But maybe it’s not, for a couple little boys.
Yes, some errors are small and easy to correct. It seems logical that if there is always a trash bag in the trash can, that there should always be a trash bag in the can. And that if for some reason there is not a trash bag in the can, one might want to wait to dump his palate of wet paint or the remains of his supper plate until there is a bag in the can! Alas, once again, I have taken these things for granted. Still, a relatively simple slip-up to amend.
But the day, not so long ago, that I could not find my four-year old for a good five minutes—which is actually a lifetime to a mother with a missing child—was a slightly bigger blunder that would require my immediate attention.
I was working in the house doing my busy, stay-at-home-mommy things. I left Brisco playing alone, checking on him every couple minutes or so as I walked by, putting up laundry, picking up toys. The last time I saw him, he had gone to the back yard to retrieve his favorite race car. I watched him as he went, digging through that sandy bucket he’d dragged out from inside the gazebo.
I made another trip to the back of the house with yet another pile of clean clothes to put away, and when I returned, he had moved from my sight. I looked out the door and hollered his name, but he didn’t answer.
Not yet worried, I figured he’d come back inside without my knowing, so I made a quick walk-through with a hand full of clean socks, checking for him as I went. When I didn’t see him, I decided to take a closer look.
It wasn’t until I had walked completely around the house yelling his name…followed by promises of dad’s belt if he was teasing me…that I really started to panic. Where had this kid gotten off to, and why did he think it was acceptable to go alone?
As the blood began to return to my brain and I was able to breath through the racing heartbeats I could hear pounding in my ears, I had a thought: maybe he’d gone next door for a visit.
And sure enough, there he sat. My four-year old boy, in the middle of the biggest, all-ladies card party in town. Scanning the room for snacks and anything else that happened to look interesting. I was drowning in a pool of exasperation and relief.
It was at that point I decided not to take the simple things for granted. Kids don’t come into the world knowing how to hold open doors or “Knock Before Entering”. They get sidetracked. They chase butterflies. And they want to know why their neighbor has so many cars parked in front of her house. But still, I had to take action.
That afternoon, my boy and I discussed Stranger Danger. We discussed the fact that cartoons are fake and dinosaurs are dead. We talked about the difference between what’s happening on TV and what’s happening in real life.
“So what about those workout people?” he asked. “The ones on your video. Are they all really still right there? They are still doing the same thing!” So many questions, so little time.
From the moment we mothers realize we are expecting, our lives change. For nine months, we make promises and swear oaths that we’ll guide and protect our new, little life if God will just get us through the labor pains. And once we lay eyes on those precious babes, we fall in love. Some of us just never realized what adventures our pride and joy might bring along with them. I guess kids aren’t the only ones to take things for granted.
But in the end, it’s all worth it. The snuggle time and the “Will you read to me’s?” The goodnight hugs and the “I love you’s”. All the joys that sprinkle our days make up for the chaos and confusion our children dole out.
Now if I could just figure out a way to teach them about privacy in the bathroom.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Wanna play the Redbud game?
I’m pretty worthless when it comes to teaching our boys about the natural world. I can pass on one absolute about nature: “You reap what you sow”. I know that it takes water and warmth to make something grow, and I can identify a Magnolia tree, a Rose bush and a Redbud. That’s about the extent of it.
So generally, when I have the opportunity to teach them something, no matter how small, about the amazing world in which we live, I do what I can…and leave the rest to Dad.
Of course, Dad’s not always with us on our road trips. And when you spend as much time riding in the car as we do, it’s quite helpful to find ways to keep their minds busy, lest the most deadly form of carsickness known to parents today should flare-up: the Stop Touching Me Syndrome. There’s just something about being buckled down and a foot-and-a-half away from one’s sibling, that causes a child’s hands and mind to short circuit. And then…pandemonium ensues.
A while back on one of our longer car rides this spring, about thirty seconds before my breaking point, I saw a small window of opportunity to save my kids from two, well-deserved beatings. I pointed out to the boys a blooming purple tree that was sitting to the side of the road, all alone on the landscape. “It is called a Redbud. It is the state tree of Oklahoma,” I informed them, terribly proud of this tiny bit of horticultural knowledge I had stored.
They seemed somewhat impressed, and after I convinced them that THE REDBUD they had seen was not THE one and only state tree in Oklahoma, that there were lots of them all over the place, it became a game--or rather a competition--to see who could find the most along the way.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?” one child would say as soon as we’d hit the highway.
In all of our travels that spring, we’d managed to learn just where those Redbuds were blooming along our route. One to the east just north of the 152 junction. One in the backyard of the house across the road. A whole row of them on the south side of town just as we were driving into Burns Flat.
It became more of a test of attention rather than a test of discovery. But that’s ok. I’m up for any game that can keep them busy, even sort of quiet, and requires absolutely zero physical contact. It seems I’d found my new, favorite traveling companion.
As if the Redbud game wasn’t gift enough, spending so much time in the car had evidently taught the boys to get creative on their own. Their second favorite game? “What is it?” And no, that’s not a question. That’s the game. It seemed a bit akin to the old standby, “Pick a hand” but with a different twist.
“Wanna play ‘What Is It?’” one child would ask. “OK. I go first,” was usually the second child’s response.
I suppose the rules were, that if an item could fit into your hand, it was fair game. All a person needed to do was close his fist around it and say, “OK. What is it?” And then would begin the barrage of answers from the guesser. Yeah, well, I didn’t say it was brain surgery.
Toward the end of the ball season, it seemed they had moved on to bigger and better games, like reading the fine print that is chiseled on any coin they could find. Of course one must realize that at the time, neither of the boys could read much beyond their names or the names of their favorite ball teams. So they just stuck to reading the numbers.
“This one was born in 1987.”
“This one was born in 1972.”
“This one was born in 1889.” Nope, son, better read that one again.
They each had a stack of coins in their door handle, and they played the game so much they had all but memorized the dates printed on every one. It soon became too easy. Boring. So again, they got creative.
“OK. This is a penny. When was it born?” And whoever happened to be in the car at the time got a free invitation to guess the date etched onto the head’s side of every coin--whether they wanted it or not.
It’s funny the kinds of things that will keep our kids busy. Who’d have thought an insignificant bit of trivia I’d remembered from a history class taken 24 years earlier could bring hours of cheap entertainment to our boys. But gratefully, it had. And I’ll take counting games, guessing games, and even nonsense games over chaos and mayhem any day.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
So generally, when I have the opportunity to teach them something, no matter how small, about the amazing world in which we live, I do what I can…and leave the rest to Dad.
Of course, Dad’s not always with us on our road trips. And when you spend as much time riding in the car as we do, it’s quite helpful to find ways to keep their minds busy, lest the most deadly form of carsickness known to parents today should flare-up: the Stop Touching Me Syndrome. There’s just something about being buckled down and a foot-and-a-half away from one’s sibling, that causes a child’s hands and mind to short circuit. And then…pandemonium ensues.
A while back on one of our longer car rides this spring, about thirty seconds before my breaking point, I saw a small window of opportunity to save my kids from two, well-deserved beatings. I pointed out to the boys a blooming purple tree that was sitting to the side of the road, all alone on the landscape. “It is called a Redbud. It is the state tree of Oklahoma,” I informed them, terribly proud of this tiny bit of horticultural knowledge I had stored.
They seemed somewhat impressed, and after I convinced them that THE REDBUD they had seen was not THE one and only state tree in Oklahoma, that there were lots of them all over the place, it became a game--or rather a competition--to see who could find the most along the way.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?” one child would say as soon as we’d hit the highway.
In all of our travels that spring, we’d managed to learn just where those Redbuds were blooming along our route. One to the east just north of the 152 junction. One in the backyard of the house across the road. A whole row of them on the south side of town just as we were driving into Burns Flat.
It became more of a test of attention rather than a test of discovery. But that’s ok. I’m up for any game that can keep them busy, even sort of quiet, and requires absolutely zero physical contact. It seems I’d found my new, favorite traveling companion.
As if the Redbud game wasn’t gift enough, spending so much time in the car had evidently taught the boys to get creative on their own. Their second favorite game? “What is it?” And no, that’s not a question. That’s the game. It seemed a bit akin to the old standby, “Pick a hand” but with a different twist.
“Wanna play ‘What Is It?’” one child would ask. “OK. I go first,” was usually the second child’s response.
I suppose the rules were, that if an item could fit into your hand, it was fair game. All a person needed to do was close his fist around it and say, “OK. What is it?” And then would begin the barrage of answers from the guesser. Yeah, well, I didn’t say it was brain surgery.
Toward the end of the ball season, it seemed they had moved on to bigger and better games, like reading the fine print that is chiseled on any coin they could find. Of course one must realize that at the time, neither of the boys could read much beyond their names or the names of their favorite ball teams. So they just stuck to reading the numbers.
“This one was born in 1987.”
“This one was born in 1972.”
“This one was born in 1889.” Nope, son, better read that one again.
They each had a stack of coins in their door handle, and they played the game so much they had all but memorized the dates printed on every one. It soon became too easy. Boring. So again, they got creative.
“OK. This is a penny. When was it born?” And whoever happened to be in the car at the time got a free invitation to guess the date etched onto the head’s side of every coin--whether they wanted it or not.
It’s funny the kinds of things that will keep our kids busy. Who’d have thought an insignificant bit of trivia I’d remembered from a history class taken 24 years earlier could bring hours of cheap entertainment to our boys. But gratefully, it had. And I’ll take counting games, guessing games, and even nonsense games over chaos and mayhem any day.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It’s summertime
It’s finally summertime at the Smith house. Well, at least for most of us. The scorching temperatures have made it official, along with having Cooper at home all day. Now if we could just get dad to take a break and find a good swimming hole, we’d all be in sweet-summer heaven. Or at least that’s what one might think.
It seems, however, that our boys just might have other games in mind for the hot and sweaty dog-days of summer. But this mother is not playing.
I mostly count myself lucky to have two boys as close in age as ours are, aside from the first year of Brisco’s life when I thought about locking myself in a dark closet. Daily. After that, though, I felt exceedingly blessed that our boys loved each other so much and played together so well. At this point in the game, I’m beginning to think that my lucky streak has ended.
What is it about kids that makes them think it’s ok to treat their siblings like road kill? They would never think of yelling at their friends or punching them in the gut because they called them out on an imaginary game of in-house Nerf-ball. So why is it that brothers think it’s ok to do it to each other?
The question is as old as the ages, and the answer remains a mystery. I can certainly remember some scrappy moments between me and my sister, most of them taking the form of clawing fingernails and flying hairbrushes. Who knows the reason behind it; it just happens. And as a kid, I suppose I could handle it. But as the mom? Not so much.
Consequently, we began the first day of summer in grand style: with threats of the belt. “If you are planning to fuss with each other all summer, let’s just get this over with right now!” Of course I didn’t follow through. But when Dad got home and got the brunt of my misdirected wrath, he kindly finished the job the way I should have.
A spanking from Daddy usually holds them over for several weeks, a little more for the one…a little less for the other. But this time, the gravity of the situation seemed to blow right past them like the ever-increasing Oklahoma wind. Not more than a couple of days had passed and they were back at it again.
The kids may not have learned their lesson, but I had. I eagerly followed in father’s footsteps this time. And the next time. And the next. But something wasn’t working here. And I was going insane.
I sat stewing, yet refusing to let myself become one of those parents who counts down the days until school starts because they can’t stand to be around their kids. (Although, I’m starting to see where those folks might be coming from.) I decided it was time to regroup. Get creative. Be in charge. I am, after all, the mom.
The next day, upon the first cross word that I heard, I informed the boys that we would be taking a different approach to learning how to get along this summer. They looked at me like I was speaking Spanish.
I restate: “I will not listen to little boys fuss and argue all summer long. If you can’t play together and get along, I will give each of you a job to do. This will not be a fun job. You will not enjoy it. After the job has been completed, you may then decide to try and play together in a more loving and appropriate way. Any questions?”
One boy gave a teenage grunt that he is far to young to have yet mastered. The other was a little too intrigued. “What kind of job?” he asked.
Pondering a spur-of-the-moment response, I said, “Something really hard. And hot. And sweaty. Outside in the sun.”
I could see his mind working, thinking about whether I was kidding or not, so I made sure he understood. “I am not joking. This will be a punishment, and you will hate it. And I will like it, because you will be outside where I can not hear your cries.”
Satisfied with that answer, the moment passed. In fact several days passed where I had only to look upon them with a wicked, sideways glare to remind them about the impending wrath I was willing to hurl in their direction.
Could it be I have finally found the most effective tool in my summertime parenting kit? Threats of hard work, in the deadly summer heat…and me in the house enjoying it all? Life couldn’t get any better.
I’m happy to say I have yet to be forced into implementing the blood, sweat, and tears form of discipline. I am, however, not afraid to do so should the need arise. After all, learning to pick up a yard full of dog poop is a job that could teach them to have pride in their home. Maybe even build a little character.
So, if you should drive past our house this summer and see our boys picking up the thousands of Maple seed “helicopters” that have fallen to the ground, or should you witness them cutting the grass with a genuine pair of eight inch Fiskars, do me a favor. Honk and wave as you drive by in your air conditioned vehicle. Let ‘em know what they’re missing!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It seems, however, that our boys just might have other games in mind for the hot and sweaty dog-days of summer. But this mother is not playing.
I mostly count myself lucky to have two boys as close in age as ours are, aside from the first year of Brisco’s life when I thought about locking myself in a dark closet. Daily. After that, though, I felt exceedingly blessed that our boys loved each other so much and played together so well. At this point in the game, I’m beginning to think that my lucky streak has ended.
What is it about kids that makes them think it’s ok to treat their siblings like road kill? They would never think of yelling at their friends or punching them in the gut because they called them out on an imaginary game of in-house Nerf-ball. So why is it that brothers think it’s ok to do it to each other?
The question is as old as the ages, and the answer remains a mystery. I can certainly remember some scrappy moments between me and my sister, most of them taking the form of clawing fingernails and flying hairbrushes. Who knows the reason behind it; it just happens. And as a kid, I suppose I could handle it. But as the mom? Not so much.
Consequently, we began the first day of summer in grand style: with threats of the belt. “If you are planning to fuss with each other all summer, let’s just get this over with right now!” Of course I didn’t follow through. But when Dad got home and got the brunt of my misdirected wrath, he kindly finished the job the way I should have.
