Monthly Archives: April 2012

Spot It!

I’d always suspected the floor of our van had carpet.  And I was right.  Buried beneath Sunday school papers folded into fans, lost library books, colored pencils, snack wrappers, four pairs of flip flops, one skirt, three sweatshirts, eighty-four cents in change, and six inches of crumbs, there it was.  The floor.

But way in the back.  Back where the groceries get carried home, back where the car chains and the jumper cables chill, I found the game I’d bought six weeks ago.  Still in the bag, in the box, in the plastic.

And what a find.

It’s called Spot It!

Have you played?

We hadn’t.  And now we can’t stop.

It looks like this.  A little tin.  Not big enough for three Christmas cookies.  But big enough for 55 cards plus a few with instructions.

Here’s the gist.  Every card has eight pictures on it.  And EVERY card has a picture on it that matches EVERY card.

Yikes.  Even I’m confused, so let me show you instead.

Here’s how the game is set up.  Each person playing is dealt a card.  The rest of the cards are stacked face up in the middle.  The objective is to be the first person to find the match between your card and the center card.

Can you see each match?

Now what happens is that what appears to be a simple preschool game–finding the match–becomes like searching for a penny you dropped in your un-mown backyard, at night, with a flashlight.

I’m holding the card from the middle over by the card from the left.  Do you see the match now?

Barely?  Maybe?

It’s the yellow word “Stop.”

Now I’m holding the center card over near the card on the right.  See it?  It’s faint.

It’s the light blue pencil.

The person who can identify the matching item between his card and the one in the center first, gets the center card and places it on top of his pile.

We gave my son credit for the last match and put the center card on top of his pile.  He liked that.

Do you see the next match(es)?  Might have to squint.  My daughter is pointing to hers–the purple spider web.

My son’s is the blue dolphin–nearly microscopic on the center card.  I don’t think he sees it yet.

So why is this fun?

It just is.

Part of it is like the real life experience of staring at the very thing you’re looking for and never seeing it.  That’s fun, right?!

Here they are–two kids staring holes into the carpet until one sees his match.

And when that gets old, why we can deal out the cards to each other and place one up in the center.  Just the opposite of what we were doing.  Our new objective is trying to get rid of our pile of cards first by doing what we were doing before–finding the match on our top card with the card in the center.

Here my daughter called out “car” and then placed her card on top in the center.

Simple.

And sometimes easy.

But the coolest thing:  it’s a game for everyone.  Kids.  Parents.  Dads home for lunch.

Spot It!

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You Don’t Say

I was still rolling the crumbles of sleep from my right eye, when my son burst through our bedroom door fully dressed. “I bet you’re going to ask me what I dreamed about last night,” he said.

Only I wasn’t.

Until it seemed like I should.

“What’d you dream about last night, bud?” I grogged.

“Hot mayonnaise,” he said.  My eyebrows raised.  And he nodded his certainty.  ”Hot mayonnaise in the sun, on a beach.”

I would have said, “wow,” or anything.  But he was gone, already down the stairs, his dream unburdened.

I thought for a moment about my own dream.  The one that keeps coming back.  The one I wake up to sometimes.  I’m wondering if talking about it will make it go away.

Do you mind?

All right then.

Here’s what happens.  I’m always in line for a toilet.  No, that’s not quite right.  I’m always looking for a toilet.  No, that’s not it either.  There’s usually plenty of toilets; I just can’t find a clean one to use.  Either they’re floating to the top with stuff in ‘em.  Or there’s stuff on the seat that screams disease.  (I hope you’re not eating).  Or, like this morning, I keep choosing the wrong line to wait in.  Like at a grocery store. Only we’re all waiting behind a closed door for the next person to finish. Men and women.  Each time I get to the front of a line, though, my stall door isn’t a door; it’s a window. And I freeze.  I can’t go.  Not for a crowd.

Have I said too much?

OK.

So…the beauty of this irritating dream is that I’ve never wet the bed.  Wait.  There’s a better way to say that.  I’ve always– eventually–woken up to use the bathroom.

Isn’t that great?

Wow. Um.

I got a better idea…pretend I said nothing.

Whew.

Thanks.  That was close.

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Lingering in the Lingerie

I whispered the “b” word to my husband.  We both snickered.

He glanced down at our daughter hovering in on the conversation.  ”Is that right?” he asked.  ”Gonna do a little bra shopping with mom tonight?”

My daughter melted to the floor, her face three shades of crimson.  But her recovery was quick.  ”Yes!” she beamed.  ”And I can’t wait.”

It was just the two of us.  My daughter who will not need a bra for some time–like years–and me who cannot remember the last time I went shopping for such a thing.  Browsing in the pretty section.  Smoothing our fingers over colored cups.  Gasping at the size of some.

When my daughter held up a weensy thong, I found myself explaining that some panties don’t come with the buns.  We laughed together.  And then she shuddered.

“Can you believe it?” she said.  ”That means their bottoms are actually touching their pants.”

All I can say is… I love her.

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Unconditional

I’d just lost at our second straight hand of UNO this morning when my son patted my knee.  ”It’s okay, mom,” he said.  ”I still love you.”

I felt the edges of my lips begin to smile.  I’d heard those words before.

Tonight, with a pile of blocks between us, we built a city.  We stacked block upon block until they swayed in warning.  And then we held our breath.  When my car garage crumpled to the carpet, my son echoed his earlier words.  ”Don’t worry, mom,” he reassured.  ”I still love you.”

And I didn’t worry.

I smiled back my love for my boy.  I reached across toppled blocks to hold him in my lap.  My boy.

My boy who still loves his mommy.

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Going Nowhere Fast

At the sound of the beeps this morning my daughter sat up.  Straight up.  She listened.  Three more beeps.  Then another two.

