Sam

The Crick In My Neck

With a preteen, every morning is like having amnesia from the previous day. I wake up refreshed, ready to make this morning’s school run better than the last. Less hectic. Less aggravating. Less, you know, freaking crazy. I have erased the previous morning’s nonsense from memory to ensure a more productive and pleasant transition from home to school.

Sigh.

Stewie, who is five and still ponders my demise, is up at 545 AM with me. Two peas in a pod having breakfast, chatting, and completing his homework in the stoic quiet. Aww, so sweet, so blissful.

Malcolm, my son in the middle, is now nine and a creative ball of slow deliberate energy. He wakes at 615 exactly and needs a hug. He spends 625 – 645 deciding what to wear, even though his school has uniforms. 645 to 7, he debates what to eat and from 7 – 725 he eats the same bowl of oatmeal with honey and a banana by using the smallest wooden spoon possible. Then, brushes his teeth and begins begging me to let him start the car. Annoyingly predictable. And irritatingly, my mini-Me.

And then there is Wheels.

I slink toward his door at 630. The beige, waffled carpet slips silently under my unmanicured toes in the soft morning light of dawn. A golden glow emanates from under his 6 panel white door, calling to me like a necessary evil. It looms. It taunts. It holds the secret, the key to my the success of the morning. An omen… he was up late reading. Great.

I peer at the slender doorknob contemplating life, joy, death and whether my daily lot of patience is standing firmly at FULL. At twelve years old, I just never know which Wheels I am going to get in the morning. An effervescent breeze of energy lifting everyone delightfully to the car, or, a tornado weaving a specific trail of destruction, usually focused at one person, twisting and turning his aim to spew the most damage and worst of all… make us late.

I hold my breath, grab the handle with firm determination, close my eyes and affirm, Today, we are having a great morning!

I knock three times and enter.

“Morning honey. It’s time to wake up. We have one hour until we leave, let’s’ roll out and do this!” I radiate with the softest, silkiest, kindest voice I can muster.

Crickets.

“Bubba, it’s time honey.”

“Geez mom, I KNOW! Why do you have to be sooooo loud?”

His groan sends a passionate wave of Oh hell no, sweeping up my legs to my speeding heart, but is silenced by an overly extended smile combined with a high pitch, “Oh I am sorry honey, breakfast is ready… “

I quickly turn for escape when I hear the murmur of “Oh yeah, I have homework, sorry.”

My turn reverses itself in a not slow, but let’s say restrained motion. My neck cricks forward, level with my shoulders and my face turns heavily to the left exposing my right ear fully to his voice. Jaw tight, brows furrows, I quiver ” ‘Scuse me?”

“Stop mom. It’s no big deal. Math. I’ll do it on the way.”

My skin tightens, lifting my eyes, jaw; the instant mom facelift. Calm, positive. Remain.

“Ok hon. See you downstairs.”

645. Still not down stairs.

655. I stand at the bottom and gently remind, “Only 35 minutes till we leave. OK?”

“Yeah I know, I know! I get it, Geez,” he says stomping down the stairs with a passing, “My gosh a million times, I had to get dressed!”

As we walk into the kitchen, I noticed his level of dressed was questionable. Oh, it was all there; navy pants, white shirt, light blue button up, navy wool sweater, black socks and shoes. But, it wasn’t dressed. His light blue button up was pulled so far through his sweater’s V-neck you could see its shoulder. Untucked, obviously, a given. One of his pant legs was fully tucked into his black socks like some version of a 90s rapper, and while one shoe was on, he carried the other.

He sat at the table and caught my stare. Is my face disgusted? Confused? Quick, no eye contact?

“What? What is wrong now?” he asked.

I knew I had taken a wrong turn into this tornado’s path and it was looking to eat me. I wasn’t going down that road, “Oh nothing… nothing, you’re good. Just eat.”

Thankfully, he ate his Cheerios and cold eggs in silence.

715. The transfer from house to car begins. Stewie and Malcolm grab their bags, hug Dad, and head to the car. Boom, seamless. Bubba searches for him gym kit, gym shoes, bag, book, just remembers he hair hair that needs fixed, and OH CRAP deodorant.

