July 18, 2011 · 10:21 am

“Mom, I’m Bored!”

We’re into our unscheduled weeks of summer. No trips, no camps, no real plans. Just me and the kids and some much-needed lazy days. Every summer I forget how hard this new routine can be. Going from the rigmarole of school to wearing your pj’s till lunch is a shock to the kiddies. To me it’s grand. Nowhere to be? I leap with pure joy.

I do freelance work from home and took some mornings recently to finish a project. A highly effective mother would have a plan in place to occupy the kids so she could work. It just so happens, I did have a strategy one day: a kid-friendly camera and a scavenger hunt list for the kids to take pictures of. Their photography exploration bought me enough time to finish work, put sheets on the beds, and trim a bush that was two feet higher than it needed to be. Fantastic!

The next day, no plan. Disaster. I noticed them hovering as I got dressed. They sighed. They paced. We began to fuss at each other. Hmm. My first instinct is always to get them to clean up. They usually find something else to do fast. But they cleaned. Boredom was that bad, huh? Back again, as if being next to me is an exciting alternative to the wonderland we have upstairs. Hmmm. With so many toys they forget they have, it should feel like Christmas.

My next trick is to let them know that whatever they find not fit enough to play with must be ready to give away. That threat always works. When left alone a little longer, the kids find something to do. They always do. And of course it involves an 8-foot-by-10-foot mess that I have to maneuver. Then it sits there like a minefield. I hop through it each time I enter the room, loathing it more and more. That night when I announce it’s time to clean up, I get lots of, “Ah, Mom, we’re going to play with it later” and “It took us so long to set it up.” I get it. I was a kid too. So I let them leave it another day or so…until I realize they aren’t really playing with it. And they’re bored—again.

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July 12, 2011 · 9:11 am

6:25 in the Morning

It’s 6:25 a.m. On a Saturday. It’s summer for Pete’s sake. And he’s up, our son the rooster. My husband and I know this because the toilet flushes. No matter what time he goes to bed, his eyes pop open at the first beam of sunlight. He peeks into our room. We don’t flinch. About 15 minutes later he comes in again. “Go read,” I mumble. It’s not even 7 a.m. I see him quietly peek in one last time a bit later before I finally get up.

When he was younger, he used to come in every three minutes and drive us crazy until one of us got up. And sometimes he’d wake up at 5 a.m.—in the dark. That was rough. Now at age 8, most of the time he’ll read. 

I’m not a morning person. He is. Don’t even talk to me until I’ve eaten and showered. I don’t care to chit-chat. The thing about my son is that he has been up for an hour or more and he is bursting with questions. Every sentence starts with Mom, and there are no breaths in between.

“Mom, if a whale washes up on the beach, probably three or four people have to carry it back out into the ocean.”

Well, they’re too big to lift.

“Mom, what happens if a dolphin washes up on the beach? I bet the lifeguards would have to come pick it up and put it back in the water.”

Well, a dolphin and a whale are pretty heavy and if one washes up, it’s sick or dying. Lifeguards don’t do that sort of thing.

“Mom, probably Animal Control comes and takes it to the animal hospital and they fix it.”

I tell him that marine biologists probably come take a look at it there on the beach. It’s really too early for me to function, but he wants some answers.

“Mom, do they have whale sharks at Sea World?”

I haven’t a clue.

“Mom, whale sharks when they open their mouths, it is bigger than our playroom.”

Man, that is really big.

“Mom, if a stingray washes up on the beach, probably the lifeguards can just pick it up by its tail and throw it back into the ocean.”

I don’t know if the lifeguards would touch it. (Oh, make it stop.)

“Mom, but if it’s a minnow, they can just fling it back in.”

Yes, they can just fling it back in. (My brain is hurting. But I smile.)

“Mom, did you know they make the Knight Bus Harry Potter Lego set and it comes with…”

(Not again.)

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July 6, 2011 · 9:50 am

Bedroom Basketball

My son adores his daddy, the big man he literally has to look up to, yearns to be like, and begs to play with. My son often requests one-on-one basketball games in his bedroom with my husband. I’m not sure why he repeatedly takes the pounding. He is all giggles over it and my husband is all game. My son laughs so hard he can’t breathe, and my husband takes every advantage to slam-dunk.

Anywhere in the house, one can hear the screaming and shouting, the thundering footsteps. It sounds like an entire team up there. Nope. Just my husband and son getting in that quality one-on-one time.

I usually stay away from these sweaty mismatched match-ups, but the other night my daughter and I had front-row seats. My husband takes it to the rim and dunks. “OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!” he shouts with all the gusto of an announcer calling the Eagles’ Super Bowl–winning touchdown, falling to his knees in utter glory.

My son somehow manages to score between the taunting, the wrestling moves that pin him to the floor, and the tricks that have him reeling with laughter. My husband stuffs the ball under the back of his shirt. “Where’s the ball?” he teases, then displays it as he makes a run toward the net. My son is cackling all the while. “Oh. Did. You. See. That?!” says his dad.

