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We are going to have dinner in the home of friends who live in a town six interstate exits away. I herd the kids into the relatively more gas-efficient of our two vehicles. Before I can sit in the passenger’s seat of our Saturn Ion, I must transfer Liam’s belongings from the front seat to the trunk. Although I am gratified that he put his sleeping bag, backpack, etc., in the car as asked, I am still annoyed at being inconvenienced.
I am carrying multiple items (bottles of home-brewed beer, a bottle of wine in case the home-brew doesn’t go over well, Nora’s sweater, and our contribution towards dinner – a tomato, rice and basil salad). I am obliged to balance on one foot and push the button that opens the trunk with my big toe. In the backseat, Liam rubs his siblings’ earlobes and they swat at him. Everyone yells. I tell myself that we are dropping Liam at a friend’s house just a mile away.
As I sink into my seat, I recall what happened the last time Liam went to this friend’s house. I turn around to catch his eye and sternly remind him to behave himself and to respect other people’s property (The last time he went to this friend’s house—and I wish this wasn’t true—he broke the latch on his friend’s bedroom door when he KICKED IT IN during a mock clone trooper assault). That he was invited back to this friend’s house at all is a small miracle. We deposit Liam on his friend’s front stoop and arrange to pick him up after breakfast.
I check the time. We are late. I check the numbers stored in my cell phone; our friends’ phone number is not programmed. I call 411 and hope their number is listed. Nora and Henry are now arguing so loudly that I can’t hear the telephone operator. Just as loudly, my husband tells the kids, “Quiet down.” My call is automatically connected. Thirty seconds into my conversation with our prospective host Henry screams “NO” so emphatically that myself, my husband, Nora, and my friend on the telephone are stunned into silence. I weakly end the call with, “We’ll see you soon!” then lurch around to deal with my overwrought children who are fighting over a punch ball that made it into the car somehow (Nora pinged it off Henry’s face and he is understandably irritated).
I scold Nora and take a good look at Henry. He is so tired that I anticipate his sleeping for the remainder of the 45 minute car ride. Except, I realize: 1) I don’t know when Henry last went to the bathroom; and 2) I hadn’t brought any in-case-of-an-accident clothes. Urgently, I ask Henry if he has to pee and receive a sleepy, but clearly affirmative, response.
My husband and I debate whether Henry can pee on the side of the road. We finally agree to use the sure-to-be-filthy gas station bathroom rather than have Henry make his first-ever attempt at urinating standing up, whilst in a ditch beside Route 117. It is now suspiciously quiet in the car. I check on Henry and discover him on the brink of a sleep coma. I cannot let him succumb to the sandman before he relieves himself or we will all be sorry. For an eternal four minutes, I alternately tickle and pinch Henry’s legs to keep him awake. Henry whines and kicks any part of me that he can reach, along with the backside of the driver’s seat. My husband grits his teeth. Nora sucks her thumb and watches me act like the lunatic I am. I am nauseous from facing the wrong way in the car. I encourage my husband to risk a speeding ticket just to end the madness. We crest the hill in our silver bullet; the oasis-like gas station gleams in the distance. Henry is still awake and his bladder is full. Hallelujah!
I was standing with two moms at a playground today and my mind began to wander.
Why do moms judge each other? We’re so critical of one another. We spend so much time complaining that we don’t want to keep up with the Joneses but then WE TRY AND DO IT. It’s exhausting. Can’t we call a truce? Let’s all admit that it is hard to manage a family. Let’s all admit that we are not perfect (Hello? Do I have to remind you of Jailbird Stewart?). Each of us does the best she can. I freely admit that some days my best is I-don’t-care-as-long-as-you-don’t-burn-the-house-down. Some days, I can give myself a pat on the back. Mostly though, it’s moment to moment.
Let’s give ourselves and each other some slack. Easy to say. Hard to do.
When you are a five year old ballerina, you dance a little and wait to dance a lot.
First, you stand around in your frilly fish costume looking adorable. You preen under the adulation you receive. Then you stand in line waiting for it to be your turn to pose for a formal picture that your mother will pass out to grandparents and other relatives who are missing your debut. You’re unable to contain yourself and start jumping up and down. Your other fishy friends think this is a great idea and they start bouncing up and down too. Someone starts a game of tag. Soon you are racing around the “holding pen” giggling madly.