With the hopes of truly assisting in the madness I was avoiding, I walk back up the stair to the Seventh Realm and ask if I can help.

“Yeah, could you print my homework?” he nonchalantly asks.

My neck shoots forward again, ear exposed, ” ‘Scuse me?”

“Mom seriously, I couldn’t get it to print.”

At 735, my only option was to breathe. Assignment. Breathe. Ignore assigned 3 days ago. Breath. Print. Breath. Grab clip board. Breathe. Usher to him to the car.

750.

For 40 minutes, the dismal wind brew across the moor, as the drizzle dripped desperately across the Land Rovers’s windshield, mimicking the despair in the car. Utterances of I hate math, she doesn’t do distances, and ugh so pointless echoed from the passenger seat growing louder in volume and cadence as school approached closer, closer. Paper crumpled, hands slammed, and pencils were tossed to the floor. All inquires for help from myself and Malcolm were rebuffed.

The last ones to drop off, of course, the boys scattered out of the car. We made it. No blow outs. No screaming. Not too much fury.

With no one around, I jumped out and hugged Bubba with all my might encouraging, “It gets easier kid. It feels crazy now, but, you just gotta make it through being a teen.” I lift his face to mine, Gosh, when did he get so tall, and whispered, “I love you.”

He smiled and clumped off toward class. As the car revved, I noticed his homework laying face down in passenger seat. Panic shot through me as I searched for him. He and Malcolm were just about to head into the courtyard when I honked, motioning to wait.

I pulled up next to them, window down and holding his homework.

“Hey Boo, you forgot this!”

“I am not taking it!”

Neck and face immediately reverberated back into ‘scuse me mode, “What? Why?”

“Look, I didn’t finish and it is never collected any way… nope, not doing it, NOT taking it,” he screamed, arms flailing and punctuating.

Chin slamming back into my neck, my face melted into contorted shock. Undeterminable head shakes and incessant eye blinks over powered my calm as I searched for appropriate words. Our eyes met. A tranquil fury settles within. Bubba knew he crossed the line way behind him.

Leaning out the window, hand still holding his work. Shaking.

“Oh by God yes you are,” I throw my arm out waving the paper,” You are going to take this into class, turn it in or complete it. Whatever! If you don’t take this paper right now… I will march straight to Mr. Briggs and slam it on his desk with the strength of the universe behind me… in front of your friends. Got it kid? You want that?”

“Fine.”

Slouching he reached for his work when I noticed a slight glint in his smirky eyes.

Pulling it back at the last second I retorted, “And if you take this paper and throw it in the trash as soon as you get to class… I will find out.”

His inexperienced, preteen eyes grew like saucers and rolled in acknowledgment of my wisdom.

“God Mom, why are you so crazy?” he moaned.

Hmm, that makes the two of us.

June 6, 2021 0

Finding the Funny

Clenching my mug with vice-like qualitites, I raise the black liquid to my nose and inhale deeply. The intensity from the beans twinges my nose, raises my lids, and I release a audible sigh solidifying the moment as mine. At 9:15 AM, this is my third cup; however, this cup… this single cup… is the one I have been waiting for for 372 days.

Solitude.

No kids. No husband. Everybody’s away for me and where they should be.

Just me. My coffee. And where I should be… alone.

Allowing the faded mug to linger just at my chin, I pivot to the door leading to my garden and venture into the English countryside. My bare feet press into the stone patio, arcing against the cool slate. The fresh wisps of wind travelling from the moor, mingles with my coffee’s aroma and brings the additional twinkle of moss, sheep poo, and freedom. Again, I inhale the savoring sweet smells that have truly brought me from the brink, back to life. I never thought the smell of fresh manure could be so invigorating.

For two years, life had slowly drained the funny from my existence. Stress became my only friend. Although its form morphed between money, moving, homeschooling, pandemic, alcohol, weight gain, homeschooling, moving, depression, moving again, homeschooling again… it was always there. Stress. And the acceptance that I was lost.

Me.

Not Mom Sam. Not Teacher Sam. Not Wife Sam. But Sam Sam.

Worse, it was a loss that I had grown comfortable with and began to shrugged at. Not against. In turn, laughter died from my daily life.