My son gets a few surprises in of his own. My husband takes one to the groin. Luckily, it’s just a foam ball. The crowd and the opposing team roar with laughter.

It’s been a close game, but Dad gets a second wind and a few more shots. “Oh man, off the ceiling, off the clock, and iiiiinn!!!” my husband screams.

48-40! Game over.

My son decides to just make practice shots for a bit. I’m sure his face just needs a break from all that smiling.

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June 30, 2011 · 9:34 am

Going Gray

I’m going gray. I can no longer keep up with the plucking that turns me into a cross-eyed mad woman every night. I’m afraid if I continue plucking this amount of gray, my eyes will seriously stick that way. It’s like a spore explodes on my scalp and dozens of kinky grays crop up overnight, growing in at zigzagged angles like worn fishing line.

It’s time to think about coloring, a task I had hoped to hold off until my 40s. The maintenance and cost do not excite me. Having to keep up with getting my roots done, deciding on a color. None of this thrills me. I like the color of my own hair—minus the current silver pinstripes. The thought of a different hair color, unfortunately, thrills my hub. I like dark; he likes blonde.

Changing my hair color scares me. Some people do it with abandon. I really don’t want to stand out. I don’t want change. I don’t want people to notice. But before long this bride-of-Frankenstein look will get more attention than I desire.

I’m the kind of person who picks out a paint color and then I go one brighter because I really want people to see the color. I don’t just want a hint of it. Then my husband paints away, whistling while he works. I see it smeared all over the walls and immediately despise it. I quietly live with it for a while because I know change takes time for me. I usually grow to like it. But what if I hate my hair color this way? What if I can’t look at myself in the mirror? What if I don’t want anyone else to see me either? I am too cheap to get it colored again, but walking around with pumpkin orange locks, even for a day, frightens me.

It would be nice if hair salons had a color-matching system like they do at home improvement stores. I could pluck some of the good hairs out, the really pretty golden brown ones, and they could mix up a batch of hair color to match. That I think I could handle.

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June 28, 2011 · 10:29 am

Whoopee!

On vacation a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded of a big difference between my husband and me. It involves an 8-year-old boy, a first encounter with a whoopee cushion, a crowded beach store, and lots of giggles.

While shopping in one of the many tourist stores, my son came upon a self-inflating whoopee cushion. I knew he had never seen one, so I sat back to take in his reaction. Another first in his life I didn’t want to miss. In a corner at the back of the store, he repeatedly plopped his bottom onto the cushion and laughed at the resounding flatulence. He, his cousin, and sister took turns trying to get the best noise. I was the adult overseeing this nonsense and got a few giggles out of it myself, remembering my own fun with one many years ago. It wasn’t a big scene, just some innocent laughter and then I broke it up.

My son took the cushion and said he wanted to show it to his dad. I wondered how this would turn out, but I didn’t make it through the crowd in time to see my husband’s reaction.

My husband recalled the scene later: “Our son came up to the front of the store where everyone was standing in a long line at the register. He put the whoopee cushion on the floor and said, ‘Dad, you’ve got to see this!’ and plopped down on it. Pffffttttt! I just walked away and pretended he wasn’t my son.”

I sometimes feel our roles are reversed, when a whoopee cushion disturbs my husband more than me. What would I have told my son at the register in front of all those people? I know I would have told him to put it back…after I stopped laughing.

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June 25, 2011 · 1:38 pm

Mommy’s Nap

The kids played quietly upstairs yesterday and I had some time to kill before I needed to figure out dinner. My body and my brain desperately needed a power catnap to refresh the systems. I also needed a cookie. I shoved one in my mouth and plopped on the couch without a moment to spare. The radar had gone off and the kids came in search of me. It never fails. They know when I’m trying to relax. But I closed my eyes and hoped they would get the hint.

My son draped himself in the chair and started gabbing about his Pokemon cards, spouting off names and stats that had no interest to me. “Mmm-hmm,” I moaned sleepily. Thump, thump, thud. My daughter arrived and rolled next to me on the couch. Like the good sleuth she is, she tapped in to a familiar scent and started sniffing. “What smells so good?” Her nose was awfully close to my mouth. “I-don-nnoo,” I managed. Sniff, sniff. Sniff, sniff. She smelled my arm, my face, my mouth again. I opened my eyes. Her big blue eyes almost touched mine. “I think it’s your mouth,” she concluded. I was quite afraid she was going to lick me.

“Can I trade my cards, Mom?” my son asked.

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Boop, boop, boop, boop, boop.” One of the kids started beeping.

“Hey, Mom,” my son said, “look at all my cards!”

“In case you can’t tell, I’m trying to take a nap,” I finally said. Can’t they take a hint?

“Ha, ha! Mommy still takes na-aps!” my son sang.

“Mommy is a two-year-old!” my daughter chimed in.

“Evidently this is not going to happen,” I said. I got up and out of there, exasperated. Dinner would get an early start after all. Where did they go when I got up? Back upstairs to play.

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