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After I checked into the Cape Hedge Inn, I told the kids we were hitting the beach. Small, Medium and Large hastily scrambled into their suits. A measure of their excitement: no one complained when I applied sunscreen.
We were on vacation with my husband’s family—his parents, brother, sister-in-law and their two children, K and G (ages six and three), as well as his 85-year-old grandmother whom the kids call G.G. (Great-Grammie). We were missing only my husband’s sister and her family and – there is no way to write this without the words dripping with irony – my husband.
Small, Medium and Large’s first ocean experience was idyllic. We spent the afternoon under the sun, jumping waves, squealing over seaweed and selecting the smoothest pebbles to bring home. More than once I wished my husband was there with us (he was arriving the following evening) to see the kids at their carefree, fun-loving best.
Fast forward a few hours. I have lugged all the beach toys, rocks (did I call them pebbles?), blankets, towels and coolers back to our motel room, made all the kids shower and change, rinsed and wrung out four bathing suits, cleaned the cooler and found dry clothes for myself. I am exhausted and so are the kids. Unfortunately, when my kids reach exhaustion they refuse to allow themselves to feel tired. Instead, they push themselves to that level beyond exhaustion – super-hyper-drive-your-mother-crazy-energizer-bunny-stage. They are entertaining themselves by bouncing off the walls. Literally. It is 7:30 p.m. and we haven’t eaten dinner.
My sister-in-law drops by our room to invite us to go with the rest of the family and dine in town. At a restaurant. After telling her that is sheer madness, I politely decline—opting for what I hope will be a lesser form of torture: a visit to the grocery store.
Our drive to the store is blessedly quick. Once I have located the entrance (on the far side of the building from where we have parked), we troop in. I hand Liam a basket and take one for myself. At first, we navigate the aisles like a school of fish; as a group, we dart in for tasty bites and shy away from oncoming predators. But by the time we reach the bread aisle, our school has disbanded. We look less like fish and more like an ineffective cowboy with a poorly managed cattle herd. I yell at the rogues and attempt to head them off at the pass. More than once, I wish I had a cattle prod.
We reach the checkout counter where a bored teenager with heavy eye-liner scans our groceries. I have over-estimated stuff to buy and there is no bagger so I do it myself. After we make it through the exit, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s then that I hear a noise. Nora has dropped her new flip-flops. I freeze. And it dawns on me.
“Did we pay for those flip-flops?
She is silent.
“Nora! Did those flip-flops make it onto the checkout belt?”
She shakes her head vigorously. Her eyes well with tears. “I forgot!”
The bags I am hefting suddenly feel heavier. I close my eyes. For an instant, I consider just continuing on, going back to the motel. But I can’t. I will not intentionally set my six year old on the road that could end with her crafting a shank out of a cafeteria utensil. This is one of those “teachable moments” the parenting experts are always on about. Damn them.
“C’mon everybody. We have to go back inside.” I herd the kids back toward the doors we just exited. They start an ascending chorus of “Whys” and “Do we have tos?” but they are stumbling in the right direction. A young couple stares at us wide-eyed as we pass them on their way out of the store. I think to myself that we are a walking advertisement for birth control.
The doors close behind us. I can see our cashier just beyond the next set of doors. But they remain closed. We are trapped in this glass box until someone leaves the store.
Liam notices that we are being captured on the security camera’s monitor and begins doing the “butt dance.” Nora and Henry drop their bags and begin shaking their butts at the camera too. They are hilarious. I am nigh hysterical. Suddenly, the doors hiss open and the group of German exchange students that had been testing Axe deodorant sprays in aisle seven are standing on the other side. I stop telling my kids to stop and stride purposefully through the cloud of pheromones. Small, Medium and Large follow me meekly.
The flip-flops make a smacking sound when I slap them on the conveyer belt. “We forgot to pay for these.”
The cashier shrugs, scans the tag and says, “That will be two dollars and seventeen cents.” I hand her the money silently.
She is handing me my change when Liam leans forward. “You really ought to tighten up your security. I mean, my sister walked right out of here and there weren’t any bells or anything.”
So, he learned something. Too bad it wasn’t the lesson I was trying to teach.
For weeks, my little girl’s bite was doubled up like a shark’s. Her baby tooth just would not budge. Rather than wait, the adult tooth emerged behind it.