A spanking from Daddy usually holds them over for several weeks, a little more for the one…a little less for the other. But this time, the gravity of the situation seemed to blow right past them like the ever-increasing Oklahoma wind. Not more than a couple of days had passed and they were back at it again.
The kids may not have learned their lesson, but I had. I eagerly followed in father’s footsteps this time. And the next time. And the next. But something wasn’t working here. And I was going insane.
I sat stewing, yet refusing to let myself become one of those parents who counts down the days until school starts because they can’t stand to be around their kids. (Although, I’m starting to see where those folks might be coming from.) I decided it was time to regroup. Get creative. Be in charge. I am, after all, the mom.
The next day, upon the first cross word that I heard, I informed the boys that we would be taking a different approach to learning how to get along this summer. They looked at me like I was speaking Spanish.
I restate: “I will not listen to little boys fuss and argue all summer long. If you can’t play together and get along, I will give each of you a job to do. This will not be a fun job. You will not enjoy it. After the job has been completed, you may then decide to try and play together in a more loving and appropriate way. Any questions?”
One boy gave a teenage grunt that he is far to young to have yet mastered. The other was a little too intrigued. “What kind of job?” he asked.
Pondering a spur-of-the-moment response, I said, “Something really hard. And hot. And sweaty. Outside in the sun.”
I could see his mind working, thinking about whether I was kidding or not, so I made sure he understood. “I am not joking. This will be a punishment, and you will hate it. And I will like it, because you will be outside where I can not hear your cries.”
Satisfied with that answer, the moment passed. In fact several days passed where I had only to look upon them with a wicked, sideways glare to remind them about the impending wrath I was willing to hurl in their direction.
Could it be I have finally found the most effective tool in my summertime parenting kit? Threats of hard work, in the deadly summer heat…and me in the house enjoying it all? Life couldn’t get any better.
I’m happy to say I have yet to be forced into implementing the blood, sweat, and tears form of discipline. I am, however, not afraid to do so should the need arise. After all, learning to pick up a yard full of dog poop is a job that could teach them to have pride in their home. Maybe even build a little character.
So, if you should drive past our house this summer and see our boys picking up the thousands of Maple seed “helicopters” that have fallen to the ground, or should you witness them cutting the grass with a genuine pair of eight inch Fiskars, do me a favor. Honk and wave as you drive by in your air conditioned vehicle. Let ‘em know what they’re missing!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Character education
How do we teach our kids to have character? It has been said that character is determined not by one’s actions in the presence of others, but by the choices he makes when he thinks no one is looking. That’s the kind of character that interests me.
The kind of character that drives a kid to say please and thank you with out being prompted at every turn. The kind that understands why we don’t allow someone to simply give us money without a little hard work to earn it.
The kind of character that would never allow us to downgrade a teammate who may have gone 0-4 from the plate that day, but instead would move us to give a kind word or a high five as they re-enter the dugout.
The kind of character that prompts one to put his chewing gum in the trash can and not on the ground for someone else to step in. The kind of character that causes a person to do something when he sees something that needs to be done, regardless of whether it’s his turn, his job, his mess.
I want our kids to have the kind of character that forces them to walk through the gate at a baseball game and pay the measly entry fee rather than sneak around the side or try to pass through unnoticed in a crowd.
It’s not enough in life just to look pretty, or to be smart, or to have the most friends. Character is doing the right thing despite all those qualities. Not relying on “being cute” to get you where you want to go in life. Looks fade; popularity is fleeting. But good character will stand the test of time.
So how can a mom even begin to teach these notions that are certainly so elusive to a little boy’s mind? These are my guiding principals:
1. Follow the leader is a game that is sometimes better suited for the playground than for life. If we are lucky, we may find great people to lead us. If we have character, we can learn to be one.
2. Someone is always watching. The simple fact of life is that nothing we do goes unnoticed. Whether it’s a little brother or sister, the kid in the grade behind us that thinks we hung the moon, or the little old lady who is completely indistinguishable in her porch swing behind those azalea bushes. Someone is always watching. Someone is always taking note of our character.
3. “Remember who you are.” It’s an easy thing to say, but a little more difficult to fully comprehend at five and six. But that doesn’t keep me from repeating it at every opportunity.
“Remember who you are,” I tell them as they embark on a road trip with someone else’s family. “Remember who you are,” as they run off to play, unsupervised, with a group of friends at the ball park. “Remember who you are,” after throwing (and subsequently kicking-twice) a helmet in frustration upon being put out at first base for the third time that night.
“What do you mean, ‘Remember who you are?’” the little one will ask.
“Remember who’s son you are,” I tell him. “You are Brisco Smith! Your daddy is Randy Smith. Your granddaddy is Larry Smith. Your great-granddaddy is Don Brantley.”
“I know all that,” he insists. “But what do you mean?”
“You are a Smith and a Brantley and a Sullivan, and we are all connected. The things you do reflect upon our family. Your daddy is a good man. A man with a good name. We don’t do things that would tarnish that.”
The boy looks at me with curious eyes. I know he doesn’t yet understand. But all knowledge has a wellspring from whence it first flows. It will come. It has to.
You see, character isn’t handed out at age 16 with a driver’s license. It isn’t doled out by the high school principal upon graduation. It is developed over time. It is taught. It is nurtured.
Are any of these lessons making a difference? Are our kids learning about anything important in life other than baseball? Some days I have to wonder. Especially when the examples I give them to follow are often so fallible. But onward we trudge. Learning and growing and making mistakes together.
A wise man once wrote, “A good name is more desirable than great riches.” A phrase that might by scoffed at in our day, when all signs point to getting ahead and the almighty dollar. However, this is a lasting truth, a pearl of wisdom. And with a little bit of luck and a whole lot of prayer, we’ll get there. After all, our boys have quite a legacy to uphold.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The kind of character that drives a kid to say please and thank you with out being prompted at every turn. The kind that understands why we don’t allow someone to simply give us money without a little hard work to earn it.
The kind of character that would never allow us to downgrade a teammate who may have gone 0-4 from the plate that day, but instead would move us to give a kind word or a high five as they re-enter the dugout.
The kind of character that prompts one to put his chewing gum in the trash can and not on the ground for someone else to step in. The kind of character that causes a person to do something when he sees something that needs to be done, regardless of whether it’s his turn, his job, his mess.
I want our kids to have the kind of character that forces them to walk through the gate at a baseball game and pay the measly entry fee rather than sneak around the side or try to pass through unnoticed in a crowd.
It’s not enough in life just to look pretty, or to be smart, or to have the most friends. Character is doing the right thing despite all those qualities. Not relying on “being cute” to get you where you want to go in life. Looks fade; popularity is fleeting. But good character will stand the test of time.
So how can a mom even begin to teach these notions that are certainly so elusive to a little boy’s mind? These are my guiding principals:
1. Follow the leader is a game that is sometimes better suited for the playground than for life. If we are lucky, we may find great people to lead us. If we have character, we can learn to be one.
2. Someone is always watching. The simple fact of life is that nothing we do goes unnoticed. Whether it’s a little brother or sister, the kid in the grade behind us that thinks we hung the moon, or the little old lady who is completely indistinguishable in her porch swing behind those azalea bushes. Someone is always watching. Someone is always taking note of our character.
3. “Remember who you are.” It’s an easy thing to say, but a little more difficult to fully comprehend at five and six. But that doesn’t keep me from repeating it at every opportunity.
“Remember who you are,” I tell them as they embark on a road trip with someone else’s family. “Remember who you are,” as they run off to play, unsupervised, with a group of friends at the ball park. “Remember who you are,” after throwing (and subsequently kicking-twice) a helmet in frustration upon being put out at first base for the third time that night.
“What do you mean, ‘Remember who you are?’” the little one will ask.
“Remember who’s son you are,” I tell him. “You are Brisco Smith! Your daddy is Randy Smith. Your granddaddy is Larry Smith. Your great-granddaddy is Don Brantley.”
“I know all that,” he insists. “But what do you mean?”
“You are a Smith and a Brantley and a Sullivan, and we are all connected. The things you do reflect upon our family. Your daddy is a good man. A man with a good name. We don’t do things that would tarnish that.”
The boy looks at me with curious eyes. I know he doesn’t yet understand. But all knowledge has a wellspring from whence it first flows. It will come. It has to.
You see, character isn’t handed out at age 16 with a driver’s license. It isn’t doled out by the high school principal upon graduation. It is developed over time. It is taught. It is nurtured.
Are any of these lessons making a difference? Are our kids learning about anything important in life other than baseball? Some days I have to wonder. Especially when the examples I give them to follow are often so fallible. But onward we trudge. Learning and growing and making mistakes together.
A wise man once wrote, “A good name is more desirable than great riches.” A phrase that might by scoffed at in our day, when all signs point to getting ahead and the almighty dollar. However, this is a lasting truth, a pearl of wisdom. And with a little bit of luck and a whole lot of prayer, we’ll get there. After all, our boys have quite a legacy to uphold.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Those crazy kids
Kids are crazy, and they do their best to take their parents along for the ride. It often takes a big sense of humor and a gentle touch of sarcasm to simply make it though the day. With all the nutty things that come out of their mouths, sometimes we parents have to do our best to come back with something just as outrageous to make our point. We never really know if they are listening, until we get a text like this:
Mr. Wootton: “Can we feed your kids? We offered and they said they aren’t allowed to beg for food.”
I cannot believe they actually said this. No, I cannot believe they were actually listening when I said this!
Then there are times when we witness our children doing things that we think only the mentally unstable might try. For instance, when food is restricted, Brisco will resort to licking envelopes. It’s not a pretty picture, folks.
Much of the time, the lunacy of our offspring shows itself in the form of casual conversation.
Brisco: “Mom! Cooper’s diggin’ his hand in the back of his shorts!”
Me: “What?”
Brisco: “In his crack!” (Cooper close by, with his hands in the air, laughing hysterically.)
Me: “Hey. Go wash your hands with soap! That is dirty, and it will make you sick!”
Brisco: “Will it really make you sick, Mom?”
Me: “Yes. It will give you a bad disease. You go wash your hands too, just in case.”
Cooper: (emerging from the bathroom) “Mom, Brisco said I’m gonna get crack disease.”
Me: “Yep. He’s probably right.”
Brisco: “Mom! Can you flip a dollar in baseball?”
Me: “No.” (Wondering just how one might flip a dollar.) “Why?”
Brisco: “Cause we can’t find a coin.”
(Upon seeing Cooper, digging and poking around on the bottom of his shoes)
Dad: “Cooper! Stop touching the bottom of your shoes! That’s nasty! That’s about the dirtiest thing you can touch! You just walked out of a bathroom!”
Cooper: “uuuhhhh”
Me: “Shoes are always dirty. Don’t touch them. They will make you sick.”
Dad: “Yeah. You’ll get hoof-in-mouth disease.”
Cooper: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s kinda like crack disease. You don’t want it.”
Cooper: “Oh, OK.”
Cooper: “I haven’t seen a two dollar bill in a long time.”
Brisco: “I haven’t seen a three dollar bill in a long time.”
Cooper: “They don’t make three dollar bills.”
Brisco: “Mom? Do they?”
Me: “Nope.”
Cooper: “Whoever becomes President maybe can get on a three dollar bill after they die. If I’m President, I’ll get on a 13 dollar bill.”
Me: “Why 13?”
Cooper: “I don’t know. I just like that number. I guess because of A-Rod maybe?”
Brisco: “I’d get on a 100 dollar bill.”
Cooper: “They already have 100 dollar bills.”
Brisco: “Mom? Do they?”
Me: “Yep.”
Brisco: “Do we have any?”
Me: “Oh yeah. Lots of ‘em.”
Brisco: “Oooohhh!”
Kids are crazy. They’ll believe anything.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Mr. Wootton: “Can we feed your kids? We offered and they said they aren’t allowed to beg for food.”
I cannot believe they actually said this. No, I cannot believe they were actually listening when I said this!
Then there are times when we witness our children doing things that we think only the mentally unstable might try. For instance, when food is restricted, Brisco will resort to licking envelopes. It’s not a pretty picture, folks.
Much of the time, the lunacy of our offspring shows itself in the form of casual conversation.
Brisco: “Mom! Cooper’s diggin’ his hand in the back of his shorts!”
Me: “What?”
Brisco: “In his crack!” (Cooper close by, with his hands in the air, laughing hysterically.)
Me: “Hey. Go wash your hands with soap! That is dirty, and it will make you sick!”
Brisco: “Will it really make you sick, Mom?”
Me: “Yes. It will give you a bad disease. You go wash your hands too, just in case.”
Cooper: (emerging from the bathroom) “Mom, Brisco said I’m gonna get crack disease.”
Me: “Yep. He’s probably right.”
Brisco: “Mom! Can you flip a dollar in baseball?”
Me: “No.” (Wondering just how one might flip a dollar.) “Why?”
Brisco: “Cause we can’t find a coin.”
(Upon seeing Cooper, digging and poking around on the bottom of his shoes)
Dad: “Cooper! Stop touching the bottom of your shoes! That’s nasty! That’s about the dirtiest thing you can touch! You just walked out of a bathroom!”
Cooper: “uuuhhhh”
Me: “Shoes are always dirty. Don’t touch them. They will make you sick.”
Dad: “Yeah. You’ll get hoof-in-mouth disease.”
Cooper: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s kinda like crack disease. You don’t want it.”
Cooper: “Oh, OK.”
Cooper: “I haven’t seen a two dollar bill in a long time.”
Brisco: “I haven’t seen a three dollar bill in a long time.”
Cooper: “They don’t make three dollar bills.”
Brisco: “Mom? Do they?”
Me: “Nope.”
Cooper: “Whoever becomes President maybe can get on a three dollar bill after they die. If I’m President, I’ll get on a 13 dollar bill.”
Me: “Why 13?”
Cooper: “I don’t know. I just like that number. I guess because of A-Rod maybe?”
Brisco: “I’d get on a 100 dollar bill.”
Cooper: “They already have 100 dollar bills.”
Brisco: “Mom? Do they?”
Me: “Yep.”
Brisco: “Do we have any?”
Me: “Oh yeah. Lots of ‘em.”
Brisco: “Oooohhh!”
Kids are crazy. They’ll believe anything.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
“Jack of all trades”
I remember when I first heard the expression “Jack of all trades”. I’m pretty sure I didn’t know what it meant, but I guess I thought it was a cut down of sorts. Then I figured out it referred to a person who is sort of good at lots of different things. And that can’t be bad, right?
