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I dislike being asked questions with obvious answers. It makes me incredulous and cross. In an effort to hold onto my sanity, I often cloak my irritation with sarcastic humor.
It must be said that I am not always troll-like. I do try to modulate my exasperation levels and I will make allowances for persons in my company who have just begun using full sentences.
But when my patience evaporates, and it inevitably does, these are the kinds of exchanges my kids and I have:
“Why do you have to get out of the tub? Because if you don’t, you’ll get sucked down the drain.”
“Are we leaving now? No. We’ll wait until you scrub the floor on your hands and knees with toothbrushes and your brother licks the toilet clean.”
Recently, the kids were dancing on my last nerve. It was bath night and things weren’t going well. Multiple objections, unresponsive zombie stares, and various forms of dilly-dallying had me at wits’ end.
“Liam!” I hissed through clenched teeth. “For the last time, stop reading and go take your shower! Do you want to keep smelling like a goat?”
Unperturbed, he placed a bookmark between the pages of his book and casually closed its cover. Looking me straight in the eye, he shot me a wicked smile. “Ma-aa-aaa,” he bleated.
I started laughing. The kind of laugh that makes your belly hurt. He got me. He gets me. And with that, my goat-boy ambled off to bathe.
Last week, I was informed that for the past month, Henry spent his weekly “swim time” parked in a chair instead of paddling in the pool. His recalcitrance had spread to the other children and was now an “issue.”
Indeed.
I hate to swim. Not only am I a sinker, but I am uncomfortable in the locker room. I never know where to look.
Nonetheless, I agreed to go swimming with Henry.
On swim day, the kids’ flailing, spinning bodies skimmed across the classroom like spandex encased tumbleweeds. A teacher commanded the group’s attention (no easy feat) and they sat down for a pre-swim snack. As the kids munched on goldfish and blueberries, Henry’s friend X called to me.
“Henry’s Mom!” X said with a smile. “My Mommy….you.”
I could not catch X’s voice from across the room. “What, honey?” I asked, while wishing for coffee. Did I have time to run out for coffee?
The second time, X’s words were crystal clear: “My. Mommy. Can’t. Stand. You.”
Ahhh. Got it. Message received.
How was I supposed to respond to that? With a neutral “Thank you for sharing”? Or maybe a snarky “Tell her I feel the same way”? But I was caught off-guard by X’s comment. I recalled chatting with X’s mom on numerous occasions. In my recollections, she was always friendly–often saying hello and initiating our conversations.
I quickly concluded there was no appropriate response and I made none. Soon, snack was over and we were on our way to the pool. Henry was happy to swim with me and I delighted in his delight.
Later, as I reflected on X’s statement, my own Mommy-voice echoed in my head: “It’s OK. You aren’t going to be friends with everyone.”
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.”
OINKtales 
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