But not anymore.

Perhaps it was the move to the countryside. Or stopping hormones. Or forcing myself to complete activities of my own interest. Or simply telling my kids NO, I am done. Or seeing light at the end It… but I noticed a change toward myself again. A kinder clarity after an eon of fog.

Taking a sip of my charging coffee, I float over to my hedge and peer into the field. A lone sheep lay blissfully amongst the heather. Her white fleece gently waves in the breeze and her beautiful black face nibbles at the surrounding grass. Her eyes are closed, ears down in calmness. I connect with her dark eyes and feel at peace with her. This place we have both unexpectedly landed. Of beauty, freedom, and time. Time to be and grow. To allow ourselves respite and map our next endeavor. But for now, we are just two girls, hanging out, having their morning coffee, alone.

Her ears prick-up suddenly. Her neck traverses in an tense upright position, eyes fixed, open, and slightly crossed. She senses something. An impending something. I know that something.

My eyes dart across the field, I feel her doom. My body tenses and I whisper through gritted teeth, “Stop eating. Get up. Stop, eating! They’re coming.”

Her head vaguely tilts at my warning, Yeah, I know I am crazy. Two small figures break against the green, blue horizon in silent persistence. Heads darting from side to side, searching for their prey. Mom.

“Quick, up, up… GET UP!”

The two white flashes buck down the rolling knoll, honing in on their target while simultaneously head butting, one upping, and egging each other on to see who gets to food first, until they unduly slam full body into their poor mother. The force of the two brutes lurches her face into the ground, eyes squinting in embarrassing pain. Her black legs flail, find their footing and stagger to form her foundation. Two snouts barbarically raid her udder and her neck sags below her shoulders. She knows. She knows, her moment has passed. With one last effort of reclamation, she turns and dashes toward open field.

My eyes flash in solidarity as adrenaline surges up my legs. Her pace increases to a sprint as mine begin.

Losing all control, I run down the hedge screaming, “Run, ruuuun! Don’t let them take you down! Go! Demand better!”

Hot coffee spewing onto my hand, I stop to watch her woolly rump disappear toward the creek and out of sight. Her two vultures in hot pursuit nipping at her legs.

Heaving air and fully pumped, I look down at my emptied mug. Yep, my moment’s passed too. Swirling the last brown drop around the mug’s bottom, a deep guffaw spills from me followed by heaping laughter and the realization that I have, actually lost it. Tears of circumstance, irony, and pure relief pour down my cheeks despite all attempts to wipe them away. I trudge back up the hedgerow giggling still, and turn toward the creek.

Eh, she’ll figure it out… we all can.

May 16, 2021 1

Marriage

My Dear Body,

Today, as the days merge and dwindle in Quarantine, I stand before the mirror, ogling. No expression. Just a head tilt and quizzical lips. Simply contemplating you. Tomorrow, is Memorial Day. Our summer kick off. And as I gander, our eyes drop slowly to the hand holding our nemesis. Our torture device. Our Death Star. Our… swim suit.

This crept up on us. I have no idea how this is gonna go.

You and I never seem to be on the same page and our battles over the past 38 years have been epic. All you can do is point out my every weakness. Cheese, chocolate, chips, Harry Potter and Grey’s Anatomy Marathons. You relish in my struggles and defeats. Our eyes drop knowingly at our feet, for all I ever do is replay your failures.

And they are vast.

Our eyes rise to the ankle you sprained before Junior Olympic tryouts. Rise. The hips you always had to make rounder, earlier than my friends. Rise. The stomach you unhealthfully forced to gain over 100 pounds while pregnant with Wheels because tater tots and eggs were so good and stayed down. Pause. You fooled my rationale and just as unhealthfully forced us to lose 125. Rise. You ballooned my breasts with so much milk I hated breastfeeding. And just as begrudgingly sucked them into oblivion like a black hole, which still compresses their womanhood.

Rise. Meeting each other in fixed focus. You failed in delivering my twin girls.

We disconnect. Close. Tight.

God, you take years to heal. Our back. Our shoulder. Our ACL. Our hamstring. Our endometriosis.

You mock me. You warp me.