As I grew older and started trying to make decisions about what I’d do with my life…looking for that niche that would be mine…my understanding of that phrase changed. Being a Jack of all trades can’t possibly be good thing. There’s no major for that! It’s not in any of the university catalogues! “Excuse me, Mr. Advisor?”
So I did what many college freshmen (and sophomores and even a few seniors) do. I took a ridiculously wide variety of courses trying to find that perfect job that I knew I would want to do for the rest of my life. I finally did graduate with a major and a minor, but after of few years of dead end jobs in my area, I wasn’t so sure I’d made the right decision.
As more time passed, I grew older, got married, and life changed. I realized that maybe I hadn’t yet found my place. My role. I returned to school—twice. Received more from my education the second and third times around than I had the first, and set out, yet again, to find exactly where I would fit into this career-driven society of which I had suddenly become a part.
Life rolled on pretty smoothly for quite some time. I thought I had finally made a good decision about my future and my career, when God threw me a curve ball. A baby. After eight years of marriage, seven and a half years of college, and five years on the job, the Big Man decided I needed more of a challenge.
So, as the story goes, I worked until about 10 a.m. on the morning of October 20, when the hospital called and said they had an available bed with my name on it. (We were all about “planning the birth”. I’d had enough surprises.)
To make a long story short, our oldest child was brought into the world on a Wednesday. 5:04 p.m. Seventy-three years to the day after the birth of the great Mickey Mantle. The very day the Red Sox beat the Yankees in game seven of the ALCS and went on to win that year’s World Series, finally ending the “Curse of the Bambino”. So much for no more surprises.
A couple days later, we left the hospital and I found out that while life did go on, it was as far from normal as it had ever been. Being a Jack of all trades might just come in handy where parenting is concerned. See, nothing I’d learned in seven and a half years of college had prepared me for this incredibly challenging job. And the irony of it all was that in 10 short weeks I’d have to leave this new life and go back to the one I had actually prepared for. I was needed at work.
I muddled through the next semester, counting down the days until summer break when I could finally be at home with our now seven month old son. It seems only yesterday he was cruising in that stroller and enjoying his very first Yankees’ game.
Life was suddenly as it should be, it seemed to me. There was something all too natural about spending every day with my child, watching him learn and grow and change with every moment. Maybe this was what I’d been looking for.
Summer passed all too quickly, and as I headed back to the office to prepare for a new school year, I was caught off guard at what a sick sense of humor (and incredibly poor timing) our Maker really has. But it was true. I was pregnant.
With a 10 month old at home, it appeared in seven short months I’d be baring it all once again, and how in the world would I ever be a parent to a newborn and a 17 month old while maintaining my suddenly-seemingly inconsequential career? My how quickly life can change.
And on yet another Wednesday, March 22, at 5:43 p.m. our second son and the one about whom I have been quoted to say that “he saved my life and will probably be the cause of my death” was born. It wasn’t until two days and a hateful call from the lady in the record’s department later that we finally agreed on his name: Brisco Berra. (Long live the greatest Yankee catcher ever, Amen.)
Why all the nostalgia? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just this time of year. Parents saying goodbye to their high schoolers as they prepare to go off into the world. Middle school kids breaking into their fast and frenzied high school days. Kindergartners, all eyes on them, walking across a stage that must seem to them like walking the plank on Hook’s infamous pirate ship. (Or maybe that’s just my kid’s perspective.)
It’s an emotional time for most. Will my kid find his passion? Will he find his niche? Or will he be a Jack of all trades, master of none?
As I prepare to watch our son pass his first educational milestone, my biggest wish for him is that he can find his passion in life, as well as maintain the balance between that passion and everything else. I hope he learns that life isn’t always about what we have prepared for it to be, but what God surprises us with at any given moment. And I hope he learns to realize, as I have, that it’s ok to be a Jack of all trades, as long as we work toward mastering The One that truly counts.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
As I grew older and started trying to make decisions about what I’d do with my life…looking for that niche that would be mine…my understanding of that phrase changed. Being a Jack of all trades can’t possibly be good thing. There’s no major for that! It’s not in any of the university catalogues! “Excuse me, Mr. Advisor?”
So I did what many college freshmen (and sophomores and even a few seniors) do. I took a ridiculously wide variety of courses trying to find that perfect job that I knew I would want to do for the rest of my life. I finally did graduate with a major and a minor, but after of few years of dead end jobs in my area, I wasn’t so sure I’d made the right decision.
As more time passed, I grew older, got married, and life changed. I realized that maybe I hadn’t yet found my place. My role. I returned to school—twice. Received more from my education the second and third times around than I had the first, and set out, yet again, to find exactly where I would fit into this career-driven society of which I had suddenly become a part.
Life rolled on pretty smoothly for quite some time. I thought I had finally made a good decision about my future and my career, when God threw me a curve ball. A baby. After eight years of marriage, seven and a half years of college, and five years on the job, the Big Man decided I needed more of a challenge.
So, as the story goes, I worked until about 10 a.m. on the morning of October 20, when the hospital called and said they had an available bed with my name on it. (We were all about “planning the birth”. I’d had enough surprises.)
To make a long story short, our oldest child was brought into the world on a Wednesday. 5:04 p.m. Seventy-three years to the day after the birth of the great Mickey Mantle. The very day the Red Sox beat the Yankees in game seven of the ALCS and went on to win that year’s World Series, finally ending the “Curse of the Bambino”. So much for no more surprises.
A couple days later, we left the hospital and I found out that while life did go on, it was as far from normal as it had ever been. Being a Jack of all trades might just come in handy where parenting is concerned. See, nothing I’d learned in seven and a half years of college had prepared me for this incredibly challenging job. And the irony of it all was that in 10 short weeks I’d have to leave this new life and go back to the one I had actually prepared for. I was needed at work.
I muddled through the next semester, counting down the days until summer break when I could finally be at home with our now seven month old son. It seems only yesterday he was cruising in that stroller and enjoying his very first Yankees’ game.
Life was suddenly as it should be, it seemed to me. There was something all too natural about spending every day with my child, watching him learn and grow and change with every moment. Maybe this was what I’d been looking for.
Summer passed all too quickly, and as I headed back to the office to prepare for a new school year, I was caught off guard at what a sick sense of humor (and incredibly poor timing) our Maker really has. But it was true. I was pregnant.
With a 10 month old at home, it appeared in seven short months I’d be baring it all once again, and how in the world would I ever be a parent to a newborn and a 17 month old while maintaining my suddenly-seemingly inconsequential career? My how quickly life can change.
And on yet another Wednesday, March 22, at 5:43 p.m. our second son and the one about whom I have been quoted to say that “he saved my life and will probably be the cause of my death” was born. It wasn’t until two days and a hateful call from the lady in the record’s department later that we finally agreed on his name: Brisco Berra. (Long live the greatest Yankee catcher ever, Amen.)
Why all the nostalgia? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just this time of year. Parents saying goodbye to their high schoolers as they prepare to go off into the world. Middle school kids breaking into their fast and frenzied high school days. Kindergartners, all eyes on them, walking across a stage that must seem to them like walking the plank on Hook’s infamous pirate ship. (Or maybe that’s just my kid’s perspective.)
It’s an emotional time for most. Will my kid find his passion? Will he find his niche? Or will he be a Jack of all trades, master of none?
As I prepare to watch our son pass his first educational milestone, my biggest wish for him is that he can find his passion in life, as well as maintain the balance between that passion and everything else. I hope he learns that life isn’t always about what we have prepared for it to be, but what God surprises us with at any given moment. And I hope he learns to realize, as I have, that it’s ok to be a Jack of all trades, as long as we work toward mastering The One that truly counts.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Is bacon from Zebras? (And other classic, kid questions)
What is worse, having someone ask you if your boys routinely pee in the bushes by the ag building? Or having a parent come tell you that your child (about whom you forgot) is still sitting on the potty at a ballgame waiting for help?
Brisco: Can God whistle?
Brisco: (While sitting at the dinner table) Mom, you have to buy a hallway and put it right there so we can see the TV while we’re eating. You have to!
Me: Oh? And where might I buy a hallway?
Cooper: The mall.
Brisco: Maybe Elk City.
Cooper: Maybe Attwoods.
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Weatherford?
Me: No
Cooper: Is Sentinel bigger than Hobart?
Me: No
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Cordell?
Me: No
Cooper: Sentinel’s bigger than NOTHING!
(later)
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Hammon?
Me: Yes.
Cooper: Oooooh! Alright! Sentinel’s finally bigger than something!
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Lookeba-Sickles?
Me: Yes.
Brisco: Ahh! Two things Sentinel is bigger than!
Cooper: Are there shots in heaven?
Cooper: “Mom, why don’t dad’s know everything?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Cooper: “Well, you said, ‘Mom’s know everything.’ So why don’t dads?”
Me: “Well, they know most stuff. Mom’s just have to help them out every once in a while.”
After half an hour in the car listening to Cooper’s newest feat…repeatedly whistling the only “tune” he knows (Wheet Wheeoo) I decided to ask: “Coop, you know what it means when you whistle like that?”
Cooper: “No.”
Me: “People usually do it when they see a girl and they think she’s pretty. They whistle like that. And girls don’t usually like it.”
Cooper: (Pondering…refraining…frowning) “Well, they do it on Tom and Jerry?”
Me: “Well, maybe Tom sees a pretty cat and then makes that sound. Here, try this: ‘Wheeoo Wheet!’ That just means, ‘Hey, you!’ Like you are trying to get someone’s attention. Can you do it?”
Cooper: “Wheeoo Wheet! Wheeoo Wheet! Wheeoo Wheet!”
Finally. Singing a new tune.
Cooper: Is bacon from Zebras?
Dad: What?
Cooper: Is eggs from an animal?
Dad: Chickens. What about bologna?
Cooper: Cows.
Dad: What about that meat we had tonight? What’s that?
Cooper: Chicken?
Dad: What about bread?
Cooper: (He sat perplexed. Come on. No trick questions.)
Dad: Bread is made from wheat.
Cooper: What’s wheat come from?
Dad: A plant in the field. What about ham?
Cooper: From a turkey?
Dad: What about a turkey sandwich?
Cooper: Cows!
Dad: And steak?
Cooper: Pigs. Definitely pigs.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Brisco: Can God whistle?
Brisco: (While sitting at the dinner table) Mom, you have to buy a hallway and put it right there so we can see the TV while we’re eating. You have to!
Me: Oh? And where might I buy a hallway?
Cooper: The mall.
Brisco: Maybe Elk City.
Cooper: Maybe Attwoods.
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Weatherford?
Me: No
Cooper: Is Sentinel bigger than Hobart?
Me: No
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Cordell?
Me: No
Cooper: Sentinel’s bigger than NOTHING!
(later)
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Hammon?
Me: Yes.
Cooper: Oooooh! Alright! Sentinel’s finally bigger than something!
Brisco: Is Sentinel bigger than Lookeba-Sickles?
Me: Yes.
Brisco: Ahh! Two things Sentinel is bigger than!
Cooper: Are there shots in heaven?
Cooper: “Mom, why don’t dad’s know everything?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Cooper: “Well, you said, ‘Mom’s know everything.’ So why don’t dads?”
Me: “Well, they know most stuff. Mom’s just have to help them out every once in a while.”
After half an hour in the car listening to Cooper’s newest feat…repeatedly whistling the only “tune” he knows (Wheet Wheeoo) I decided to ask: “Coop, you know what it means when you whistle like that?”
Cooper: “No.”
Me: “People usually do it when they see a girl and they think she’s pretty. They whistle like that. And girls don’t usually like it.”
Cooper: (Pondering…refraining…frowning) “Well, they do it on Tom and Jerry?”
Me: “Well, maybe Tom sees a pretty cat and then makes that sound. Here, try this: ‘Wheeoo Wheet!’ That just means, ‘Hey, you!’ Like you are trying to get someone’s attention. Can you do it?”
Cooper: “Wheeoo Wheet! Wheeoo Wheet! Wheeoo Wheet!”
Finally. Singing a new tune.
Cooper: Is bacon from Zebras?
Dad: What?
Cooper: Is eggs from an animal?
Dad: Chickens. What about bologna?
Cooper: Cows.
Dad: What about that meat we had tonight? What’s that?
Cooper: Chicken?
Dad: What about bread?
Cooper: (He sat perplexed. Come on. No trick questions.)
Dad: Bread is made from wheat.
Cooper: What’s wheat come from?
Dad: A plant in the field. What about ham?
Cooper: From a turkey?
Dad: What about a turkey sandwich?
Cooper: Cows!
Dad: And steak?
Cooper: Pigs. Definitely pigs.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Should I stay or should I go?
Should I stay or should I go? It was the question I asked myself at least a hundred times last Thursday as I attempted to choose between my boys and my husband.
It’s true, I knew we’d have conflicting schedules when our kids started going to school and playing ball. But it seems at this stage of the game, the two little boys are not the family members between which I had to choose.
It’s a crazy world we live in when we find that we’re too busy to witness every monumental milestone in the lives of our family members. Maybe we’re the ones who are crazy to think that doing so is even possible. Either way, it sure makes it hard on a mom when one of those big moments slips past us while we’re not watching.
Case in point, the unfolding of the events of the week of April 24. Regional Tournament Week. State Qualifying Week. Pre-season Little League Tournament Week. The names themselves--even to the not-so avid baseball follower--lead the reader to believe that at least one of these events is slightly less important in the overall big picture. That when a woman looks at things somewhat objectively, celebrating the professional achievement of her husband is just as important as watching her sons play in one of at least a hundred (lifetime), fifty-minute, coach pitch games. So, on this occasion, I decided to stay.
Yet, even as I was unloading their ball bags and giving them warnings to use their manners, I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something urging me to change my mind. I ignored the feeling and instead kissed them both and told them to play hard and warned them of Mr. Wootton’s metal-studded belt that he keeps hidden under his car seat, should they decide to get crazy while no one was looking.
And off we went, in our separate directions. Me to our second home with the red, metal fence, and the boys to Mangum to try and get their first win of the season.
So there I was, enjoying a beautiful evening of high school baseball with no interruptions. No quelling of disputes; no wiping of bottoms or snotty noses; no doling out snacks during the game’s most crucial inning. I glanced at the time and decided I’d call to check on their progress. I almost choked on a mouthful of seeds at what I heard.