And then the whirring of a machine turning without her.

She scooted to the edge of the top bunk, her eyes like a barn owl’s.  Her hair completely startled.  ”But,” she began.  She looked to me to understand. “But…it’s my turn to go first.”

Downstairs, my son jogged at 4 mph, the safety clip already clamped to his shorts.

This was the life.

Or life as it has been for two days.

Yesterday we unloaded this treadmill.  A friend was moving.  The price was right.  And the exercise…how bad could it hurt?

It’s just that I thought it would be me pounding on the treadmill.  Me watching the weather from the window.  Me wishing I was anywhere else but on this rolling tarp.

But it didn’t turn out that way.

My son ran.  My daughter ran.

My son tore past the table for another turn.  My daughter jumped on the ‘mill as soon as his heels hit the carpet.

By mid-morning I had yet to have a turn.

As I stared at the three of us in tennis shoes, each waiting our chance to push the treadmill buttons, I realized that two of us didn’t understand that treadmills are work.

Two didn’t know that most treadmills end up as clothing catch-alls.

Two just think we’re the luckiest family to be able to jog inside our own house.

Whenever we want.

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Restaurant Bliss

I’d say tonight’s dinner at the pizza place came out all right.

That is,

if we don’t count the time our son, the one who marched in with green flip flops raised his toes to his sister’s face and said, “smell this.”  Or the fact that our son ate each bite of his pizza dipped in ketchup, or that he hefted his shirt above his head to show anyone looking how full his belly was.

Everything went great…

if we forget the moment our son lunged for his sister’s pen, came up short, but wiped out a water glass instead, a water glass that soaked a set of car keys, one purse, all the condiments and most of the wall.  And–if we omit from memory our son’s announcement that he was wearing no underwear.  None at all.

Hard to top a night that works like clockwork.

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The Teacher Within

It was quiet.  No crash of building blocks.  No feet tearing through the house.  No shouts for me from outside.

Too quiet.

And then I heard him.

“Apple,” he said.  His voice was full of interest.  ”Apple.”

He waited a moment.

“Fish,” he said.  He held the flashcard to the cat’s face.  He petted the cat.

“Bug.”

The seconds went by.  Each with a word said slowly, each with a flashcard for the cat.

“Frog.”

“Trumpet”

I leaned in the doorway, unaware of what the cat might have learned.

I only know…I might have watched forever.

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The Fox and (the) Raven

Before we had a repeat of Monday’s lunch, I laid down the law:  The dining room table, contrary to what it may seem, was not a race track and those feet (pointing to my son’s) were not at a track meet.

Both kids nodded.

At which time my son dismissed the law and its consequences and dashed away with a carrot stick.

“To the stairs,” I said.  And I watched as he skipped to time out like he was headed to grandma’s house.

We tried our chairs again.  Only this time both my son and his sister sprang from their chairs like last night’s weeds and twirled with their sandwiches until there were tiny trails of tuna fish by each chair leg.

“To the stairs,” I said again.  And the two romped down the hallway for another party in time out.

It was completely peaceful for one minute.  Which was when I saw the cookies.

“We’ll try this again,” I said.  ”If your bottom leaves the chair, no cookie for you.”  I let it sink in.  ”No cookie.  For you.”

Bribery.

But I didn’t care.

I liked it even.

And I noticed how both kids’ bottoms seemed attached to their chairs by duct tape.

Two minutes passed.

At which time my daughter’s eyes grew bright.  She leaned back in her chair and spoke across the table to her brother.  ”I bet you can’t hop on one leg to the wall.”

And like that, my son flung himself from his chair shouting, “I bet I can!”

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Grandma’s Boy

I’d had all the help I needed from my son in the kitchen.  And some.

The guy had chitter-chattered both my ears nearly numb.  But watching him in his two-piece pjs, pushing the dining room chair to the best counter location made me want to scoop him up.

As he stood on his chair at the sink, I whispered into his hair. “Thank you for choosing our family, sweet boy.”

I hugged him close.  At which time he smiled.

Then saddened.

“I chose the wrong family,” he said.  His bottom lip sank.  ”I wanted to be in grandma’s family…”

He thought for a moment…

“‘Cause Grandma’s ALWAYS glad to see me in the morning.”

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Must Move…Must Must

Four years ago, my dad sat in our kitchen scooping squash with a baby spoon while my son stood in his high chair.  The kid had all but gnawed the belt that held him in, and so there he leaned, his behind against the chair back, taking in grandpa and occasionally whatever was on that spoon.

What I didn’t know then was that this was the beginning.

The beginning of my kid’s bottom being allergic to his chair.

Not really.

But really.

And so today…

today as my son sped past me with his egg salad, I pointed to his empty chair.  At which time he threw me a fake frown and darted around the rest of the table, tagging his sister en route.

“You’re it!” he shouted.  And he dug his socks in for a second lap.

My daughter laughed guiltily–the entertainment was too much to ignore.

I pointed again to the chair.  And my son slunk back.

In the time it took to breathe twice, my son–from his chair now–scooted his feet into a pair of pink boots dried with mud and threw his legs onto his sister’s lap.  My daughter rolled her eyes.  She ooched her chair out of boot reach.  And my son snorted a bite of already-eaten egg salad right onto the table.

I was yanking my 26th hair out singularly, when the kid sprang from his chair–bootless now–and bobbed his quarter sandwich six times in front of his sister’s face.  His grin was permanent.

“Enough.” I said.  My own sandwich was nearly finished, and I couldn’t remember tasting any of it.

My son’s buns were nearly to his chair when he paused long enough to lean against the back door.

I shrugged.  Pausing would do.

It’s just that the mat…the mat where both his feet rested zuhwhoooped from beneath him and flung his behind to the ground.

By golly–hee hee–the kid was seated.

Long last.

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