Can’t you ever just chillax? Stay the same? Be consistent? You always have to… change. Constantly! I can’t keep up with your whims.

Opening, we hold our cruel cold stare. Testing. Willing one to break. Vicious we can be together.

Bringing your hands in front, facing our heart, right on top, left under. Together we inhale to offer peace. Exhale to become one. Inhale to bridge our gaps. Exhale to fill the arid deserts of pain with joy in how far we have come. Rock forward, inhale. Rock back, exhale. Just a couple breaths, and we soften.

Improvement.

With dallying brows, we drop our suit on to the floor, step into those tiny holes and begin the packaging process.

The pink grazes our poor, ugly feet. Runners feet, and an small Umbridge titter escapes. Passes over the scar on our shin from when I got drunk in college and you walked into a pole. Good times. Slides above the knee and tenderly caresses our thighs and grips outside our quads. Funny isn’t it? The ease. The beauty of the lower leg. But those damn hips.

Teeth gritting we grab the sides of that suit with white knuckles and PULL! Our legs flail out. PULL! Push back in. PULL! Not to be defeated we gyrate, body roll, Tootsie Roll, Butterfly, Twerk and for God’s sake PULL!

IT’S UP! ITS’s UP! Oh, thank you, thank you.

Every year its the same. Out of breath after the hips! Smoothing the fabric up, it covers our powerful belly and allows our determined arms to slip through. Those two in perfect combination have held, created, and changed so many lives. As I tighten our straps and adjust the fit it hits me.

Far too often I judge you in parts. Belly. Legs. Hips. Glutes. Chest. Arms. Back. But it is their combination, their ability to join forces, strengthen each other and produce that I should cherish. It’s your total physicality, that provides me a calm acceptance.

I check you out in the mirror. Not bad! You are not perfect, but perfect isn’t for us. Life changes too much for perfection and I want to taste every change our life brings. Together.

Now get your ass out in that pool and show those boys they still can’t beat their mom.

Much Love,

Brain

May 24, 2020 0

That Apple and That Tree

I woke this Mother’s Day morning intending a funny quarantine tale concerning Malcolm and knives, when consideration paused my hand with Why does your twisted mind find this funny? Serial killer intimations, probably not!?! But funny? Eh… oh yes! Yes it is.

Yet still I pondered, why do I find his new found knife queries funny?

My line of quietly sarcastic women who’s sense of humor is either difficult to detect or so overt it confuses its audience, is long. My grandmother, Granny-Two-Shoes, began this path. She grew up in rural Ohio during the Depression, but my memory extends only to her life in Columbus. For 25 years, she wore two types of outfits. In the 80s, she dazzled in waist to ankle pale floral skirts and plain tucked-in blouses, while she furiously drove her white T-Brid. During the 90s, she drastically transitioned to bright swishy track suits and never looked back. That was her way. Always put together in the manner she desired. Her perfect white coif and angelic smile hid her inner desire to thrill her grandkids with laughter, tinged in fear.

Well known to jump out at you from behind cabinets, or goose you when you least expect, she loved the element of surprise. But it was her stories that stuck with me. Her most influential involved two snakes she swore would slither past her porch, stop, and stare into her soul. Daring her to leave. Daring her to stay.

Granny was terrified of snakes. Her only known disdain.

But the virile and detail of how these city serpents appeared out of no where, lived under her porch, waited for her and her only… maybe, filled my seven year old self with conflicting strife.

I’d shrug her off and start down those gray, chipping stones. Yet just before stepping off to sprint after my brother and cousins, I’d glance back to find her sitting primly next to her concrete goose, kitted out in a yellow raincoat. Intent. Daring me to leave. Daring me to stay. Mouth tight with amusement. That half smile, always pushed my leap.

My mom took humor to a whole new level. With Granny Two Shoes as her quiet guide, my mom added flare. A shy, out of place middle schooler, I spent many hours in my room dancing alone to Evita or Music Box. One night, after a shower, I spent an hour dancing before reducing myself to bed. Finagled deep in my twin, I pulled my white comforter sprinkled with petite pink tulips to my chin, and touched my lamp off.

Settled. Comfortable. Safe.

A slight, steady movement along my side shocked my eyes open, as a heavy arm crashed atop my body and a deep “GooooOOOTTCHAAAA” erupted from the quiet.