“Did we win?” I texted to Mr. Wootton. His response brought tears to my eyes.
“Barely-Coop hit a homerun.”
BAM. Right in the kisser. That’s the feeling this hyphenated bit of good news brought to the mommy.
“Noooooooo! And I missed it! BAD Mommy. Yea for Coop and team,” I responded.
As I sat, beaming from afar, I couldn’t help feel the disappointment of missing my kid’s moment. I knew Cooper could have cared less if I was there. He was pumped that he got to ride with a friend, and playing baseball is what he lives for. Me being there or here wouldn’t make it any more or less of a thrill for him. But the mom is supposed to see this kind of stuff, and so I was feeling a bit of the “shame on you” finger pointing in my direction.
“You’ll see the next one,” came the comforting words of my most admired mommy-bestie. And while I believed and appreciated her words at the time, I had a feeling in my gut that she might not be altogether correct on that matter. Maybe I should have chosen to go.
I suppose it could have been worse, however; at least I didn’t miss Brisco’s first homer. And the team got their first win, so really it was good news all around…until the date and time of the next game was announced.
And there I was again. Fate had handed me a do-over. Given me a second chance to make the right decision. Would it be High School State Qualifier or loser’s bracket elimination game, coach pitch? Should I stay or should I go?
By late Friday afternoon, I had talked myself into sending the boys over early with a friend, and if all things were right in the universe, I would still be able to make game time. But as the wind blew harder, Dad’s game went longer, and by the time I left town and headed toward Mangum, the little boys had already taken the field. And the text read, “4-0. We’re up”
Are you kidding? Since when do tournament games start early?! But this one had, and as a mother, an aunt, two grandmothers and a great-grandma sped their way west, I was about to feel the sting of missing my oldest son’s in-the-parker just three days earlier magnified ten fold.
And the text read, “R u here? Coop grand slam!”
WHAT?! The baseball gods have turned against me! And as I scrambled for my phone, which I had just thrown to the floorboard in disgust, I found the inner strength to text, “AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! I’m going crazy in the back of my mom’s car! About five miles out.”
The response? “14-4. Better hurry.”
We pulled into the ballpark in the bottom of the third inning, just in time to see my three-foot, seven and one-quarter inch tall pitcher stop a hard grounder and throw it to my outstretched, left-handed first baseman. Oh, the pride.
As it turned out, we were able to see the last inning and a half of the game. I witnessed several textbook grounders and catches, and even a couple mistakes and bad calls. What I didn’t realize until we were on our way home was what I had missed.
My telephone rang as we sat at the Sonic waiting for our late-night supper. It was my surrogate mom for the evening, just making sure my little guy shared with us his news. As it turned out, things could have been worse. I’d missed my little Brisco’s very first homerun.
It was an inside-the-parker, and the details were sketchy, but he’d definitely made it from home to home on a shot down the third base line that the left fielder had to chase to the fence. Way to go, B!
Being proud of our children can do crazy things to us parents. A 1-3 out I’ve seen a million and one times. Legging out a hit that barely clears the dirt in front of the catcher. A missed call by an umpire that has a direct effect on the outcome of the game. All these things seem to have a different effect on a mother when it’s one of her kids who is doing them. And being unable to witness it all first hand is almost unbearable.
Should I have stayed? Should I have gone? Both really moot points at this stage of the game. But if I had it to do over again? I might reconsider.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It’s true, I knew we’d have conflicting schedules when our kids started going to school and playing ball. But it seems at this stage of the game, the two little boys are not the family members between which I had to choose.
It’s a crazy world we live in when we find that we’re too busy to witness every monumental milestone in the lives of our family members. Maybe we’re the ones who are crazy to think that doing so is even possible. Either way, it sure makes it hard on a mom when one of those big moments slips past us while we’re not watching.
Case in point, the unfolding of the events of the week of April 24. Regional Tournament Week. State Qualifying Week. Pre-season Little League Tournament Week. The names themselves--even to the not-so avid baseball follower--lead the reader to believe that at least one of these events is slightly less important in the overall big picture. That when a woman looks at things somewhat objectively, celebrating the professional achievement of her husband is just as important as watching her sons play in one of at least a hundred (lifetime), fifty-minute, coach pitch games. So, on this occasion, I decided to stay.
Yet, even as I was unloading their ball bags and giving them warnings to use their manners, I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something urging me to change my mind. I ignored the feeling and instead kissed them both and told them to play hard and warned them of Mr. Wootton’s metal-studded belt that he keeps hidden under his car seat, should they decide to get crazy while no one was looking.
And off we went, in our separate directions. Me to our second home with the red, metal fence, and the boys to Mangum to try and get their first win of the season.
So there I was, enjoying a beautiful evening of high school baseball with no interruptions. No quelling of disputes; no wiping of bottoms or snotty noses; no doling out snacks during the game’s most crucial inning. I glanced at the time and decided I’d call to check on their progress. I almost choked on a mouthful of seeds at what I heard.
“Did we win?” I texted to Mr. Wootton. His response brought tears to my eyes.
“Barely-Coop hit a homerun.”
BAM. Right in the kisser. That’s the feeling this hyphenated bit of good news brought to the mommy.
“Noooooooo! And I missed it! BAD Mommy. Yea for Coop and team,” I responded.
As I sat, beaming from afar, I couldn’t help feel the disappointment of missing my kid’s moment. I knew Cooper could have cared less if I was there. He was pumped that he got to ride with a friend, and playing baseball is what he lives for. Me being there or here wouldn’t make it any more or less of a thrill for him. But the mom is supposed to see this kind of stuff, and so I was feeling a bit of the “shame on you” finger pointing in my direction.
“You’ll see the next one,” came the comforting words of my most admired mommy-bestie. And while I believed and appreciated her words at the time, I had a feeling in my gut that she might not be altogether correct on that matter. Maybe I should have chosen to go.
I suppose it could have been worse, however; at least I didn’t miss Brisco’s first homer. And the team got their first win, so really it was good news all around…until the date and time of the next game was announced.
And there I was again. Fate had handed me a do-over. Given me a second chance to make the right decision. Would it be High School State Qualifier or loser’s bracket elimination game, coach pitch? Should I stay or should I go?
By late Friday afternoon, I had talked myself into sending the boys over early with a friend, and if all things were right in the universe, I would still be able to make game time. But as the wind blew harder, Dad’s game went longer, and by the time I left town and headed toward Mangum, the little boys had already taken the field. And the text read, “4-0. We’re up”
Are you kidding? Since when do tournament games start early?! But this one had, and as a mother, an aunt, two grandmothers and a great-grandma sped their way west, I was about to feel the sting of missing my oldest son’s in-the-parker just three days earlier magnified ten fold.
And the text read, “R u here? Coop grand slam!”
WHAT?! The baseball gods have turned against me! And as I scrambled for my phone, which I had just thrown to the floorboard in disgust, I found the inner strength to text, “AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! I’m going crazy in the back of my mom’s car! About five miles out.”
The response? “14-4. Better hurry.”
We pulled into the ballpark in the bottom of the third inning, just in time to see my three-foot, seven and one-quarter inch tall pitcher stop a hard grounder and throw it to my outstretched, left-handed first baseman. Oh, the pride.
As it turned out, we were able to see the last inning and a half of the game. I witnessed several textbook grounders and catches, and even a couple mistakes and bad calls. What I didn’t realize until we were on our way home was what I had missed.
My telephone rang as we sat at the Sonic waiting for our late-night supper. It was my surrogate mom for the evening, just making sure my little guy shared with us his news. As it turned out, things could have been worse. I’d missed my little Brisco’s very first homerun.
It was an inside-the-parker, and the details were sketchy, but he’d definitely made it from home to home on a shot down the third base line that the left fielder had to chase to the fence. Way to go, B!
Being proud of our children can do crazy things to us parents. A 1-3 out I’ve seen a million and one times. Legging out a hit that barely clears the dirt in front of the catcher. A missed call by an umpire that has a direct effect on the outcome of the game. All these things seem to have a different effect on a mother when it’s one of her kids who is doing them. And being unable to witness it all first hand is almost unbearable.
Should I have stayed? Should I have gone? Both really moot points at this stage of the game. But if I had it to do over again? I might reconsider.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Friday, April 29, 2011
Family trauma…aka childhood vaccinations
Episode II
As the trauma of shot day #1 began to fade in the minds of our little boys, I began to watch the calendar, preparing myself for our second visit. I made a promise to the nurses the first time, that I would return and get the rest of our vaccinations updated. “So many people come once, but never come back to finish up what they need,” she said. Yeah, I can see how that might happen.
But I promised I was going to get this business taken care of; I just had to pick my next date a little more strategically. Lest we forget, I had made a vow to bring along some back up, and I was certain this would make the entire experience less traumatic for us all.
A few weeks passed, and I started planning in my mind for the second round. A date when Father Dear would be free. However, Father expressed his concern that maybe we needed to wait a little longer than a month between shots. “Do you think taking that many shots so close together is a good idea?” It couldn’t possibly be, I thought, but nobody had asked for my opinion on the matter.
I agreed with his apprehension, and figured it would work to my advantage anyway. Basketball would be starting soon, and surely Dad would be able to get away to go with us then. But, like so many brilliant ideas, this one was ignored by those in positions of power and before I knew it…it was pushing Spring Break.
I’d already gotten several friendly reminders from the school, and I half expected the shot police to show up at my door with needles and cold cotton swabs in hand. After all…I had made a promise to return. So I made an executive decision: We’d do it over Spring Break.
Unfortunately, I learned rather quickly that to make an executive decision, one must ultimately be the person in charge (or really, really believe in the matter about which one is deciding) because the minute Dad suggested that I might be “ruining the boys’ Spring Break” by making them get shots, I wavered on my executive decision and…you guessed it…let yet another opening slip by.
I was running out of opportunities, and I was beginning to see that this whole vaccination thing was just another burden, thrust upon the shoulders of a mother, leaving her to bear it all. Alone. There was no back up. The cavalry was definitely not coming. It was up to us. Just mom and boys, left to drive headlong into a hurricane to satisfy state requirements and modern medicine. And so we did.
I woke up that Monday morning queasy at the thought of what lay in store for the day. Cooper went to school as usual, and I kept my plans to myself, knowing full well what it would mean for everyone involved if I exercised full disclosure.
As the morning passed, my anxiety grew. It started in the pit of my stomach and rose to that nasty lump in the throat. I prepared Brisco by telling him we had to “run some errands” and that we’d need to get Cooper to go with us. Poor children. Even when I gave them each a dose of Tylenol “for no apparent reason”, they never questioned me. Never saw it coming.
And it’s a good thing, too, because that 12 mile drive to Hobart was longer than it had ever been. I wavered between nervous laughter and car sickness at the thought of what was about to go down, and it wasn’t until we pulled into the hospital complex that they decided to ask where exactly we were and what we were doing.
“Well, boys, it’s shot day,” I said nervously, and waited to see their responses. I looked back to see Cooper with that pensive, brooding expression on his face and knew that he was preparing himself to be brave. I didn’t even have to check my rearview mirror to gauge the little guy’s response. I could hear it loud and clear. “NO, MOMMA! NO! You said we were going to buy groceries!!!!”
I drove around the hospital a time or two, waiting for the bawling to stop, and finally, the three of us were able to calmly enter the building, albeit looking like we had just been chased the entire 12 miles by a pack of rabid dogs. What can I say. Beauty isn’t everything.
We sat in that deserted lobby for what seemed like hours. I felt so guilty and angst-ridden I even let the boys play with the germ-infested toys that were strewn all over the room. It seemed to take their minds off what was coming next, until…“Cooper and Brisco Smith?” The nurse was calling us back.
We chatted for a moment, and discovered the preferred site of injection for this particular practitioner was the arm. Mr. Brave did not like that idea much at all. “I want it in my leg, like last time,” Cooper demanded.
She explained that she doesn’t usually give shots in the leg unless the patient is very small, but agreed to give one there, just this once. I remembered my fatal mistake from our last visit and told Brisco to wait out in the hall while Cooper received his first shot in the right arm, and then his second and final shot in the top of the thigh. “There. I’m done,” he proclaimed. “No more shots till I’m 15!” I’m pretty sure he means it.
Now it was time for Chicken Little. There was no examination table in this room; only a mother’s lap, and a wall, papered with farm scenes upon which we decided we would concentrate. “Focus on that big, dirty pig, and it will be over before you know it.” But that wasn’t really going to help us much, and we both knew it.
We decided the left arm would be best since we had practice the next night, but before she could even swab him with cotton, he was fighting and pawing, trying to get out of that chair.
I trapped his right arm under my left and held his other down with my right. “Don’t look at the needle,” I urged him, but it was like a train wreck in progress. The child could not look away. “OW!!! NO!!! AAHHH!!!”
As the first needle came out and the second swabbing began, he decided to take a different approach. “NO! NO!” he cried. “That cotton stuff stinks! Please, Momma! NO!”
I’ve gotta give him points for creativity, but there was nothing else I could do to help him. And just as the nurse was ready to poke him with shot number three, his arm broke loose from my grasp, and he started flailing it around, somehow magically avoiding both the nurse’s and my attempts to capture it. Kind of like a fireman’s water hose gone mad.
Finally, we secured that unruly limb, and the nurse quickly pinched Brisco’s skin and jabbed the needle and that last dose of medicine right where it needed to be. Alas, the trauma had ended.
Through tears and sniffles he asked, “Do I have to get any more till I’m 15?”
“Only one before school starts next year,” I promised. “But after getting four and three, one will be easy,” I said.
“Will I still get ice cream if I only get one shot?” he said, eyes wide with anticipation.
“You’d better believe it,” I promised. “The biggest bowl of ice cream money will buy!”
And with that, he dried his eyes, gave his band aids a quick glance, and threw both arms around my neck. “Let’s go, Big Momma. I’m ready for that cold cream!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
As the trauma of shot day #1 began to fade in the minds of our little boys, I began to watch the calendar, preparing myself for our second visit. I made a promise to the nurses the first time, that I would return and get the rest of our vaccinations updated. “So many people come once, but never come back to finish up what they need,” she said. Yeah, I can see how that might happen.
But I promised I was going to get this business taken care of; I just had to pick my next date a little more strategically. Lest we forget, I had made a vow to bring along some back up, and I was certain this would make the entire experience less traumatic for us all.
