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(A friend forwarded this image to me. The caption was: Tensions mount.)
The day dawns like any other. Medium and Large are at school; Small is at the counter finishing his breakfast, watching me sip my go-juice (high-test with lots of sugar and cream) and marshaling my thoughts. For once, we are not in any rush. Until I glance at the calendar. There, in my own handwriting, is my reminder: Swine – 10a.
I had been rather “anti-” about getting the kids vaccinated against H1N1, so, I was startled to discover that my husband was firmly in the “pro-” camp. Since his position was unequivocal and mine was tainted with cynicism, I decided not to oppose him. I simply made the appointment at our pediatrician’s office and then promptly forgot about it.
Henry and I retrieve Liam from school and are racing to collect Nora, when it occurs to me that she doesn’t know we are coming to pick her up. This is a problem. Nora doesn’t like surprises. Good or bad, they’re equally unwelcome to her.
Upon collection, Nora is annoyed with the day’s unexpected disruption, but I can tell—from her silence—she is giving me the benefit of the doubt. A benefit which is quickly dispelled. By the time I’ve gotten her out of the building and into the car, she is wailing. “I don’t want a shot! I want to go back to school! Take me back to school! The doctor is stupid! You’re stupid! And mean! Take me back, right now!” She is like a caged wildcat, spitting and yowling. Liam and Henry are shocked by her vehemence. I apologize over and over. I tell her that I wish I had told her beforehand (How I wish this!), that I take responsibility for not having given her time to prepare. I tell her that she can blame Daddy for having to get this shot at all (This was low but I am willing to stoop to such lows to escape her wrath.). I posit that she won’t have to get a shot at all – that it’s possible the nurses will spray a mist up her nose, instead. None of this matters to her. She is implacable.
I once read that if you want a good indicator of how your child will act as a teenager, observe them closely at the age of five. If this is a true measurement of temperment, then am I ever in for it. (Personal note: Mom, you’ll be pleased to know that your “I-hope-that-you-have-a-fifteen-year-old-daughter-who-is-every-bit-as-miserable-as-you!” curse has a good chance of coming true.)
Twenty-four minutes later, my left-hand blinker is announcing to all unsuspecting passerby that Phase One of my torture session is coming to an end. By this time, she has stopped screaming and is weeping, quietly. I mentally gear myself for Phase Two: The Interminable Wait for the Doctor.
“Nora?” Liam sounds uncharacteristically tentative. “There was this time when I was scared about getting a shot—I was just about your age—and then I got it, and it didn’t hurt…much. If you exhale when you get the shot, it’s not supposed to hurt. I’ll go first, so you can see.”
Then it’s Liam who helps her out of the van, Liam who holds her hand in the parking lot, Liam who lends her his strength.
I will not remember this day for the drama. I will remember it as the day Nora believed her brother was the smartest person in the world and the only one she trusted to guide her through it.
My little one desperately needs a nap but isn’t inclined to take one. Who is more stubborn? His assent is grudging. We walk hand-in-hand back to our cabin, crunching the crushed stone under our feet. The sun is high in the sky; it seems hotter inside the cabin than out.
He wants to be held. Get away from him. He wants a drink. He doesn’t want a drink. He’s hungry, but not for this—he wants that. Leave his clothes on. No, take them off. I feel so stifled I can barely catch my breath and it is not only because there is a dearth of fresh air.
We lay down on the bed together. Eyelids drooping, he cuddles Piggy to his face and sucks the special thumb (the right one will do in a pinch but he prefers the taste of his left). The ambient light from the window spills over us. Every one of his downy hairs is backlit. I notice his muscles are bunched and taut in spite of our repose.
I grab the closest book and read out loud. After every few pages, I check, surreptitiously, to see if he is asleep. Each time, I find him surveying me steadily. Just when I’ve decided to admit defeat, his eyelids droop and he flips onto his side. I pause. He shifts around to meet my gaze. “More story,” he demands. I say nothing. He inhales. And in that moment, I hear him relinquish reality. He is tumbling into his dreams.
I always meant to observe, but never did, the spectacle of the migrating snow geese. Up to 20,000 snow geese make an annual pit-stop in Addison, Vt, on their way to their winter habitat (Compared to the upper reaches of Canada, Maryland must feel practically tropical.). Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought, for the kids to witness this natural phenomenon? Anticipating An Experience to Remember, I invited my goddaughter, the Bean, to join us.
It would take us an hour to get to the Dead Creek Wildlife Management Area. Before we left, I called the Vermont Fish and Wildlife’s information line. A recorded message informed me that 2,000 snow geese and 500 other migratory birds had arrived! Hooray!
VT Route 7 is a gorgeous drive in the fall. I urged the kids to admire the passing scenery and peppered them with deep questions such as, “How many cows are over there? Do you know what those mountains are called? Why do birds fly south for the winter? Think we’ll see the camel?”
The camel? Oh, yes. In September, Henry and I spotted a two-humped camel in a pen along this same stretch of road. It’s not every day in New England that one sees a native desert dweller and she surprised us.