A scream for which I did not know I was capable, choked my senses. Kicking and punching violently at my blanket, I seized to the floor and bounced still screaming. A familiar chortle penetrated my blind terror.

My face and heart flashed in anger, for there was my mom. Wriggling herself free from the confines between bed and wall. Nose cherry red, damp fuzzy hair pressed against her forehead with sweat, and cheeks drenched in elated tears.

Emerging onto my bed, breaths heaving, she gasped, “God Sam, I never thought you’d stop dancing! I almost gave up!!!!”

To this day, she attempts zip lines, walks logs, scales rocks, and says phrases like I’ll be right back I just want to try… that sends chills up my aging spine. She refuses to let time slow the determination she has always had within, and finds new avenues to project her humor by chiding my boys with bet cha can’t, well I can do that, prove it, and Ooo, let’s get your mom with…

Fortunately for me, I am a delightful combination of both Granny-Two-Shoes and Carolyn, all while adding my own evolution to the line designed to prey upon the gullible.

Some call it lying. Some fear mongering. Some mean.

I prefer the hard truth smothered in hyperbole ensuring all kids are kept on their toes… so the ballast never truly tips.

Either way, in times like these when humor is at its wits… I find comfort reflecting on how I inherited mine, and the better Mother it continues to make me.

May 10, 2020 1

Creation

i have
Created,
and
now
am subject to
Him.

i saw His talent
before
those who clamber.
used my skill
to write His narrative.
molded
His voice into confidence.
and embraced
His effervescent notions
of life,
of purpose,
of possibility.

i fostered
my Creation
and
lost Myself in His world.
i bent My soul to accommodate.
quieted My voice
and slowly diminished
the clarity of
My own
path.

i move
upon
My Creation’s whims.
His dreams.
His hopes.
for they are Mine
too.

endlessly
content
with My creation,
yet,
individually
undeveloped.

now
My next creation,
must be
Me.

January 16, 2019 0

Tunnel Vision

Approaching the luminescent tunnel, I falter at the entrance. The darkness. The light. The vulnerability. The close presence of the body next to me. I watch the tunnel lapse into darkness, as the far end gently radiates traceable evidence of light. The glow pulses, in matching heartbeat, growing larger, brighter. Waves of single inconsequential bulbs twinkling, undulating in mass toward the two of us. Inviting us to its experience. I step onto the conveyor walkway and begin my naturally brazen stride. A hand discretely grasps mine, stopping my feet. And I stand. Corrected. Coerced, to simply slow down and give myself to the breaking light.

For six years, this person has been woven into my fast paced life. Seen but unseen. Loved for what they are, not who. A constant apparition bending to the will of others in sacrifice of itself. A juxtaposition of a being craving to reveal itself, all while living suppressed until the most impactful moments. Today, he has pulled back a glorious section of his shade.

His hand is wrapped in mine, as we glide with the crawling belt. Part of me is screaming, for the leisure of traveling two miles per hour, surrounded by twinkling light, feels perverse. Wasteful.

Malcolm planned our first trip in solitude to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum ending at the National Art Gallery. At each exhibit, I wrestled with my natural inclination for speed in order hit every display, but he was there to quiet me. And in quiet I remained, while he jabbered on, on revealing hidden gems of himself and restricting us to the only interesting sections of the museums: rocks, bugs, and Van Gogh. He forced me to pause, and not only glance at, but find the camouflaged bugs, note their coloring and later compare them to an artist’s shadings at the art gallery. It was this hidden little man, who stopped at each exhibit, read, inquired, supposed, listened, and saw the beauty and value that forced me to ask myself: Have I become so callous, that I am missing the beauty? Why so fast?

Time is such a precious commodity when you are a parent. Time for activities. Time for homework. Time for dinner. Time for school. Time for work. Time to workout. Time for lust. Time for quiet. Time to clean. Time to potty train. Time to correct. Time for Kid 1, 2, or 3. There used to be so much time… to just contemplate. Where has all that time gone? And why I am forcing others to relinquish their precious time?