A few weeks passed, and I started planning in my mind for the second round. A date when Father Dear would be free. However, Father expressed his concern that maybe we needed to wait a little longer than a month between shots. “Do you think taking that many shots so close together is a good idea?” It couldn’t possibly be, I thought, but nobody had asked for my opinion on the matter.
I agreed with his apprehension, and figured it would work to my advantage anyway. Basketball would be starting soon, and surely Dad would be able to get away to go with us then. But, like so many brilliant ideas, this one was ignored by those in positions of power and before I knew it…it was pushing Spring Break.
I’d already gotten several friendly reminders from the school, and I half expected the shot police to show up at my door with needles and cold cotton swabs in hand. After all…I had made a promise to return. So I made an executive decision: We’d do it over Spring Break.
Unfortunately, I learned rather quickly that to make an executive decision, one must ultimately be the person in charge (or really, really believe in the matter about which one is deciding) because the minute Dad suggested that I might be “ruining the boys’ Spring Break” by making them get shots, I wavered on my executive decision and…you guessed it…let yet another opening slip by.
I was running out of opportunities, and I was beginning to see that this whole vaccination thing was just another burden, thrust upon the shoulders of a mother, leaving her to bear it all. Alone. There was no back up. The cavalry was definitely not coming. It was up to us. Just mom and boys, left to drive headlong into a hurricane to satisfy state requirements and modern medicine. And so we did.
I woke up that Monday morning queasy at the thought of what lay in store for the day. Cooper went to school as usual, and I kept my plans to myself, knowing full well what it would mean for everyone involved if I exercised full disclosure.
As the morning passed, my anxiety grew. It started in the pit of my stomach and rose to that nasty lump in the throat. I prepared Brisco by telling him we had to “run some errands” and that we’d need to get Cooper to go with us. Poor children. Even when I gave them each a dose of Tylenol “for no apparent reason”, they never questioned me. Never saw it coming.
And it’s a good thing, too, because that 12 mile drive to Hobart was longer than it had ever been. I wavered between nervous laughter and car sickness at the thought of what was about to go down, and it wasn’t until we pulled into the hospital complex that they decided to ask where exactly we were and what we were doing.
“Well, boys, it’s shot day,” I said nervously, and waited to see their responses. I looked back to see Cooper with that pensive, brooding expression on his face and knew that he was preparing himself to be brave. I didn’t even have to check my rearview mirror to gauge the little guy’s response. I could hear it loud and clear. “NO, MOMMA! NO! You said we were going to buy groceries!!!!”
I drove around the hospital a time or two, waiting for the bawling to stop, and finally, the three of us were able to calmly enter the building, albeit looking like we had just been chased the entire 12 miles by a pack of rabid dogs. What can I say. Beauty isn’t everything.
We sat in that deserted lobby for what seemed like hours. I felt so guilty and angst-ridden I even let the boys play with the germ-infested toys that were strewn all over the room. It seemed to take their minds off what was coming next, until…“Cooper and Brisco Smith?” The nurse was calling us back.
We chatted for a moment, and discovered the preferred site of injection for this particular practitioner was the arm. Mr. Brave did not like that idea much at all. “I want it in my leg, like last time,” Cooper demanded.
She explained that she doesn’t usually give shots in the leg unless the patient is very small, but agreed to give one there, just this once. I remembered my fatal mistake from our last visit and told Brisco to wait out in the hall while Cooper received his first shot in the right arm, and then his second and final shot in the top of the thigh. “There. I’m done,” he proclaimed. “No more shots till I’m 15!” I’m pretty sure he means it.
Now it was time for Chicken Little. There was no examination table in this room; only a mother’s lap, and a wall, papered with farm scenes upon which we decided we would concentrate. “Focus on that big, dirty pig, and it will be over before you know it.” But that wasn’t really going to help us much, and we both knew it.
We decided the left arm would be best since we had practice the next night, but before she could even swab him with cotton, he was fighting and pawing, trying to get out of that chair.
I trapped his right arm under my left and held his other down with my right. “Don’t look at the needle,” I urged him, but it was like a train wreck in progress. The child could not look away. “OW!!! NO!!! AAHHH!!!”
As the first needle came out and the second swabbing began, he decided to take a different approach. “NO! NO!” he cried. “That cotton stuff stinks! Please, Momma! NO!”
I’ve gotta give him points for creativity, but there was nothing else I could do to help him. And just as the nurse was ready to poke him with shot number three, his arm broke loose from my grasp, and he started flailing it around, somehow magically avoiding both the nurse’s and my attempts to capture it. Kind of like a fireman’s water hose gone mad.
Finally, we secured that unruly limb, and the nurse quickly pinched Brisco’s skin and jabbed the needle and that last dose of medicine right where it needed to be. Alas, the trauma had ended.
Through tears and sniffles he asked, “Do I have to get any more till I’m 15?”
“Only one before school starts next year,” I promised. “But after getting four and three, one will be easy,” I said.
“Will I still get ice cream if I only get one shot?” he said, eyes wide with anticipation.
“You’d better believe it,” I promised. “The biggest bowl of ice cream money will buy!”
And with that, he dried his eyes, gave his band aids a quick glance, and threw both arms around my neck. “Let’s go, Big Momma. I’m ready for that cold cream!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Family trauma…aka childhood vaccinations
Episode I
I’ll admit it. My first mistake was not getting all our boys’ childhood vaccinations while they were too young to retain the traumatic memories. I’ll accept that. But it’s not like we hadn’t had any. We received more than enough while they were little; enough to make me wonder why I was allowing modern medicine to use my children as living, breathing pincushions.
Then life got busy. We started moving around, and Brisco always seemed to have a cold when it was time to go back. Somewhere along the way, we got them too close together. And then ceased to get them at all. So now that we are going to school, it appears we’ve run out of options. It’s time to Cowboy Up and take it like little men.
We picked a day in September, and drove to the County Health Department. None of us had ever been there, nor were either of the boys big enough to remember the last time they had been brutalized with four inch needles, so when I pulled up in front of the small building and informed them that “today is shot day”, there was only a little fear and trembling present on their faces. They really had no idea what lay in store. For that matter, neither did I.
We sat out front for a while and filled out papers and finally when they called us back, we all went willingly. The nurse said, “Ma’am, your oldest boy needs five injections and your youngest needs seven. (Cue nausea and vomiting…and that was just for me.)
We decided to do only half for each, and that’s when I realized the boys really didn’t have a clue how a shot was given or why the numbers “five and seven” made their Momma go white as a sheet. This was about to get interesting.
We all sat in the examination room together. Cooper decided he would go first, so up onto the table he went. The nurses had him lie back, with me lying across his upper body so he would be still and I suppose to keep him from seeing what was coming next. But Brisco could see it all, which was definitely my second mistake.
Allowing the more impressionable, more fearful, and more vocal of our two boys to sit directly across from his big brother-eyeballing every move the nurses made-did not help our cause. He could see that long needle coming for his brother’s meaty thigh. The first. And the second.
Thank goodness Cooper was a trooper. He barely winced or even made a sound…until that third needle went in. There was a loud, “Oooww!!!” and a whimper and painful look on his face. There might have even been a tear or two that fell, but Cooper was not the child I now had to worry about. It was Brisco.
As I got the big boy off the table and settled in his seat, I turned to find that the little guy had quietly shuffled his way out the door. I found him in the hallway and snagged his arm just as he was attempting to flee. The bawling and fighting had already begun and the nurse hadn’t even swiped his skin with cotton.
I manhandled the boy whose body had instantly become filled with Hulkomanian-type strength. I managed to uncurl him from his fetal ball, and we assumed the same positions as Coop and I had, only this time, I actually had to use my body weight to hold the child down. There wasn’t much I could do for his legs, which were kicking toward the nurse’s assistant who was at least seven months along in her first pregnancy. I looked at her and thought, “I bet you’d like to re-think this whole baby-thing you’ve got going.”
Oh well. Too late now. For her and for Brisco. Because about the time she secured his abnormally strong leg, the nurse let the first injection fly. (Cue blood-curdling scream, followed by, “NO!! NO!! IT HURTS!!!”) Oh boy.
Looking at Brisco from that angle, all I could see was the guy on Indiana Jones who’s face goes pale, completely drains of blood, and peels right off his skull. It is possible that I was hallucinating on that last part, but the kid was white. And his mouth was wide open. And I swear if he’d have screamed any louder, his eyeballs would have popped out of his head. Now we were both scared.
I wanted to tell the lady just to hurry up! Quick and painless! Like ripping off a band aid! The truth is, I wanted her to stop as badly as Brisco did. But we were here, and evidently some bureaucratic, quasi-medical so-and-so says my children must be injected with live antibodies from deadly diseases to lead normal, healthy lives. So we trudged on.
The second shot followed the format of the first, with pretty much the same result, although now the paper under my child’s head was soaked with his tears, and snot bubbles began popping from his nose. I just held him tight, assuring him it would all be over soon.
The nurses thought the humane thing to do would be to give him two of the shots in the left leg and the other two in the right. So about the time the left leg had gone numb from the pain, the right was baptized by fire into the life-saving necessity of these childhood vaccinations.
By now, Brisco was coughing and gagging. He’d almost lost his voice from his screams, but mustered enough strength to yell out in a gravelly shriek, “NO!! MOMMA! NO MORE!” Like I have any say-so in the matter at all.
Finally, the fourth shot was given, and there was nothing left to do but dry our tears, hold each other tight, and prepare ourselves for two of the biggest bowls of ice cream ever consumed by four and five year old boys. That, and worry about when we had to come back.
“Let’s not worry about the next trip until we have to, ok?” They seemed to agree for the time being. And as we sat enjoying the most candy-filled, syrup-topped, sugar-full dessert Sonic had to offer, I made myself a promise that next time, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I’d made today. Next time, I would be more prepared. Next time? I was bringing backup. This kind of family trauma was something a Daddy should get to experience for himself!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I’ll admit it. My first mistake was not getting all our boys’ childhood vaccinations while they were too young to retain the traumatic memories. I’ll accept that. But it’s not like we hadn’t had any. We received more than enough while they were little; enough to make me wonder why I was allowing modern medicine to use my children as living, breathing pincushions.
Then life got busy. We started moving around, and Brisco always seemed to have a cold when it was time to go back. Somewhere along the way, we got them too close together. And then ceased to get them at all. So now that we are going to school, it appears we’ve run out of options. It’s time to Cowboy Up and take it like little men.
We picked a day in September, and drove to the County Health Department. None of us had ever been there, nor were either of the boys big enough to remember the last time they had been brutalized with four inch needles, so when I pulled up in front of the small building and informed them that “today is shot day”, there was only a little fear and trembling present on their faces. They really had no idea what lay in store. For that matter, neither did I.
We sat out front for a while and filled out papers and finally when they called us back, we all went willingly. The nurse said, “Ma’am, your oldest boy needs five injections and your youngest needs seven. (Cue nausea and vomiting…and that was just for me.)
We decided to do only half for each, and that’s when I realized the boys really didn’t have a clue how a shot was given or why the numbers “five and seven” made their Momma go white as a sheet. This was about to get interesting.
We all sat in the examination room together. Cooper decided he would go first, so up onto the table he went. The nurses had him lie back, with me lying across his upper body so he would be still and I suppose to keep him from seeing what was coming next. But Brisco could see it all, which was definitely my second mistake.
Allowing the more impressionable, more fearful, and more vocal of our two boys to sit directly across from his big brother-eyeballing every move the nurses made-did not help our cause. He could see that long needle coming for his brother’s meaty thigh. The first. And the second.
Thank goodness Cooper was a trooper. He barely winced or even made a sound…until that third needle went in. There was a loud, “Oooww!!!” and a whimper and painful look on his face. There might have even been a tear or two that fell, but Cooper was not the child I now had to worry about. It was Brisco.
As I got the big boy off the table and settled in his seat, I turned to find that the little guy had quietly shuffled his way out the door. I found him in the hallway and snagged his arm just as he was attempting to flee. The bawling and fighting had already begun and the nurse hadn’t even swiped his skin with cotton.
I manhandled the boy whose body had instantly become filled with Hulkomanian-type strength. I managed to uncurl him from his fetal ball, and we assumed the same positions as Coop and I had, only this time, I actually had to use my body weight to hold the child down. There wasn’t much I could do for his legs, which were kicking toward the nurse’s assistant who was at least seven months along in her first pregnancy. I looked at her and thought, “I bet you’d like to re-think this whole baby-thing you’ve got going.”
Oh well. Too late now. For her and for Brisco. Because about the time she secured his abnormally strong leg, the nurse let the first injection fly. (Cue blood-curdling scream, followed by, “NO!! NO!! IT HURTS!!!”) Oh boy.
Looking at Brisco from that angle, all I could see was the guy on Indiana Jones who’s face goes pale, completely drains of blood, and peels right off his skull. It is possible that I was hallucinating on that last part, but the kid was white. And his mouth was wide open. And I swear if he’d have screamed any louder, his eyeballs would have popped out of his head. Now we were both scared.
I wanted to tell the lady just to hurry up! Quick and painless! Like ripping off a band aid! The truth is, I wanted her to stop as badly as Brisco did. But we were here, and evidently some bureaucratic, quasi-medical so-and-so says my children must be injected with live antibodies from deadly diseases to lead normal, healthy lives. So we trudged on.
The second shot followed the format of the first, with pretty much the same result, although now the paper under my child’s head was soaked with his tears, and snot bubbles began popping from his nose. I just held him tight, assuring him it would all be over soon.
The nurses thought the humane thing to do would be to give him two of the shots in the left leg and the other two in the right. So about the time the left leg had gone numb from the pain, the right was baptized by fire into the life-saving necessity of these childhood vaccinations.
By now, Brisco was coughing and gagging. He’d almost lost his voice from his screams, but mustered enough strength to yell out in a gravelly shriek, “NO!! MOMMA! NO MORE!” Like I have any say-so in the matter at all.
Finally, the fourth shot was given, and there was nothing left to do but dry our tears, hold each other tight, and prepare ourselves for two of the biggest bowls of ice cream ever consumed by four and five year old boys. That, and worry about when we had to come back.
“Let’s not worry about the next trip until we have to, ok?” They seemed to agree for the time being. And as we sat enjoying the most candy-filled, syrup-topped, sugar-full dessert Sonic had to offer, I made myself a promise that next time, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I’d made today. Next time, I would be more prepared. Next time? I was bringing backup. This kind of family trauma was something a Daddy should get to experience for himself!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Guarding the tongue
Proverbs 21:23 “He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity.”
