Monthly Archives: October 2011

He Who Laughs First…

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A word here.

No one’s angry.  And no one just upended his water all over the menus or flung his fork from the table.

Rather, it’s a stare down between my dad and my son.  Whereby he who laughs first–like my dad–loses.

Now I’ve been privy to a few stare downs.  None of them riveting enough to talk about now.  Or ever.  Except the one factor that never changes: My dad shedding his glasses and contorting his face into 82 variations of the same look thinking it will give him the upper hand.

And it might have this time, had my son stayed crouched on the back of his boots instead of zooming in to my dad’s forehead for a closer look.

At which time Grandpa folded.

But won what was important…

the heart of his grandson.

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To Build A Fire

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Grandpa built a fire tonight.  The whole production–newspaper, kindling, real matches.

And my kids watched in reverence.

They hovered over my dad as he crumpled paper.  They crouched when he crouched.  Got in his way when he stood.  And they stared with him at the rising of the flames as it crinkled the kindling.

It might have been another routine fire for my dad.

But for my kids, the warmth of this one started on the inside.

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When It Sounds Familiar

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Because I’m his mommy, I rose at 2:48 this morning to fix my son’s blanket.  The blanket that had lumped itself in one corner of his bed.  The blanket he could not straighten himself because…because he had me to help him.

And because I’m his mommy, I stretched my whole body beside his, curled my left arm around his fleecy cocoon and whispered, “I love you, son.” At which time he inched away with closed eyes and exhaled, “I just want to get some sleep.”

My husband called moments ago to say our son had forgotten his backpack.  The backpack he drags to preschool and hauls home again for the sake of dragging and hauling.  The backpack my husband said he would turn around for.  Only my son said, “Don’t worry about it dad.  This kind of stuff happens to everybody every now and again.”

At which time my husband said, “all right, then,” and hit the gas pedal for preschool.

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Hard-Hat Normal

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I realized half way through our history lesson that my flinching reflex must have taken a nap.  Or was numb from too much activity.

There was my daughter–where she had been for the last twenty minutes–wearing a yellow hard hat the size of a medium watermelon.

Only…I hadn’t noticed.

It, uh…seems obvious now.

The lack of eye contact.  The giant lemon where her head should be.

Without warning, my daughter snapped up from her notebook, stared at me eyeball for eyeball and asked if I knew what item of clothing was in Abraham’s name.

She’d clearly had an epiphany.

I hadn’t.

“Tell me,” I said.

At which time she smirked and said above a giggle,  ”Bra.”

And I said it out loud. A-BRA-ham.

The two of us shook our heads in snickers.

She for Abraham’s brassiere.  And me…ahem… for the bobbing hard-hat across the table.

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What to Do

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Sometimes when you’ve plucked all the pretty leaves you can reach off the maple tree and dumped them under the dining room table for your mom to see…and when you’ve collected nine “‘friendly” worms from the compost and saved them in your mom’s only respectable tupperware…and when you’ve drug your boots through dog doo and then trotted right on into the house…and when you’ve measured nothing with your tape measure, but have poked both pets and your sister from six feet away…why…there’s not much left to do but…

wrap the cat up in tissue paper…

like a little present.

Ahh…yes.

Makes sense.

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In the Zone

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I can rarely remember my dreams even moments after waking up.  I want to.  But it seems the harder my brain strains for details, the faster my subconscious whisks away any memory of the night.

Gone.  Not telling.  See ya.

I’ve tried to make sense of the distant details, but words don’t seem to work.  They garble the picture even further.  And then with unknown urgency every strand of the dream flits away.  As if it never was.

But this morning was different.

I remembered strumming my air guitar in my new Halloween socks.  There was a tight circle around me like one that forms naturally around someone who dives in to breakdance. My small crowd was whoopin’ it up.  Clappin’ me on.  And I just strummed and jumped and hit a few air drums with my air drum stick.

But then I got too close to the crowd and tripped on somebody kneeling.  At which time from the floor, I laid on my back and kept strumming…and, dear Lord, never stopped laughing.

Which was how I found myself this morning at 7:32.  Still laughing.

And happy to the core.

 

Ahem…dream not open to interpretation. :)

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More Than Words

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I don’t know much about Neptune.  Nothing to share, anyway.

I just know I never weary of seeing his head pushing into her shoulder as she reads.  Words. Sentences. Glossary terms.

Because…

because the experience is more than two kids breathing over the same book.

It’s what happens as a result:

Friendship.

Trust.

And love.

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Tug Of Toilet

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My daughter sashayed out of dance class with a smirk on her lips and promised in the parking lot to tell me all about it.

At the van I spoke before she did. “Tell me the best part of class,” I said.

She resorted her thoughts.  Well, the best part, she began, ” was tug of toilet!”

I nodded before I should have.  Then I chewed on the words.  ”Tug of Toilet.”  Nothing came.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

My daughter explained, “well, I had to go to the bathroom during class.  And so did Brynn.  And so the two of us played ‘tug of toilet’.”

I spit out the obvious.  ”So how do you play ‘tug of toilet’?”

“Well,” my daughter smiled, “She’s on one toilet and I’m on the other, and we’re holding hands under the stall trying to yank each other off.”

Aha.

I sucked in my breath.  ”And who won?”

“Nobody,” she giggled.

I sought to clarify.  ” So, Tug of Toilet was the best part of dance class?”

And my daughter nodded, “Yep,” and picked up her book to read.

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When the Force Ain’t With You

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Last Friday night my husband introduced Star Wars to our kids.  Which left an impact on our seven year old who disappeared to her desk with her colored pencils and drew like her hand was on fire.

She resurfaced with these.

Which–sadly–didn’t mean much to me.  Except that I pieced together that Darth Vader must be the guy in black.

My own introduction to Star Wars hadn’t gone as well.

Thirty one years ago, when owning a VCR meant something, a classmate’s mom lugged their family’s personal VCR from the back of her Honda and into Miss MacDougal’s first grade classroom.

Sitting half in the dark, half in the window light, I watched Star Wars for the first time and realized… the force was not with me. I’d love to say I understood what I was watching, or that I even enjoyed the movie experience.  But I truly only remember how dry and unbuttered the popcorn was on my paper towel.

Yesterday, as The Phantom Menace resounded through our speakers, my son and I met in the kitchen over a bag of chips. It seemed the non-Star Wars gene hadn’t fallen far.

And then my son spoke from mid thought.  ”Yoda,” he said. “He should be called Mr. Baking Soda.”

And I nodded.  It made sense to me.

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Taking Care of Business

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All was quiet.

Which…could’ve meant anything.

Only I followed my husband, stepping cautiously in squeaky shoes, to the corner of the play room and saw this:

Stuffed animals in dire straits being treated by an underage doctor without pants…

and his purple pajama clad assistant.

It seemed all was going well as bears of all sizes, lambs and frogs were tossed from the clinic miraculously healed in 25 seconds..

And I wondered if I shouldn’t just lay down and get prodded back to health in half a minute.

Ah…shucks.

If only I had enough fake money.

Maybe next time.

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