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!
Friday, April 29, 2011
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!
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