We’ve always tried to teach our kids the facts when it comes to our belief system. We may simplify tough concepts because of their age; we may use a softer term with the same serious meaning. But it’s always the truth. For example they understand there is a place for “the debil” (i.e. the devil), but we haven’t yet labeled that place “hell”. They realize that when an animal dies, it doesn’t go to heaven, although they can’t quite get their minds around “the soul”. And they get the general idea that when we choose to disobey God-in whatever form that takes-we are taking the risk that we may have to go live with that ole debil when we die.
We try to have an open dialogue with the boys so that when things become scary, confusing, or just plain tough, they will come to us with their difficult or burning questions. These things considered, it was really no surprise to have a heart-felt conversation with our six year old last week about his concern over his little brother’s unguarded tongue.
As Brisco was finishing up in the bathroom, I was tucking Cooper into bed when he said in all earnestness and sincerity, “Mom, Brisco is gonna go to the devil if he keeps saying all those bad words.” Oh boy. I shuddered.
To clarify, our youngest is no filthy-mouthed sailor. He doesn’t watch grown-up shows on television or listen to dirty rap songs on the radio. He can’t pick a true four-letter-word out of a sentence…yet. But we do have a few rules around here concerning what is appropriate language for a five year old and what is not. These are the “bad words” to which Cooper was referring.
Still, violation of one’s conscience is a serious predicament, and as carefree and reckless as little Brisco may seem, the boy most definitely knows right from wrong. Sometimes he just needs to listen a little closer to his Jiminy Cricket.
So, caught a little off guard as I was regarding Cooper’s concern, I assured him that he was right. Saying bad words is not OK, and it makes God sad and disappointed when we do it. But I also reminded him that we all sin and make mistakes sometimes. God will forgive us if we ask. His response? “Well, Brisco had better start begging!”
I was touched by his concern for his brother’s ultimate resting place, and reminded him that the best way he can help and encourage his brother is to do what is right and always be a good example for Brisco to follow.
For the younger boy? I decided it might be time to get busy on his conscience, so I chose a new “memory lesson” for the little one. I determined a long time ago that if gradeschoolers can memorize 20-line poems, my children can surely memorize 20-word truths. And so this week, we learned that “He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity.”
“What is calamity?” my curious one asked.
“Disaster! Tragedy! Misfortune! Catastrophe!”
With all my drama wasted on the young, he said, “What does that mean?”
“It means that it is impossible to be pleasing to God and stay out of trouble if we let our mouth override our brain. In other words, think before you speak, young Skywalker.”
“So you mean don’t say stuff that will get you into trouble?”
Aha, my little Jedi. “Truly wonderful the mind of a child is.” I guess a little advice from Yoda was all he really needed!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
We’ve always tried to teach our kids the facts when it comes to our belief system. We may simplify tough concepts because of their age; we may use a softer term with the same serious meaning. But it’s always the truth. For example they understand there is a place for “the debil” (i.e. the devil), but we haven’t yet labeled that place “hell”. They realize that when an animal dies, it doesn’t go to heaven, although they can’t quite get their minds around “the soul”. And they get the general idea that when we choose to disobey God-in whatever form that takes-we are taking the risk that we may have to go live with that ole debil when we die.
We try to have an open dialogue with the boys so that when things become scary, confusing, or just plain tough, they will come to us with their difficult or burning questions. These things considered, it was really no surprise to have a heart-felt conversation with our six year old last week about his concern over his little brother’s unguarded tongue.
As Brisco was finishing up in the bathroom, I was tucking Cooper into bed when he said in all earnestness and sincerity, “Mom, Brisco is gonna go to the devil if he keeps saying all those bad words.” Oh boy. I shuddered.
To clarify, our youngest is no filthy-mouthed sailor. He doesn’t watch grown-up shows on television or listen to dirty rap songs on the radio. He can’t pick a true four-letter-word out of a sentence…yet. But we do have a few rules around here concerning what is appropriate language for a five year old and what is not. These are the “bad words” to which Cooper was referring.
Still, violation of one’s conscience is a serious predicament, and as carefree and reckless as little Brisco may seem, the boy most definitely knows right from wrong. Sometimes he just needs to listen a little closer to his Jiminy Cricket.
So, caught a little off guard as I was regarding Cooper’s concern, I assured him that he was right. Saying bad words is not OK, and it makes God sad and disappointed when we do it. But I also reminded him that we all sin and make mistakes sometimes. God will forgive us if we ask. His response? “Well, Brisco had better start begging!”
I was touched by his concern for his brother’s ultimate resting place, and reminded him that the best way he can help and encourage his brother is to do what is right and always be a good example for Brisco to follow.
For the younger boy? I decided it might be time to get busy on his conscience, so I chose a new “memory lesson” for the little one. I determined a long time ago that if gradeschoolers can memorize 20-line poems, my children can surely memorize 20-word truths. And so this week, we learned that “He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity.”
“What is calamity?” my curious one asked.
“Disaster! Tragedy! Misfortune! Catastrophe!”
With all my drama wasted on the young, he said, “What does that mean?”
“It means that it is impossible to be pleasing to God and stay out of trouble if we let our mouth override our brain. In other words, think before you speak, young Skywalker.”
“So you mean don’t say stuff that will get you into trouble?”
Aha, my little Jedi. “Truly wonderful the mind of a child is.” I guess a little advice from Yoda was all he really needed!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Words of wisdom
Communicating with our children can be one of the most engaging, entertaining, and gratifying moments of parenthood. It’s true, kids do say the darndest things, and they often light up our world with the simplicity and frankness of how they choose to say it. In truth, it is more often when grownups attempt to communicate on a child’s level that we encounter confusion. And it’s during these challenging times that we parents show our intelligence, or lack thereof, according to the words of wisdom that we choose to impart to our offspring.
It begins when they are still babes, oohing and ahhing at them in high hopes of making some sense out of the bubble-blowing we call babbling. “I think he said, ‘Mama!’ He just said, ‘MAMA!’”
No, he had an excessive amount of slobber building up on that oversized tongue God gave him, and the only way to get rid of it was to push it out with a grunt. We just wished for the word “Mama”. Besides, everyone knows a baby’s first “word” is DaDa. It’s the universe’s way of rewarding fathers for all the hard work they did during labor and delivery (cue sarcasm).
But we don’t really mind. It is still fun to listen to our kids as their language develops and help them learn about words and the way they work together… and then of course make lists of all the cutesy things they say as they are growing up just in case we need them some day when they are full of teen angst and rebelliousness…just as motivation. To encourage them in the right direction.
As they get older, our communication turns to necessity. Keeping our kids safe. Informing them of the dangers of their world. Even in this, though, we sometimes miss the mark. I remember long ago, explaining to the boys about a hot iron.
“This is hot. Do. Not. Touch. It will hurt you very badly.” Well, it seems that much blatancy was not enough for Brisco. He still had a few questions.
“Will it burn your skin?”
“Yes.”
“Will it burn Cooper?”
“Yes.”
“Will it burn Daddy?”
And out of nowhere, I heard myself say, “Yes, Brisco. It will burn us all. Fire is no respecter of persons.”
Oh. Well, that certainly cleared things up for him. Words of Wisdom.
Sometimes our communication can be an attempt to teach simple logic. All children have moments when they just want (not need) our attention. And while being attentive to our kids is important, I believe it is just as important to teach them to “self soothe”; to understand that there are times when a parent simply must do what needs to be done.
Case in point: when a mom’s hands are buried inside a roasting hen, preparing supper for the family, and the youngest child comes in for the third time with a want, a request, or a complaint, all sympathy on this mother’s part tends to fly out the window.
Brisco: “Mom! I need you!”
Me: “What do you need? My hands are in a chicken.”
Brisco: (pulling back his index finger as far as it will physically go) “It really hurts when I do ‘this’”.
Me: “Well, then don’t do that.”
Simple logic.
Similarly, after the third or fourth band aid of the day, put onto a skin abrasion that can only be seen microscopically:
Brisco: “When is it gonna feel better?”
Me: “I don’t know, Brisco. I guess whenever it stops hurting.”
It’s true, folks. And it requires no formal training.
Sometimes parents communicate during a moment of frenzied irritation, the worst possible time for the brain to configure a gentle, responsible, parental statement. And it is usually in these moments, that our kids let us know how un-wise we really are. Many times, these words of genius come in the form of a question. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always occur to our kids that these questions are rhetorical.
For example, after trying ceaselessly to gain our child’s attention, a parent might have a slight, politically incorrect slip of the tongue:
“Child! I’m talking to YOU! ARE YOU DEAF?!”
Now, I’ll admit, this probably isn’t one of those items one might find in “The Good Parent’s Guide to Proper Communication with Children”, but let’s face it, we’re all human, and when haven’t we said something to our child in a moment of frustration that wasn’t really in the best of taste, let alone something we’d want them to repeat to their Sunday school teacher?
And our child’s innocent response? “Mom, what does ‘deaf’ mean?”
Here’s another jewel. From the farthest reaches of our minds, we never envisioned ourselves asking our children the mother of all ignorant questions. The dumbest of the dumb. You know it. You’ve said it. Here it is:
“Do you want a spanking?”
I always remember my mom saying, “Ask a dumb question…get a dumb answer.” I suppose I should have heeded her advice. After all, do we really expect them to pipe up and say, “Spankings? You’re giving out spankings? I’ll take two, please!”
So much wisdom; so little time.
Yes, there are definitely occasions when parents are put to the test when it comes to effectively communicating with our kids. But no matter how challenging our chats might become, they are the moments parenting is made of. From the toddler’s first “NO!” to the day he discovers sarcasm, we parents are truly at our best when we learn to say what we mean and mean what we say, and when we willingly accept the seemingly impossible task of instructing our children with words of wisdom.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It begins when they are still babes, oohing and ahhing at them in high hopes of making some sense out of the bubble-blowing we call babbling. “I think he said, ‘Mama!’ He just said, ‘MAMA!’”
No, he had an excessive amount of slobber building up on that oversized tongue God gave him, and the only way to get rid of it was to push it out with a grunt. We just wished for the word “Mama”. Besides, everyone knows a baby’s first “word” is DaDa. It’s the universe’s way of rewarding fathers for all the hard work they did during labor and delivery (cue sarcasm).
But we don’t really mind. It is still fun to listen to our kids as their language develops and help them learn about words and the way they work together… and then of course make lists of all the cutesy things they say as they are growing up just in case we need them some day when they are full of teen angst and rebelliousness…just as motivation. To encourage them in the right direction.
As they get older, our communication turns to necessity. Keeping our kids safe. Informing them of the dangers of their world. Even in this, though, we sometimes miss the mark. I remember long ago, explaining to the boys about a hot iron.
“This is hot. Do. Not. Touch. It will hurt you very badly.” Well, it seems that much blatancy was not enough for Brisco. He still had a few questions.
“Will it burn your skin?”
“Yes.”
“Will it burn Cooper?”
“Yes.”
“Will it burn Daddy?”
And out of nowhere, I heard myself say, “Yes, Brisco. It will burn us all. Fire is no respecter of persons.”
Oh. Well, that certainly cleared things up for him. Words of Wisdom.
Sometimes our communication can be an attempt to teach simple logic. All children have moments when they just want (not need) our attention. And while being attentive to our kids is important, I believe it is just as important to teach them to “self soothe”; to understand that there are times when a parent simply must do what needs to be done.
Case in point: when a mom’s hands are buried inside a roasting hen, preparing supper for the family, and the youngest child comes in for the third time with a want, a request, or a complaint, all sympathy on this mother’s part tends to fly out the window.
Brisco: “Mom! I need you!”
Me: “What do you need? My hands are in a chicken.”
Brisco: (pulling back his index finger as far as it will physically go) “It really hurts when I do ‘this’”.
Me: “Well, then don’t do that.”
Simple logic.
Similarly, after the third or fourth band aid of the day, put onto a skin abrasion that can only be seen microscopically:
Brisco: “When is it gonna feel better?”
Me: “I don’t know, Brisco. I guess whenever it stops hurting.”
It’s true, folks. And it requires no formal training.
Sometimes parents communicate during a moment of frenzied irritation, the worst possible time for the brain to configure a gentle, responsible, parental statement. And it is usually in these moments, that our kids let us know how un-wise we really are. Many times, these words of genius come in the form of a question. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always occur to our kids that these questions are rhetorical.
For example, after trying ceaselessly to gain our child’s attention, a parent might have a slight, politically incorrect slip of the tongue:
“Child! I’m talking to YOU! ARE YOU DEAF?!”
Now, I’ll admit, this probably isn’t one of those items one might find in “The Good Parent’s Guide to Proper Communication with Children”, but let’s face it, we’re all human, and when haven’t we said something to our child in a moment of frustration that wasn’t really in the best of taste, let alone something we’d want them to repeat to their Sunday school teacher?
And our child’s innocent response? “Mom, what does ‘deaf’ mean?”
Here’s another jewel. From the farthest reaches of our minds, we never envisioned ourselves asking our children the mother of all ignorant questions. The dumbest of the dumb. You know it. You’ve said it. Here it is:
“Do you want a spanking?”
I always remember my mom saying, “Ask a dumb question…get a dumb answer.” I suppose I should have heeded her advice. After all, do we really expect them to pipe up and say, “Spankings? You’re giving out spankings? I’ll take two, please!”
So much wisdom; so little time.
Yes, there are definitely occasions when parents are put to the test when it comes to effectively communicating with our kids. But no matter how challenging our chats might become, they are the moments parenting is made of. From the toddler’s first “NO!” to the day he discovers sarcasm, we parents are truly at our best when we learn to say what we mean and mean what we say, and when we willingly accept the seemingly impossible task of instructing our children with words of wisdom.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Brisco turns five
Dear Brisco,
Today you turned five. Hard to believe, I know.
The past year has brought many new and exciting experiences for you and our family. No matter how old you are when you pull out this paper, yellowed and crinkled with age, I hope it brings joyful memories of your youth and serves as a reminder to you of who you are, where you came from, and how very much you are loved.