Even her teeth are impatient.
When she ran over to me this morning with her face alight and bottom lip pulled out, I was relieved.
Tonight, there was no fussing about bedtime. Nora was more than happy to go upstairs, get into her pajamas and brush the rest of her teeth. After I wrestled Small out of his day clothes and into clean Dr. Denton’s, I went to find her. She was sitting on her bed, silently caressing the milky white tooth in her hand.
“Don’t put it under your pillow loose. It’ll get lost.”
Nora gave me her standard response – a headshake in lieu of words.
I persisted. “Really, sweetheart. Use the little jar you had it in. Put the tooth in the jar and the jar under your pillow.”
She stared at the floor.
This was going to be an issue.
“How about if you use this box?” Now I was pleading with her.
“No, Mommy.” Her voice was quiet, but firm.
“A plastic bag?”
“No, Mommy.”
“Honey, the tooth fairy works on a very tight schedule. If you leave it loose under your pillow, it could get lost. And if she can’t find it, she won’t leave you any money.”
“I don’t care if I get money, Mommy.”
Apparently, she’s no capitalist. This argument would have worked on her big brother. How was I going to get her to help me? I sat next to her on the bed. She peered at me through her curtain of wispy, brown hair.
“Are you sure?” I gentled my tone. “Why don’t you put it in a box? Otherwise, she might not find it.”
“No, Mommy. She will.” She nodded earnestly. Her confidence in her fairy was unshakable. “She will,” she said with certainty.
And so, the tooth was placed under her pillow—unfettered and naked—directly on the sheet. The lovely multicolored floral patterned sheet with the white background.
God help me. I may need the Rock.
Periodically, I order the kids to do household chores but I don’t do it with any consistency. One day, I might tell them to put away the plethora of toys in the toy room (a.k.a. our basement); two weeks later, I might beg them to strip the sheets from their beds. Is it any wonder that they aren’t tidy?
Feeling grumpier than usual after our daily recitation of insults and injuries (a.k.a. family dinner conversation), I put Medium and Large to work clearing the counter and putting dishes into the dishwasher.
A little while later, passing through the kitchen, I overheard the following exchange:
“There are no monsters living in this house.”
“There are too, Nora. I’m telling you. Haven’t you heard them bumping around at night? I’ve met them. I know.” Liam’s voice rang with eye-witness authority.
“I don’t believe you.” Her shaking hands knocked one of the dinner plates against the faucet. “Whoops.”
“Believe it. They’re really scary. They have these big eyes and you know what else? Wh-what was that?” He spun around, pretending he heard something. Facing his sister, he lowered his voice and said, “They don’t like me talking about them.”
Nora froze, cup in hand. Her five years of experience with Liam’s practical jokes warred with the delicious possibility of living with an honest-to-goodness monster.
“I’ll tell you their names in case you run into them. They’re names are—and don’t blame me if you’re terrified,” he paused dramatically and then grinned, unable to keep up his charade. “Frank, Earl and Carl!”
Together, they laughed so hard they hardly made any noise.
She caught her breath first. “Frank!” she said. “Get to work!”
I do like to share! But sometimes, I don’t. Mom got this picture in the mail and then she hung it up on the big board in the kitchen. She thinks it’s funny. I don’t. It makes me mad!
I share stuff with my big brother and my sister and my friends at school. And I share with my baby cousins. But I don’t always want to.
Babies! Who needs them?
When I woke up today, Mom told me that G.B. (Gargantuan Baby) was coming over to play. She took out all the baby toys and put the gate around the stove. Ha! G.B. doesn’t know that fire is hot? I know that fire is hot.
Well, G.B. and his dad came over but then, G.B.’s dad left without G.B.! Mom said he was going to the mountain to play in the snow.
I want to go play in the snow but Mom won’t come outside with me. She says we have to watch the baby inside. Harumph!
But I get to watch TV and I do…until G.B. wrecks my train track. That makes me mad! I made that! I jump off the couch and lay down on top of my trains. “Mom!” I yell. “He’s messing up my train track!”
Mom tells me to be nice to the baby.
Stupid baby.
These are MY toys. Mine. My own.
Oh, fine. He can play with my trains. I’ll play with my airplane. It makes cool noises. 1, 2, 3, blast off!