On our sixth ride through the tunnel of light, I look down at our intertwined fingers, a rare and extraordinary gesture from my middle son. Rubbing my thumb on the back of his hand, calm and fulfilled, it hits me. I yell at Malcolm on the daily to hurry up, come on, not now, because I am just trying to get to the next thing on the list, and his poignant, meandering thoughtfulness gets squashed in my wake. I must take the time, to go slow with him, for time is all he wants.

And why not slow down to see the world like him? For it truly is, that much more beautiful.

July 8, 2018 1

Taking the “F” in Potty Training

I am doer. Always have been. Always will be.

I am a procrastinator. Always have been. Always will be.

The pressure of a deadline, tournament, or goal is essential to my existence as a competent, strong woman who excels at almost anything she decides. I need pressure to be successful.

Therefore, here I am. Slumped, crisscross apple sauce, on my deep rooibos wood floor, counting the grain lines. My head dodges two year old legs, swinging rhythmically, like a metronome, in time with his sweet, devilish voice singing to the tune of Friar Jacques, “Red is rojo, blue is azul, green is verde…”.

He is on round three of this blasted song and I am seriously considering laying my head down on the potentially urine splattered floor surrounding the toilet. How hard do three little men, actually, have to swipe their willies to get that last drop off? Because mine do it with such virility, that single drop launches anywhere in a two foot radius.

Alas, I force my fingers to resist tapping the grains, place a cool hand on the mocking Ninja Turtle wrecking balls, and ask the most dreaded question, “Did you go?”

With Churchill confidence and a pound of his fist he sounds, “YES!”

Liar.

Stewie’s my third boy. My third maniac. My third attempt at assimilating the wiles of an alien into the human race. My third doctorate in Deceptive Interrogation Systems, providing the ability to unveil truth hidden within wide gaping mouths, twitching eyes, hand wringing, defensive screams, or emphatic enthusiasm. My third and final Potty Training Comprehensive Exam. Forcing me, one final time, to tap into my previously honed talents, such as the ability to decipher the slightest yellowish shade in the toilet water with my laser eyes, or use my sonar capabilities to hear the smallest droplet or identify the most minute stale stench; all in order to permanently rid myself of diapers FOREVER!

Liar.

In ten minutes, nothing. My radar went off only once. His song silenced at “pink is Ros….” My eyes flew up to examine his pierced expression, tense crossed eyes, breath held with clenched buttocks, when it hit me. He is intentionally holding in his pee. Deliberately. Stubbornly. Hatefully.

But my deadline is on the horizon, mocking me. Three years old. Wheels was trained just before two and Malcolm at two and a half. Stewie has less than three months. I have never had a three year old in diapers. I must persevere. I HAVE to.

I succumb to this session, 0-1, and gently pull his tiny Thomas undies up his legs and over his hips. I remind “if your tummy tells you, you need to pee pee, holler Momma, I have to pee as loud as you can, and I will take you. Or, oooo, you can pee on a tree! Remember, you get a treat when you go!” Anything to sweeten the temptation.

He races across the warm floor and out into the sunlight. Galloping, leaning forward, arms extended behind, as though a winged colt wanting to fly but reliant on the ground. With cheers from his brothers, he reaches the construction site the threesome have been intensely building all morning. Three little blonde heads, hunched over a dusty hole. Close. Whispering. Pretending. Encouraging. The sun passes through the protective limbs, allowing the scene to bathe in loving brotherhood. Musing together. Fusing into a unit. I melt in solitary happiness.

Stewie’s small brutish, statuesque figure rises between the larger mounds. Seeking me sideways over his shoulder, he grins wildly, emphatically, his alabaster face already streaked with boogie dirt. He hollers, “Momma LOOOK!!!! I made ginooooormous pond!”

Yep, gonna to miss that deadline.

May 20, 2018 0

Dinner at the OK Corral

My thumbs hook loosely in my belt loops, legs slightly bent with my knees outward, as I mosey up to the corral. Eyes swoop across the scene intensely, scanning the cold chestnut wood table, the white IKEA dinner plates, multicolored face wipers, drinks, utensils, three tiny outlaws prepared for battle in their designated cells, my fellow lawman poised for another defeat, and God forgive me… food.