Your mother thinks her head might explode.
A ballet instructor chastises you, your friends and your mother who is the group monitor, for un-ballerina like behavior. You mope. You wait around some more. At long last, you are lined up with the other ants-in-their-pants fish. You are brought backstage where you must wait for the big-girl ballerinas to finish their routine on-stage. You are enthralled by their grace and beauty. Some of your little fish friends are wriggling again but now you are all business. “Stop moving my body!” you hiss in a very loud stage whisper when the primary offender bumps into you. “YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!” she retorts indignantly. Your mother ineffectively shushes the group and pleads with all the little fishies to be patient “just a teensy bit longer.” The music rises in a familiar trill. Your grand entrance!
Two minutes later, your dance is over and you exit stage right. The audience applauds madly. You are thrilled. Your mother hugs you and says she is proud of you. Your smile tells her everything. She escorts you and the other fish back downstairs to…wait.
Curtain call in just 58 minutes.
The little kids and I met my Dad (aka Pop-pop) for lunch at Burger King because Nora (age 5) insisted on going. It didn’t matter to her that it was 70 degrees outside and sunny nor that I routinely feel sick to my stomach after eating fast food. I had promised her two weeks ago (the girl has an elephant’s memory) that I would bring her “sometime” to the indoor playground there and a promise is a promise.
Nora and Henry had just scampered off when the crying began. I checked the playground: not a kid in sight. The wordless screams bounced off the hard surfaces of the room. I looked over at the other families seated near us. No one made eye contact. I checked the playground again. Still no kids in sight.
It sounds unbelievable now, but at the time, it hadn’t crossed my mind that it might be MY kid screaming. Someone is always running to tell me that so-and-so fell off his or her bike, bed, trampoline, etc. The kids are each others’ early notification system and I have come unconsciously to rely on them to tell me when one another is hurt.
My Dad quietly cut through my mind-fog: “I think yours are the only ones in there.”
It took less than a second for me to stop being shocked and to start sprinting for the playground. The first thing I saw was Nora lying face down on a mat. “Nora!” I fought the mesh to get at her. Too late, I noticed that her hands were clamped over her ears in an attempt to muffle the offensive noise.
“Henry! Where are you?!?” I stalled, trying to pinpoint his exact location within the structure because he still wasn’t in sight. “I’m coming!”
I wriggled my way up the sticky, smelly tunnel like a proctologist’s instrument. I suddenly thought: Were the hypodermic needles in the ball pits really an urban legend? My God, had Henry been poked with a used needle? “Henry! Henry! Answer me!”
And then I found him. He had tried to ease himself down from a raised platform but his legs weren’t long enough to reach the next step. He was on his stomach; his bottom half dangled a mere 12 inches from safety. I squeezed over to him and gathered his sweaty body to me. “Shh, it’s okay. Momma’s here.” His screams became whimpers. I rocked him in my arms and tried to breathe through my mouth. We looked out the red-domed window at Pop-pop who couldn’t see us but who looked relieved anyway.
With some difficulty, I carried Henry back through the tunnel. I put him down. His face was flushed.
“Buddy, are you okay?”
He didn’t look up as he ran away; his words floated between us.
“I go play now.”
This morning, I went to the Echo Center with my oldest son, Liam, and 18 of his third-grade classmates to learn about “Ecology, Culture, History and Opportunity” in the Champlain Basin.
We rode in a school bus, which was louder than I remember it being. Much louder. But it was worth it—if only to observe the following exchange:
“What are these pictures examples of?” asked the Echo Center instructor brightly.
Blank stares. Scuffling feet. I glanced over at Liam to find him surreptitiously trying to retrieve a plastic ax from under his seat (it was a prop). Realizing that she had stumped the crowd, the instructor started the word for the kids, drawing the syllable out in a sing-song, “It’s PUH….”
You could almost see the light bulbs popping over their heads. “POLLUTION!” they screamed.
“Uh, no,” she said, looking startled, then deflated. “I…was looking for…POPULATION.”
Same difference, really.
OINKtales 
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