Uh-oh. Here comes G.B. “No, G.B.! This is MINE!” I run away. He can only crawl. He can’t catch me. I hold my airplane up high, where he can’t reach.
“Henry?” Mom is calling. “Keep an eye on G.B. while I set up the pack and play.”
I stop running. That’s my pack and play.
Harumph.
Wait! Where is G.B. going? He’s moving towards…he’s trying to get…PIGGY! “NO!” I shout. I grab her and put her behind my back. She is safe, but he is crying. Wow. He’s loud. I cover my ears. Mom picks him up and takes him away.
I’m all alone. I feel bad. G.B.’s just a baby. He’s not a big boy like me. I peek into the living room. G.B. and Mom are reading a book about trucks.
That’s my Mom.
I walk over. “Mom, can I sit in your lap?”
She says yes and makes room for me. I look at G.B. out of the corner of my eye. This is alright. I guess. I like this book. Trucks are cool. G.B. squirms away from us.
I’m watching you, G.B. I see you.
Mom makes lunch. She feeds G.B. in a special chair with a tray. He is eating applesauce. I am eating spaghettios with meatballs. I smile at G.B. I make a funny face at him. He screeches. I wince. Mom says it’s OK, that it’s his way of laughing.
The applesauce dribbles off G.B.’s chin. He spits more of it out when he makes a raspberry noise. Hey! I like to make those noises too! I make one. G.B. laughs. It makes me feel good. I giggle.
But only a little.
It’s that time of year. Heaps of stress, never-ending lists, presents that will not wrap themselves no matter how hard I wish it, (plus!) scheduling my annual pilgrimage to church with my mother.
The funny thing is, I love the holidays. I love the twinkly white lights, the tangible greetings from family and friends delivered right to our mailbox, the all Christmas music radio station (Bing Crosby, Vince Guaraldi and last but not least, Jon Bon Jovi’s Please Come Home for Christmas).
I tend to be more thankful at this time of year than at any other.
My kids are out-of-their-minds excited for Christmas; they decorated the house with gusto, happily picked out presents to give to each other and our family members, reminded me that it is tradition to put the tree in the corner of the room—NOT in front of the window. While I know that somewhere in their consciousness lurks the understanding that this holiday is about more than Santa Claus (unlike me, they are semi-regular church-goers), it is not often that that knowledge is exposed.
A case in point: Let’s flashback to five years ago. Nora was an infant and Liam was four years old. Henry was but a twinkle in my husband’s…eye. Overwhelmed by dirty diapers and a dearth of much-needed sleep, I came downstairs with the baby to find an empty house. I searched for Liam, who should have been happily ensconced in front of the TV, for five long minutes. On the brink of insanity, I happened to look outside. At the end of our driveway, stood a small, snow-covered figure with a bucket and a bell. Ripping open the front door, I shouted, “Liam! Get in here, this instant!”
Reluctantly, he trudged back up the hill with his bucket.
“What were you thinking, mister?”
“Nana told me never to pass someone with a bell without giving them money. I rang the bell, but no one stopped.” He was both wet and disappointed.
“Oh, buddy. What were you going to do with the donations?”
“Well, you won’t buy me that Star Wars blaster, so I’m gonna buy it myself.”
Obviously, this prompted a long conversation (alright, I’ll call a spade a spade—it was a lecture) about the Salvation Army, people’s basic needs and our family’s commitment to charitable giving, which has been repeated on multiple occasions over the years and augmented with both planned and random acts of kindness. Still, I wasn’t sure that any of the kids were getting the big picture.
And then between the blank stares and shrugged shoulders, I glimpsed a ray of light.
We were, as usual, running behind schedule. The kids missed the school bus so I dispersed them—Medium first, then Small, and finally, Large.
Liam trudged toward the double doors of the middle school, munching on toast and hefting an enormous backpack. Without warning, he spun around and headed back to the car. I put my window down. “What did you forget?”
“My money.”
I was immediately suspicious. “What are you bringing money to school for?”
He met my skepticism with righteous indignation. “I’m helping buy a turkey for a needy family. Do you think five dollars is enough?”
A buried memory of an e-newsletter burbled to the surface of my mind. I was speechless. Not only had he remembered the food drive without any parental reminders, but he was using his own savings to participate.
It was my tiny miracle.
Happy holidays, everyone.
OINKtales 
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