We reached the snow geese’s designated viewing area just after noon. The wind whipped our hair into nest-like towers as we exited the van then huddled for warmth in the lean-to. We tossed each other tidbits of knowledge gleaned from poop-christened signs. The stage was set. Where was the main act?
We scanned the fenced field dotted with mud and lined with corn stalks. A group of black birds wheeled in the sky above us. But no geese. How were we missing 2,000 geese? When the breeze brought us faint honking sounds, I squinted to find the source. Far, far, far in the distance, a thin, white ribbon rippled between the static brown field and the bluish-purple mountains. That narrow stripe was the flock.
The four kids fought over the three pairs of binoculars (poor planning on my part). Even so, all of us were watching when five white fluffs rose into the air and drifted off. It wasn’t long before someone clamored for lunch. On the grassy area next to the lean-to, we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, popcorn, and grapes. The kids delighted in the homemade babe ruth bars Bean brought to share–the sugar was quickly metabolized in their chase over and around some boulders.
I was disappointed but didn’t want to admit it. “Ok, everybody! Time to go. Let’s load up!”
As the kids piled into the van, Large said, “Well, at least we didn’t come for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we saw the geese and those other little birds and we got to have a picnic…with dessert.”
“Did you have fun?”
A chorus of “yeahs” soothed my lumps.
“Thanks, guys.”
On our trip home, we saw a pair of bi-curious heifers and wonder of wonders: The Camel. It was a memorable trip. Even if it wasn’t for the same reasons I thought it would be.
Our family’s been hit with the viral swine but we seem to be on the mend. Even if it’s the calm before the storm, I’ll take it. I need a breather. Medium missed trick or treating this year–her fever was too high for comfort. She was stalwart about her infirmity, however, and solemnly tracked her brothers’ progress from her perch next to the window until they were swallowed up by the night.
When the boys returned, they were generous with their sister, voluntarily spilling their loot onto the floor and divvying it into thirds. Their shared ebullience recalled the last candy-soaked holiday.
It was Easter Sunday. After being hounded most of the afternoon, I relented. “Go ahead. Eat as much chocolate as you want.” Four pairs of eyes stared at me incredulously. Three pairs gleamed with what seemed close to religious fervor. “YOU get to put them to bed tonight,” was my sage husband’s only comment.
Two seconds later, all three kids were in the midst of gorging themselves with Easter basket bounty at the counter. Two minutes later, I overheard Nora say to Henry, “I think he’s sad that he’s eating a bunny.” I looked up from my book. Liam was absent.
By now, many of you know that we are a carnivorous family. Liam’s favorite foods are bacon, hamburgers and more bacon. Last fall, he was thrilled to try venison. So this was a new one. I flashed back to my youth; the echoes of an apology whispered into a chocolate ear lapped at my memory. I asked Liam to sit with me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you feel a little funny about eating the rabbit?”
Embarrassed, Liam looked away. “Yeah,” he mumbled.
I looked over at the counter where contented gnawing continued unabated and then back at my sensitive son. “Don’t worry about it, buddy. They aren’t real. You don’t have to feel bad about eating them but I understand if you still feel that way.”
He gave a sigh and hugged me tightly.
My not-yet-five year old daughter caught my eye over his shoulder and smiled. She raised the bunny to her mouth, paused, and took a dainty little bite. “EEEP!” she said quietly. “Eeeeep, oh eeeep.” She shook her head and chuckled.
“She’s mocking me!” Liam was indignant.
I was laughing too hard to comfort him. That’s my girl.
I relinquish my role as Primary Kid Wrangler to my husband after dinner. The exceptions being those I-can’t-take-it-anymore days when I am desperate to punch the proverbial time card the moment he sets foot in the house and those nights he is working late, has a meeting, or is going out with his Peeps. Most nights, though, our deal is: I clean up the kitchen and he cleans up the kids.
We’ve never talked about this division of work. It happened organically, and over time, it became our pattern. I am happy with this arrangement (he might not be but I’m not asking) and on those nights I am required to pull double duty, I am reminded how lucky I am that he is an involved parent.
But, as in most things, we do things differently.
“Mommy,” said Henry, splashing in his bath. “We thkip da shampoo tonight?”
“What? No. We have to wash your hair.”
His scowl matched his displeased mutter. “Daddy doeth.”
He pointed at the plastic rinse cup on the opposite side of the tub. “I’m thirthty. Gimme dat.”
“So you can, what? Drink the bathwater? No.”
“Pweeth?”
I raised an eyebrow and stared him down (this is easy to do when you have a 30 year advantage).
He glared at me. “Daddy doeth.”
I attempted to wash the grime from his ears. “Are you growing cabbages in there?”
“No, Mommy, don’t!” he screamed. “Daddy doethn’t do dat!” He thrashed from side to side trying to escape the dreaded washcloth. By the time bath time was over, I was soaked and the bathroom floor was dotted with flotsam from our battle. We both wished that his father was there.
He had one last question for me while I was drying him off. “Mommy? Can you thtand up and pee?”
“No.”
He smirked. “Daddy doeth.”
OINKtales 
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