To begin around your previous birthday, last March we got iced in at Uncle Derik’s in Norman. It was a fun couple of days, aside from one small item: you were given your first tattoo. Nothing like “MOM” inked on the back of your shoulder to give a kid a little feeling a toughness, and his first taste of “body art”. And from that moment, you haven’t looked back. From baseballs to bulldogs to bright orange images of “The General Lee”, you usually have some crazy design that you can’t wait to get imprinted onto your body. Thanks Uncle Derik.
In April, you met your newest cousin, Baby Caleb. It was then, I suppose, that your obsession for a baby brother began. I’m fairly certain you have no idea how much of a crimp in your style a baby brother would be, but I do. So the answer is still no.
Springtime was spent going to ballgames, learning to ride your Harley bicycle, and hunting Easter eggs at Martha’s. And of course we can’t forget the occasional dance in the rain.
The heat of the summer finally rolled in, and none too soon for you. Sometime in the last 12 months, you morphed into a walking, talking, dimple-flashing fish. At first you used the floaties, but not for long. By the end of the summer you were jumping off the diving board all by yourself.
The summer months were filled with even more firsts. You played your first season of coach pitch, experienced your first airplane ride, saw your first big league ballpark, and rode your first rollercoaster. I’m sure all of these experiences are ones that will stay with you for many years to come, whether you want them to or not. It’s quite possible that the words “Fire in the Hole!” may give you tremors and night sweats far into your twenties.
I can’t say enough about your first season of baseball. Not that you were the best hitter or stole the most bases, or turned the most double plays. No, not this year. You were only four, playing with and against seven and eight year olds. You’ll have your chance to be one of the strongest and fastest. This year was about finesse. It didn’t matter where we were or who we were playing, by your second at bat, everyone in the stands was cheering for “the little guy.” You were definitely the crowd favorite.
The end of the summer brought your first, big family vacation where you hiked, explored caves, and did lots of fishing—although none of us ever caught a fish. In fact, to this day, I don’t think you have caught a single one. You still have fun trying though.
You spent the better part of a week in July at the first annual Granma Camp. Six of the oldest Smith cousins and Granma all to “yourself”. It put you in hog heaven. And you haven’t stopped asking if you get to go again next summer. We’ll have to check with Granma about that.
Cooper went back to school in August, and after thinking long and hard about sending you to PreK, your dad and I decided we wanted to keep you with us for one more year. You were a little disappointed at first, but we managed to craft our own little existence out of the eight hours we were forced to be without our Cooper. You might have even learned a thing or two in the process.
We started having a little school of our own, and I must say, you are definitely the smartest little five year old living in this house! You’ve decided cutting and pasting is better saved for Ms. Johnson’s class, and you have promoted yourself to learning on the computer. Though I fought giving you the reigns, you have proven yourself quite proficient. I could feel the tears welling up the first day I heard you reading out loud. (You know how I get with the tears.) I was so proud.
With October came camping trips, roasting marshmallows and playing on the creek. You were Superman for Halloween, and you flew all over the house in that tiny red cape.
Somewhere along the way, you decided to take up photography. From knotholes and blades of grass to the close ups of yourself that we have all come to love, you are becoming quite the little Olan Mills. So much so that you got your very first camera for Christmas and have your own special little spot on the computer for your digital creations.
Star Wars ruled the holiday season the year you were four. Santa brought you the spinning blue and green light saber you wanted, and he brought a red one for Cooper too. The battle between good and evil was on from that moment forward, and no one was safe from those swinging blades.
During a weekend getaway in January, we discovered the Oklahoma Science Museum, a place that unexpectedly was to become one of your favorite spots in Oklahoma City. You have quite a mind for solving problems. It sure is fun to watch you work.
We finally got a good, deep snow in February, and somewhere along the line, you toughened up to the cold weather. Typically it takes longer to get you bundled up than you actually spend outdoors, but not this year. We played for hours in that thick, white stuff, sledding and jumping through the drifts. Daddy pulled you through the streets like a sled dog. By the way, this was the only time I ever let you play in the street.
As soon as it thawed, Dad decided it was time to say goodbye to the trees that littered the backyard and interfered with your homeruns. You boys sure were excited to have them gone.
You may or may not remember the bike you got for your fifth birthday. It was gold and black. “Golden” you called it. Of course, if you’d have had your way, Cooper would have been the one with a new bike. You just wanted to ride his.
And that was a pretty typical way of thinking for you at this age. I suppose if there was one thing I’d want you to remember about yourself at five it would be the way you loved your brother. There’s no bigger hero, no preferred playmate, no greater friend in your eyes than Cooper. You imitate him in every way, from the clothes you sneak out of his dresser drawers, to the kind of cereal you pick for your breakfast. It is one of the things I admire most about you, and one of the things I hope you never grow out of.
Another thing I hope you never outgrow is your willingness to give THE best bear hugs imaginable. “Berra hugs” we call them. Nothing hits the spot quite like a Brisco Berra hug.
I can only imagine where your handsome, sweet face and your charming personality will lead you in life. I hope you know that I’ll always be your loudest cheerleader and your biggest fan.
Happy Birthday, B.
Love ya,
Momma
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Today you turned five. Hard to believe, I know.
The past year has brought many new and exciting experiences for you and our family. No matter how old you are when you pull out this paper, yellowed and crinkled with age, I hope it brings joyful memories of your youth and serves as a reminder to you of who you are, where you came from, and how very much you are loved.
To begin around your previous birthday, last March we got iced in at Uncle Derik’s in Norman. It was a fun couple of days, aside from one small item: you were given your first tattoo. Nothing like “MOM” inked on the back of your shoulder to give a kid a little feeling a toughness, and his first taste of “body art”. And from that moment, you haven’t looked back. From baseballs to bulldogs to bright orange images of “The General Lee”, you usually have some crazy design that you can’t wait to get imprinted onto your body. Thanks Uncle Derik.
In April, you met your newest cousin, Baby Caleb. It was then, I suppose, that your obsession for a baby brother began. I’m fairly certain you have no idea how much of a crimp in your style a baby brother would be, but I do. So the answer is still no.
Springtime was spent going to ballgames, learning to ride your Harley bicycle, and hunting Easter eggs at Martha’s. And of course we can’t forget the occasional dance in the rain.
The heat of the summer finally rolled in, and none too soon for you. Sometime in the last 12 months, you morphed into a walking, talking, dimple-flashing fish. At first you used the floaties, but not for long. By the end of the summer you were jumping off the diving board all by yourself.
The summer months were filled with even more firsts. You played your first season of coach pitch, experienced your first airplane ride, saw your first big league ballpark, and rode your first rollercoaster. I’m sure all of these experiences are ones that will stay with you for many years to come, whether you want them to or not. It’s quite possible that the words “Fire in the Hole!” may give you tremors and night sweats far into your twenties.
I can’t say enough about your first season of baseball. Not that you were the best hitter or stole the most bases, or turned the most double plays. No, not this year. You were only four, playing with and against seven and eight year olds. You’ll have your chance to be one of the strongest and fastest. This year was about finesse. It didn’t matter where we were or who we were playing, by your second at bat, everyone in the stands was cheering for “the little guy.” You were definitely the crowd favorite.
The end of the summer brought your first, big family vacation where you hiked, explored caves, and did lots of fishing—although none of us ever caught a fish. In fact, to this day, I don’t think you have caught a single one. You still have fun trying though.
You spent the better part of a week in July at the first annual Granma Camp. Six of the oldest Smith cousins and Granma all to “yourself”. It put you in hog heaven. And you haven’t stopped asking if you get to go again next summer. We’ll have to check with Granma about that.
Cooper went back to school in August, and after thinking long and hard about sending you to PreK, your dad and I decided we wanted to keep you with us for one more year. You were a little disappointed at first, but we managed to craft our own little existence out of the eight hours we were forced to be without our Cooper. You might have even learned a thing or two in the process.
We started having a little school of our own, and I must say, you are definitely the smartest little five year old living in this house! You’ve decided cutting and pasting is better saved for Ms. Johnson’s class, and you have promoted yourself to learning on the computer. Though I fought giving you the reigns, you have proven yourself quite proficient. I could feel the tears welling up the first day I heard you reading out loud. (You know how I get with the tears.) I was so proud.
With October came camping trips, roasting marshmallows and playing on the creek. You were Superman for Halloween, and you flew all over the house in that tiny red cape.
Somewhere along the way, you decided to take up photography. From knotholes and blades of grass to the close ups of yourself that we have all come to love, you are becoming quite the little Olan Mills. So much so that you got your very first camera for Christmas and have your own special little spot on the computer for your digital creations.
Star Wars ruled the holiday season the year you were four. Santa brought you the spinning blue and green light saber you wanted, and he brought a red one for Cooper too. The battle between good and evil was on from that moment forward, and no one was safe from those swinging blades.
During a weekend getaway in January, we discovered the Oklahoma Science Museum, a place that unexpectedly was to become one of your favorite spots in Oklahoma City. You have quite a mind for solving problems. It sure is fun to watch you work.
We finally got a good, deep snow in February, and somewhere along the line, you toughened up to the cold weather. Typically it takes longer to get you bundled up than you actually spend outdoors, but not this year. We played for hours in that thick, white stuff, sledding and jumping through the drifts. Daddy pulled you through the streets like a sled dog. By the way, this was the only time I ever let you play in the street.
As soon as it thawed, Dad decided it was time to say goodbye to the trees that littered the backyard and interfered with your homeruns. You boys sure were excited to have them gone.
You may or may not remember the bike you got for your fifth birthday. It was gold and black. “Golden” you called it. Of course, if you’d have had your way, Cooper would have been the one with a new bike. You just wanted to ride his.
And that was a pretty typical way of thinking for you at this age. I suppose if there was one thing I’d want you to remember about yourself at five it would be the way you loved your brother. There’s no bigger hero, no preferred playmate, no greater friend in your eyes than Cooper. You imitate him in every way, from the clothes you sneak out of his dresser drawers, to the kind of cereal you pick for your breakfast. It is one of the things I admire most about you, and one of the things I hope you never grow out of.
Another thing I hope you never outgrow is your willingness to give THE best bear hugs imaginable. “Berra hugs” we call them. Nothing hits the spot quite like a Brisco Berra hug.
I can only imagine where your handsome, sweet face and your charming personality will lead you in life. I hope you know that I’ll always be your loudest cheerleader and your biggest fan.
Happy Birthday, B.
Love ya,
Momma
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The unhurried child
I constantly find myself telling our youngest child to hurry up. No matter where we go or what we are doing, that boy is always last in line.
He seems to live in his own world and on his own time, and it almost never coincides with mine. It’s irritating beyond words when the child has two hours to get ready for a ball game, yet as we are walking out the door, he still doesn’t have his glove.
I’m always telling him to “get ready” and “be prepared”, and I know he hears me because lately, almost every time we reach our destination, he yells to me from the back seat of the car, “Mom, I’m preparing to exit!” But we always seem to be left waiting.
Not only then; I find myself hurrying that child along almost everywhere we go. At the grocery store when he’s eyeballing the candy aisle, appreciating all the delicacies that he can’t wait to try “when he grows up”. Or on our walks when there’s really no reason to hurry, yet I can’t seem to let him go at his own pace.
I was doing my usual, “Come on, Brisco!” the other day, when I found myself feeling a little ashamed of my impatience, while admiring the little man’s ability to appreciate the beauty of the moment.
It was evening, getting too cool to be outside, yet no matter how many times I banged on the window or yelled out the front door, I could not convince him to come inside. So, as we mom’s sometimes do, I stomped out with a belt in hand and a promise of a good spanking to go with it. It was at that moment that my four year old dawdler brought to my attention the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen in quiet some time. “I just wanted to watch the sky change colors,” he said.
As if that slap in the face wasn’t enough, the next morning, I awoke to find this email in my inbox.
“In Washington, DC, at a Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007, a man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After about three minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.
About 4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
At 6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
At 10 minutes:
A three-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent-without exception-forced their children to move on quickly.
At 45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only six people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
After 1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.
No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold-out a theatre in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.
This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.”
The article noted several possible conclusions that one might draw from this experiment, but the one that caught my attention the most was this: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made. . .how many other things are we missing as we rush through life? A little like an unhurried four year old and a sunset, I suppose. Thanks, Brisco, (and the Washington Post) for the lesson.
Enjoy life now...it has an expiration date!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
He seems to live in his own world and on his own time, and it almost never coincides with mine. It’s irritating beyond words when the child has two hours to get ready for a ball game, yet as we are walking out the door, he still doesn’t have his glove.
I’m always telling him to “get ready” and “be prepared”, and I know he hears me because lately, almost every time we reach our destination, he yells to me from the back seat of the car, “Mom, I’m preparing to exit!” But we always seem to be left waiting.
Not only then; I find myself hurrying that child along almost everywhere we go. At the grocery store when he’s eyeballing the candy aisle, appreciating all the delicacies that he can’t wait to try “when he grows up”. Or on our walks when there’s really no reason to hurry, yet I can’t seem to let him go at his own pace.
I was doing my usual, “Come on, Brisco!” the other day, when I found myself feeling a little ashamed of my impatience, while admiring the little man’s ability to appreciate the beauty of the moment.
It was evening, getting too cool to be outside, yet no matter how many times I banged on the window or yelled out the front door, I could not convince him to come inside. So, as we mom’s sometimes do, I stomped out with a belt in hand and a promise of a good spanking to go with it. It was at that moment that my four year old dawdler brought to my attention the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen in quiet some time. “I just wanted to watch the sky change colors,” he said.
As if that slap in the face wasn’t enough, the next morning, I awoke to find this email in my inbox.
“In Washington, DC, at a Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007, a man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After about three minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.
About 4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
At 6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
At 10 minutes:
A three-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent-without exception-forced their children to move on quickly.
At 45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only six people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
After 1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.
No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold-out a theatre in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.
This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.”
The article noted several possible conclusions that one might draw from this experiment, but the one that caught my attention the most was this: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made. . .how many other things are we missing as we rush through life? A little like an unhurried four year old and a sunset, I suppose. Thanks, Brisco, (and the Washington Post) for the lesson.
Enjoy life now...it has an expiration date!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Put it on the list
For the last several weeks, the count down has been on for Brisco. He’s putting actual X’s on the calendar, and in 14 days (and counting) it will finally be his birthday. He thinks about it at least once a day, and then goes directly to his OG&E keep-our-country-clean-calendar and puts a mark on the current square, bringing him one day closer to the date of his birth. The boy is pumped.