With each step forward I mutter inaudibly to myself, thick western accent. Tonight, I will not be manipulated into saying how many bites they have to eat of each article of nutrition. STEP. Tonight, I will not give five-minute warnings. You do not eat, You do not eat. No Bloody extra time! STEP. Tonight, I will not beg and bribe with dessert. STEP. Tonight, I will not threaten irrationally their future diminished ability to grow. STEP. Tonight, I will not turn into my parents and remind them of the starving children around the world.

Reaching my place of order, my hands firmly grasp the corners as I slide into place, and utter one last… Tonight, I will not allow them to get under my skin and force me lose my temper.

Coolly my partner gives a nod. We got this! Tonight, we enjoy dinner!

“Alright,” I broker cheerfully and possibly, slightly irritating, “Let’s get passing those plates! Malcolm, how about a gravy burger?”

“Noooooo,” he drawls out, shaking his head and silently contorting his face at Wheels. The mutiny begins.

“Ok great! Here you go. One. Wheels?”

“Yes, please. Just one,” he replies in a tone reminiscent of witnessing the slow death of his favorite stuffed animal through the tortuous pulling of a snagged string, until all is lost.

“Ok. Great!,” my voice higher, squeakier, “Just one. Fantastic. Here you go.” His head has lowered to the table in despair. I ignore and my lips go dry from the plastered smile. “Let’s get those tatters and green beans passing. Alrighty. Here’s Stewie’s! Please pass it down, but DON’T help him.”

The unspoken and known law of dinner: Don’t touch Stewie’s plate, fork, or spoon; otherwise, refusal is immediate.

The daily debriefing about school, friends, work commences. My lips are moving, head nodding, but I am not consciously hearing the replies. All my senses have been hijacked for one purpose. An obsession I am trying desperately break, but these past years have only trained, created, nurtured this inescapable addiction to WHO is eating and WHO is NOT!

My peripheral angels betray me and spotlight their progress. Stewie is chowing. Whew. Wheels is eating, kind of. His fork is moving, his knife is almost sawing but he can’t take his eyes off of Malcolm.

Re-positioning toward David, who is answering one of my inquiries, I see Malcolm hasn’t touched his plate. As usual. Making goofy faces and talking Minion or Boss Baby quietly to Wheels, who can’t stop laughing, has become his sole aspiration. I feel a hot flash rising from the base of my spine. The child never eats until the rest of us are finished and then we all have to wait, and wait.

Chill, chill. They are kids. It is no big deal. Enjoy their company.

“I done. I, I feeeneshed,” Stewie declares, pushing his plate away as Wheels’ arm springs back dropping Stewie’s fork.

“What did you do?” I interrogate, panicky, “Did you touch him?”

“I was helping,” Wheels replies shrugging innocently, but the Smize in his eyes and brief flick to Malcolm reveals his intent to detonate Stewie.

My head shakes, and my shoulder tense. I feel the inner roar rising…

“I no need, I no want help,” Stewie says with a gesture equating to a snap. “No thank you,” he finishes catching my eye.

David places his hand on my arm and mouths Almost there. He’s right. It’s almost over. Another dinner, almost done. Twenty-five minutes of shear tension, resulting in two out of three kids plates, half to fully eaten, with no banishments is not bad. David finishes and I jump up triumphantly, “Let’s clean up! Bring those plates over!”

With that, the proverbial bullets begin to fly!

Malcolm looses his grip and pounces on his untouched, cold plate, fully covering its contents screaming, “NO, NO, I am so hungry no!!!! You can’t do it. NO, it’s not fair. How can… NOOOO!” He dramatically melts from his chair to the floor. Rolling, screaming, begging. Stewie walks up to him, assuming he is playing and drives both knees into the middle of Malcolm’s back. Angry, he tosses Stewie aside. Now both are crying, but hugging, saying sorry. Wheels defends his brother denouncing, “Mom, really should just work on making food you like.”

Having succumb to too many shots from all angles so quickly, David ushers the boys upstairs, and I know all are about to get an earful. All I can do is clear, for the exhaustion of preparing and enduring dinner is more than I can handle this Friday.

Retreating, I reclaim a moment to myself and call my mom for wisdom.

