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I was more than irritated when I discovered another scribbled-upon wall. Liam was ensconced safely at camp; Nora has never drawn on anything but paper. That left but one suspect.
“Henry! Please come in here!”
“What’s going on?” asked my husband, wandering in from the kitchen. I said nothing. He followed my gaze to the wall and then snorted in disbelief.
“I’m gonna kill him,” I whispered.
Henry bounced into the room. He looked from me to the wall to Brendan. “Nah-uh, Mommy.” He smiled, confident in his knowledge that I would never, could never, hurt him. “’Cuz of God,” he said solemnly.
I turned away to smother a disrespectful smirk. Fixing my frown, I leaned over him. “Do you know why Mommy is not happy?”
“’Cuz you uthin’ dat voice.”
Sighing, I pointed to the wall.
“Oh!” He jumped in front of his latest masterpiece with his arms extended—trying to block my view. “Oh, dat! Thorry, Mommy.”
I explained to Henry why it was not okay to write on walls. I reminded him that we had had this conversation before and firmly informed him that I did not want to have it again.
He looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. He was obviously feeling guilty. Just as my attitude started to soften, a paradigm shift. His eyes blazed with the Greatness of his idea. “It not me! Piggy did it!” He thrust the purported offender forward.
I was at a loss. This was a new one.
“Well…,” I stalled, casting around for the right response. Was I going to have to lecture him about lying? Was this the time to analyze the differences between what is real vs. pretending something is real? “Well…,” and then it came to me. “YOU [and I prodded his chest for emphasis] are responsible for Piggy. You know that you are not allowed to write on the wall. And SO, you should not let Piggy write on the wall either.” I paused, pleased with myself for having out-argued a three-year-old. “Now, you and Piggy need to clean up your mess.”
He nodded at me. “OK, Mommy.”
Later, I was gulping a glass of wine and reviewing the tapes inside my head. Even though Henry had tried to blame his alter-ego, ultimately, he had admitted his misconduct, expressed remorse, and received an appropriate consequence. He was learning to accept personal responsibility.
Brendan touched my shoulder. “Honey? Did you happen to notice the ‘pictures’ Henry drew on the tan chair?”
I was going to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in three years at a State park an hour and a half away. I had a very narrow window of opportunity to see her and every second counted.
It was the usual mad scramble to get everyone up, fed, dressed and dropped-off, but I was speeding down the interstate with Small before 8:30 a.m.
Struck by the novelty of being out with only one child, I made a conscious effort to converse with him rather than zone out to NPR. The sun was shining and for once, we were on schedule. Eventually, we fell into a companionable silence. Miles passed. Then:
“Mommmmyyy, I got to go.”
I sighed. “Didn’t you go potty before we left the house?”
There was no response.
“How bad do you have to go? Can you hold it?”
We were maybe a half an hour from our destination. He could probably hold it. I thought a simple distraction might do the trick. “Henry! Look up! There’s geese!”
“I don’t want to. I have to pee!”
Defeated, I said, “OK, Henry, hold it. Don’t pee. We’ll find a bathroom.”
I hunched over the wheel and pressed on the accelerator while keeping up a crazed commentary. “Hang in there! There’s a rest area coming up. It’s just a mile. You can do it! Henry, look! Is that a beaver pond over there? Look for a beaver! Can you see a beaver?”
When I saw the blue sign for the rest area, my shoulders relaxed. 
I drifted toward the exit, mentally adding a fifteen minute delay to our estimated time of arrival. I was almost on the ramp when, suddenly, I realized there were multiple blue lights flashing in the rest area’s parking lot. State troopers. Lots of them.
“Oh, fuck that,” I said, yanking on the steering wheel.
Shit.
I glanced in the rearview mirror to see Henry’s expression. I am usually careful about not using profanity around the kids—particularly the F-bomb. I’ve no doubt that they’ve heard all the words before and will, in all likelihood, hear them again, but I’d rather they not hear them from me.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Ok, Henry,” I chirped. “We’re going to go to the bathroom at McDonald’s. It’s at the next exit and it’s not far. You like McDonald’s. They aren’t serving french fries but I can get you a hash brown.”
Silence.
Another quick glance into the back seat. Had he peed already? Was he mulling the definition of this fun, new vocabulary word?
The scene unspooled in my mind’s eye: He’d grin mischievously and then the chanting would start: “Fug dat, Mommy, fug dat….”
I held my breath and caught his eye. He grinned at me. “Ok, Mommy. I hold it.”
Phew.
All three kids started school this week. Separate schools. I’m not sure what I was thinking last Spring when I filled out the enrollment forms.
Why didn’t I remember the transitory social speed bumps that Liam experiences every September? Or consider that Nora might have significant going-to-kindergarten anxiety? Or weigh the possibility that Henry and I might both feel overwhelmed learning the ins and outs of a parent cooperative preschool?
Did I mention that one of the schools is an experimental, multi-age academy in its first year of operation whose focus includes environmental sustainability?
Oh, yes.
But why look back there? I am here–criss-crossing town in my gas-guzzling people-mover giving pep-talks, mopping tears, taking notes, kissing hands and returning paperwork.
Onward and upward.
I just hope no one checks the size of my carbon footprint.
OINKtales 
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