He’s not near as pumped about marking his calendar, though, as he is about making his list. His birthday list. Apparently he decided that if a child is supposed to make a Christmas list, why not one for his birthday as well? And so, he has been busy creating one spectacular wish list for a soon to be five year old boy.
He started off slowly, seeming to put some thought into each and every item. Usually, his ideas would come after seeing one of the zillion commercials marketed directly to his precise demographic, prompting him to come running to me wherever I might be.
“Mom! This is what I want! A Play Dough ice cream thingy!”
And with my hands in a bowl of raw meat I’d reply, “Ok. I got it. Play Dough. Ice Cream. Wait. You do know that it isn’t edible, right?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you can’t eat it.”
“Oh. Yeah, I know. Can you just put it on a list?”
And so it began. First the Play Dough. Then the Grave Digger Monster Jam Flip and Crash unit. Then the Hot Wheels speed racer ramp. Simple items most any little boy would be happy about receiving; definitely five year old boy stuff.
But soon after, he started coming up with items that seemed a little less age appropriate. And at random times. After a week long tribute to the Rocky series on AMC a few weeks back, he decided he needed a pair of “punching gloves”. Understandable, I suppose after being all energized by the impetus and perseverance of ole Sly Stallone. “Eye of the Tiger” and all that.
Then last week, he informed me he wanted a golf cart. This from a child who has never set foot on a golf course. OK, maybe once or twice. After I questioned him to make sure he knew what he was asking for, he said, “Of course I know! Or I’d take one of those little gators or go carts that kids can drive. Put it on my list, Mom, OK?” OK, Brisco. Sure thing.
A couple days later, things just started getting weird. He barged into the bathroom while I was in the shower to tell me he wanted a pogo stick for his birthday. “Did you hear me, Mom? A POGO STICK! PUT IT ON THE LIST!” A pogo stick. You got it.
The kicker came at lunch on Friday. He’d had a light bulb moment, that I could see as clearly as the melted American cheese smeared across his left cheek. “A museum, Mom! That’s what I want for my birthday! We can put it right over there!” he said pointing out the back window.
I explained that purchasing a museum might be a little harder than simply putting it on a list or checking the “for sales” on eBay, and by the time he’d finished his last pretzel, we’d negotiated a possible visit to the museum over moving a real one into the back yard.
Even random board games he’s seen on TV have made him mad with birthday greed. “I want Sorry Sliders, Mom!” he demanded. “Put it on the list!”
It wasn’t until Saturday afternoon, after a few hours of fishing (or so it was called) that I finally had to set the boy straight. As we left the lakeside, we passed a little kid on a moped, and Brisco jumped half out of his seat and said, “I want a dirt bike for my birthday!” Well, I certainly didn’t feel the need to respond to that kind of request, but Dad, sitting behind the wheel said casually, “OK.”
Wow. That was easy. So he tried again. “I want a little four-liter (i.e. wheeler) for my birthday.” Again, Dad’s reply? “OK.”
Third time’s a charm with this kid, so he pushed further. “I want a dirt bike, a little four-liter, and a big four-liter!” And Dad said…“OK.”
Brisco looked over at me, eyes spinning with anticipation and I could tell that for a split second, he actually believed it might happen. “Mom! Can I really?”
And without an ounce of fear or worry over crushing his birthday dreams, I said, “No way. Not a chance. Not gonna happen.”
He looked at me, dismayed for a moment, but then seemed to realize that maybe asking for motorized recreational vehicles at five is a bit too much. He gave me his best, Brisco grin and a little “Hmm,” to which I replied, “Sorry, Bub. But hey, we can still put it on the list.”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
He’s not near as pumped about marking his calendar, though, as he is about making his list. His birthday list. Apparently he decided that if a child is supposed to make a Christmas list, why not one for his birthday as well? And so, he has been busy creating one spectacular wish list for a soon to be five year old boy.
He started off slowly, seeming to put some thought into each and every item. Usually, his ideas would come after seeing one of the zillion commercials marketed directly to his precise demographic, prompting him to come running to me wherever I might be.
“Mom! This is what I want! A Play Dough ice cream thingy!”
And with my hands in a bowl of raw meat I’d reply, “Ok. I got it. Play Dough. Ice Cream. Wait. You do know that it isn’t edible, right?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you can’t eat it.”
“Oh. Yeah, I know. Can you just put it on a list?”
And so it began. First the Play Dough. Then the Grave Digger Monster Jam Flip and Crash unit. Then the Hot Wheels speed racer ramp. Simple items most any little boy would be happy about receiving; definitely five year old boy stuff.
But soon after, he started coming up with items that seemed a little less age appropriate. And at random times. After a week long tribute to the Rocky series on AMC a few weeks back, he decided he needed a pair of “punching gloves”. Understandable, I suppose after being all energized by the impetus and perseverance of ole Sly Stallone. “Eye of the Tiger” and all that.
Then last week, he informed me he wanted a golf cart. This from a child who has never set foot on a golf course. OK, maybe once or twice. After I questioned him to make sure he knew what he was asking for, he said, “Of course I know! Or I’d take one of those little gators or go carts that kids can drive. Put it on my list, Mom, OK?” OK, Brisco. Sure thing.
A couple days later, things just started getting weird. He barged into the bathroom while I was in the shower to tell me he wanted a pogo stick for his birthday. “Did you hear me, Mom? A POGO STICK! PUT IT ON THE LIST!” A pogo stick. You got it.
The kicker came at lunch on Friday. He’d had a light bulb moment, that I could see as clearly as the melted American cheese smeared across his left cheek. “A museum, Mom! That’s what I want for my birthday! We can put it right over there!” he said pointing out the back window.
I explained that purchasing a museum might be a little harder than simply putting it on a list or checking the “for sales” on eBay, and by the time he’d finished his last pretzel, we’d negotiated a possible visit to the museum over moving a real one into the back yard.
Even random board games he’s seen on TV have made him mad with birthday greed. “I want Sorry Sliders, Mom!” he demanded. “Put it on the list!”
It wasn’t until Saturday afternoon, after a few hours of fishing (or so it was called) that I finally had to set the boy straight. As we left the lakeside, we passed a little kid on a moped, and Brisco jumped half out of his seat and said, “I want a dirt bike for my birthday!” Well, I certainly didn’t feel the need to respond to that kind of request, but Dad, sitting behind the wheel said casually, “OK.”
Wow. That was easy. So he tried again. “I want a little four-liter (i.e. wheeler) for my birthday.” Again, Dad’s reply? “OK.”
Third time’s a charm with this kid, so he pushed further. “I want a dirt bike, a little four-liter, and a big four-liter!” And Dad said…“OK.”
Brisco looked over at me, eyes spinning with anticipation and I could tell that for a split second, he actually believed it might happen. “Mom! Can I really?”
And without an ounce of fear or worry over crushing his birthday dreams, I said, “No way. Not a chance. Not gonna happen.”
He looked at me, dismayed for a moment, but then seemed to realize that maybe asking for motorized recreational vehicles at five is a bit too much. He gave me his best, Brisco grin and a little “Hmm,” to which I replied, “Sorry, Bub. But hey, we can still put it on the list.”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Crazy conversations
There are lots of reasons to be glad it is baseball season again. (Although personally, I’d much prefer the weather inside the gym for a couple more weeks.) Our boys, however, don’t seem to have a problem with the cooler temperatures, and as we made our first outing Monday night--against my earnest protests--I remembered one of the biggest reasons I love going to games…our crazy conversations.
Now Blair isn’t that far of a drive, but it’s amazing the chats we can have with our kids when we turn off the radio and simply take the time to listen. Some things, I’ll admit, don’t make me too proud. Others are down right ridiculous. And still others…well, I’ll let you decide.
Cooper: Mom, when are we gonna get a baby?
Me: I didn’t know we had sent off for one.
Brisco: Yeah! When are we gonna get that baby?!
Me: You people are crazy.
Cooper: My favorite word is “Mutasha”.
Me: What does that mean?
Cooper: I don’t know.
Brisco: I wish nothing cost anything.
Me: What?
Brisco: I wish everything was free so nobody would run out of money.
Me: Yeah, that’d be cool.
Cooper: Who’s on the ten dollar bill?
Me: I don’t know. Let me look…it’s Hamilton.
Cooper: How do you know?
Me: It says his name right under his face.
Brisco: How’d we get our food so fast?
Me: I don’t know. I guess it cooked fast. Maybe that’s why they call it “fast food”.
Brisco: Maybe they should call it “free food”.
Me: Yeah. If it really was free, that’d be great.
Brisco: No. They should call it “fast, free food”.
Me: Yeah. Even better.
Brisco: No. They should call it “Fast food. Free food. Just the way you like it.”
Me: Son, I do believe I see a future for you in advertising.
Cooper: My favorite word is “Chihuahua”.
Me: I thought you said your favorite word was “Mutasha”?
Cooper: Oh yeah. My first favorite is “Mutasha”. Then “Chihuahua”.
Me: What does “Mutasha” mean?
Cooper: I don’t know.
Me: Where did you hear it?
Cooper: On the first Star Wars. It’s Spanish.
Me: What? I didn’t know they spoke Spanish on Star Wars. How do you know it’s Spanish?
Cooper: I don’t know. Cause I didn’t know what they were saying. I just like the way it sounds.
Me: It could be any language, you know. There’s lots of them. French. Italian. Wookie.
Cooper: Oh. Well, I don’t know what language it is.
Me: Now, “Chihuahua”? That’s Spanish.
Cooper: I wanna be President, but I don’t wanna die.
Me: Coop, everybody dies sometime. You don’t have to be a President to die. And if you wanna be President some day, you can. You can be anything you want to be.
Cooper: But a girl can’t be President, right?
Me: Uh, no. A girl can most definitely be President.
Brisco: Well that’s dumb!
Me: Excuse me? This “girl” sitting in the front seat might just come back there and box your ears. It is NOT dumb, and girls can do anything boys can do.
Brisco: Na Uh! They can’t be preachers!
Me: Ok. So you got me there. They can’t be preachers.
Brisco: And they don’t have wienies!
Me: Uh, No. They don’t, but what’s that got to do with anything?
Cooper: They can’t pee standing up.
Me: Ok. Right again. You two seem to be missing the point. What I’m trying to say is that if you work hard, you can be anything you want to be.
Cooper: So…if I wanna be a softball player…I can?
Me: (full of sarcasm) Sure, Coop. If you really want to be a softball player, you can.
Cooper: Ha!! No thanks.
(After listening to far too much conversation between the two boys about “poop” and the various forms it might take)
Me: Ok, that’s enough talk about poop.
Brisco: What? No more poopy talk about poop?
Me: Brisco! I’m serious!
Brisco: Ok, poop. Oops. I mean, Sorry.
Me: You guys wanna talk about poop so much, if a baby ever does come to our house, I’m putting you both in charge of changing poopy diapers. We’ll see how much you wanna talk about poop after that.
Cooper: Ooo! No!
Brisco: Oh, Yeah! Poop!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Now Blair isn’t that far of a drive, but it’s amazing the chats we can have with our kids when we turn off the radio and simply take the time to listen. Some things, I’ll admit, don’t make me too proud. Others are down right ridiculous. And still others…well, I’ll let you decide.
Cooper: Mom, when are we gonna get a baby?
Me: I didn’t know we had sent off for one.
Brisco: Yeah! When are we gonna get that baby?!
Me: You people are crazy.
Cooper: My favorite word is “Mutasha”.
Me: What does that mean?
Cooper: I don’t know.
Brisco: I wish nothing cost anything.
Me: What?
Brisco: I wish everything was free so nobody would run out of money.
Me: Yeah, that’d be cool.
Cooper: Who’s on the ten dollar bill?
Me: I don’t know. Let me look…it’s Hamilton.
Cooper: How do you know?
Me: It says his name right under his face.
Brisco: How’d we get our food so fast?
Me: I don’t know. I guess it cooked fast. Maybe that’s why they call it “fast food”.
Brisco: Maybe they should call it “free food”.
Me: Yeah. If it really was free, that’d be great.
Brisco: No. They should call it “fast, free food”.
Me: Yeah. Even better.
Brisco: No. They should call it “Fast food. Free food. Just the way you like it.”
Me: Son, I do believe I see a future for you in advertising.
Cooper: My favorite word is “Chihuahua”.
Me: I thought you said your favorite word was “Mutasha”?
Cooper: Oh yeah. My first favorite is “Mutasha”. Then “Chihuahua”.
Me: What does “Mutasha” mean?
Cooper: I don’t know.
Me: Where did you hear it?
Cooper: On the first Star Wars. It’s Spanish.
Me: What? I didn’t know they spoke Spanish on Star Wars. How do you know it’s Spanish?
Cooper: I don’t know. Cause I didn’t know what they were saying. I just like the way it sounds.
Me: It could be any language, you know. There’s lots of them. French. Italian. Wookie.
Cooper: Oh. Well, I don’t know what language it is.
Me: Now, “Chihuahua”? That’s Spanish.
Cooper: I wanna be President, but I don’t wanna die.
Me: Coop, everybody dies sometime. You don’t have to be a President to die. And if you wanna be President some day, you can. You can be anything you want to be.
Cooper: But a girl can’t be President, right?
Me: Uh, no. A girl can most definitely be President.
Brisco: Well that’s dumb!
Me: Excuse me? This “girl” sitting in the front seat might just come back there and box your ears. It is NOT dumb, and girls can do anything boys can do.
Brisco: Na Uh! They can’t be preachers!
Me: Ok. So you got me there. They can’t be preachers.
Brisco: And they don’t have wienies!
Me: Uh, No. They don’t, but what’s that got to do with anything?
Cooper: They can’t pee standing up.
Me: Ok. Right again. You two seem to be missing the point. What I’m trying to say is that if you work hard, you can be anything you want to be.
Cooper: So…if I wanna be a softball player…I can?
Me: (full of sarcasm) Sure, Coop. If you really want to be a softball player, you can.
Cooper: Ha!! No thanks.
(After listening to far too much conversation between the two boys about “poop” and the various forms it might take)
Me: Ok, that’s enough talk about poop.
Brisco: What? No more poopy talk about poop?
Me: Brisco! I’m serious!
Brisco: Ok, poop. Oops. I mean, Sorry.
Me: You guys wanna talk about poop so much, if a baby ever does come to our house, I’m putting you both in charge of changing poopy diapers. We’ll see how much you wanna talk about poop after that.
Cooper: Ooo! No!
Brisco: Oh, Yeah! Poop!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)