“Ma, this is really important. When did you and dad start enjoying dinner with us kids?”

“Oh,” she hesitated, “I’d say when everyone moved out.”

February 3, 2018 2

Merry Christmas Toilet Gods

We’ve all been there. 1 AM. Legs spread, wrapped loosely around the basin. Chin awkwardly resting on the porcelain rim, lips quivering from exhaustion. Eyes closed, head rolling slightly left… right… as inaudible, breathy whimpers beg for the heaves to stop. Hands gingerly draping the bowl, fingertips poised to grip yet barely touching for by God, this is a toilet! Red eyes pop open without seeing, and the spine rounds, chills with this sudden disgusting realization…

I lean over the stirring body and whisper in Malcolm’s ear, “Honey, I wipe the toilet down after each vomit, just relax, there you go. It’s OK.”

It’s Christmas Eve’s Eve. Malcolm, my son in the middle, has been vomiting for four hours every 20 to 30 minutes. I saw it coming. For three weeks, we have struggled as a family to stay healthy. Sniffles, coughs, fatigue, but nothing serious. Nothing consequential. Quietly illness hung amongst our mistletoe, waiting for the opportune moment to drip into our eggnog and poison our glee. And just when I thought we were in the clear, Malcolm is taken out by illness’s worst culprit. The one who ruins all joy deriving from Christmas cookies, roast beef, gravy, veg, Yorkshire and Christmas Pudding… the Stomach Flu.

But this one seems different. Something is wrong.

My leathery hands reach to his shoulders and gently extricate his face from the toilet and guide his small, six year old body to the crook of my left elbow, his back against my heart. Holding him as I haven’t in recent memory, my body naturally rocks him as his Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight lullaby slips from my lips.

He is out. Shallow breathing. Clammy. His vomit has gone from yellow to green. He isn’t shaking, but weak. I wrap towels and blankets around him for warmth and insert the thermometer into his right ear, as I have all night. Rocking, I wait for the beep.

94.9

Now I panic.

His temperature has slowly decreased since the vomiting began. I put towels under and around him to shield him for the harsh cold of the tile. Called the emergency nursing line through our pediatrician, who kindly said “Um, this could be a serious infection. I’ll put a call in to the doctor on call. If you don’t hear from her in 20 minutes, I would take him to the ER.”

It’s been 9.

I show the temperature to my partner in crime, who, like any amazing teammate, is wiping down the toilet, and make a silent Eek face.

This is my ninth year as a mom and I am dumbfounded. I am helpless. I have done everything I can think of to help Malcolm and nothing has worked. The best I can come up with now is rocking and singing. Basic comfort. How does that serve, really?

In recent years, I know I have become a bit of a panic man when it comes to illness and injury. Especially, since losing our twin girls at 20 weeks to TTTS in 2014. The experience scarred me, leaving me expose and newly, wholely knowledgeable of loss. You’re their mother. Your sole job is to protect your babies. Their illnesses or injuries may not be your fault, but you feel like you should be able to fix anything that threatens. And when impossible, that innate fear of losing them becomes so astronomical, you revert to rocking instead of solving.

So I hold. I rock. I sing. Within myself, I swallow away that ever present choking fear. The highly unlikely, but suffocating fear of the, small percentage point that could happen. And I wait, for the phone to ring.

It does.

Jolting to the phone, I run through the symptoms, timeline, steps taken, clothing, and steady decrease in temp. She listens, softly asking the color of vomit, length of time, and type of thermometer. On speaker, with David listening, she guides us to “Take his temperature in the other ear as wax build up can effect the numbers. Have you only been taking the temp from the right ear?” Um, yes!!! It is the only one exposed because I hold them with my left arm, duh!? “Well, take it in the other or by a different gauge… if it is the same, take him to the ER.”

I thanked her for her time and stared silently at my husband, absorbing this new lesson.

We simultaneously pounce on Malcolm, roll him over, stick the thermometer in his left ear, and wait for the beep.

98.9.

Damn Wax! Even sick, they find a way to make you feel incompetent.

*Note: Yes, the bug made its way through all five us, and on December 27th… we finally had Christmas Dinner. We all then felt sick, for another reason.

December 30, 2017 0

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

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