Sam

Last of the Firsts

The Monday after Thanksgiving, with gravy still percolating as a strong personal perfume, I tossed Stewie into the blue and gray shopping cart at my local Super Center. The death grip on his school bus and fire truck did not relinquish, as I began to whisper of the magic he was about to witness. Those ice blue eyes were locked saucer-like to mine. Obliviously curious. His lips tense and visibly dry, chapped from the newfound chill in the air.

Pushing passed the automatic doors, my spirit fingers busily illustrate the magnitude of wonder ahead, and I hardly noticed the smiley face sticker I slapped on my chest. Missing nothing, Stewie lurched forward with the same enthusiasm yelling “Circle, circle…uh, not octagon.”

Wheels pulling left and the disappointment of no octagon overcasting the impending cheer, I veered to a halt next to the five foot pallet of Frenchs Fried Onions, and took matters into my own hands. Such fair weathered mood changes are not permitted in this happy land of all things tacky. It is my December happy place and I know, deep down, it is right up Stewie’s alley too. Determined, my hands found their way either side of his chubby cheeks, finger tips grazing the folded gray hat on his forehead, my thumbs tracing, calming his jawline.

Amazing how two years in, they are still so small.

Middle of the aisle. Looking into his little, cherub face, the realization washed over me. Numbing my toes and sweeping feeling from my legs, I realized this is it. This will be the last time I witness this first. The first time he absorbs and remembers the spirit of Christmas. For he, is my last.

I have been savoring these moments since his birth. The beautiful baby firsts. Not their accomplishments in sports or school, just the amazing natural milestones of wonder, curiosity, determination, hope and even fear that happens, not because there is an end goal, but because they are human. And we are amazing creatures.

Still caressing his cheek, Stewie’s hand gently grasps my wrist and whispered, “Momma?My out of body fog dissolved, “Momma? MOM! What, is, THAT?” His bold voice filled the warehouse and his pointer zoomed to a lighted, talking Chase is on the Case Paw Patrol Ornament perched atop the onions.

This gaudy piece of holiday snapped me back into Go Mode. I snatched it up and reverently explained, “And that, my dear, is what I am talking about!”

Striding to the back of store, hand blinders up and the ornament distracting the little man, I paused outside the land of glow. Queried his readiness and spun the cart around. Being so overcome by the scene, he dropped his school bus and fire truck and just delighted, “Lights! MOMMA! OH LIGHTS! SO pretty!”

His audible gasps, danced through the air lighting smiles and childish giggles to all adults nearby. We strolled up and down the aisles pushing every snow globe, train, home projector, Santa, and nativity button bedazzled with lights, glitter and noise. And though it may not be the meaning of the season, the sheer beauty of innocence escaping his childish aura with each furrowed brow or eye popping inhalation, reaffirmed its meaning in my life.

With the final turn away from the Griswold glow, he began clapping wildly, begging for another go. I declined his request, having indulged twice. However, before the shake of my head was complete, my sweet cherub transformed into a hellacious fallen angel screaming, kicking, grabbing displays. And with one swift analysis of my being, he proceeded with his ultimate act of humiliation. His sausage fingers bolted to the happy face sticker on my chest, ripped it from my vest, crumbled it slowly, staring daringly into my soul, and threw its remains to the floor.

Another first!

Filled with holiday spirit… smiling, was the only option, further enraging Lucifer. I must have been in shock for laughter chortled from me, as I swiveled the cart toward the exit. I watched the same people we once brought childlike smiles to, shake their head in disbelief. I smiled and quietly nodded saying “I said no” and the understanding smiles returned.

And for the first time, it didn’t bother me. It was the best trip to Walmart I have ever had.

December 17, 2017 0

Forget Me Not

Pealing into the drop off zone, my heart speeding faster than the spinning wheels, my eyes scanned for Wheels. Surging to stop outside the Swim Center, my foot hit the ground the same second I threw the car in park. The headlights flooded the steamed glass windows, making in difficult to see his little body posted up in a typical metal chair to the side of the receptionist. But even through the denseness of the fog, I could see his shoulders heaving uncontrollably and his head down on the round gray table, face covered, pressed in his hands.

Publicly broken.

My hand reached for the cold handle and I paused a millisecond to prepare. This was about to get worse.

Swinging open, my face was slammed with the stickiness of the pool, just harsh enough to scold, as the receptionist’s eyes met mine and flicked to Wheels, deepening my humiliation.

“Sweetie? Honey? I am here,” croaked from my lips.

“OH MOMMY!” he screamed in a truly scared, childish tone not utilized since entering school. He didn’t jump up, crushing me. But slowly rose from his chair, took two steps forward and stopped. His face was blotched pink and red, but his eyes were dark from rubbing. I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered “I’m sorry baby.”

And with those words, his fearful wound burst exposing the rawness of emotions. He wrapped his arms tight and low around my waist. Squeezing, as the fresh tears streaked his pale skin, eroding the previous red evidence of pain and depositing new. I just held him as people passed, staring, judging, while he sobbed. Loudly mind you, Wheels is always all in, all the time. Especially when hurting. Something to watch.

And then he said it. In between heaving sobs at midlevel roar, “Mommy? Mommy, how could you forget me? I was so scared. How could you forget me?”

The weight of his arms around my waist shrunk my soul. Holding my ground, yet still lessened. My smallness was noted by him, the people witnessing, myself. I could only think of one thing to do. I buried my nose into his soft, blonde hair and breathed him in. An action I did everyday when he was an infant, toddler even, to escape my tiredness or fearfulness of screwing him up. I breathed him in, to be reminded of his preciousness and escape the week.

All week, I had fallen into isolation. I spent the week void of other adult contact. I spent the week running for others, planning for others, playing for others, cooking for others, cleaning for others. I spent the week making promises to myself, for myself, and breaking them for others. I spent the week so consumed with whats next, I woke each morning around 3 AM, restless. And by midweek, if I had a moment, I did nothing but stare out my front window and watch the cars go by. Curious as to where they were going so quickly, so importantly. Did they see me as they passed? I didn’t really see them either, so, we’re even.

And even when all my boys were home, and as the madness and noise swirled in chaos around me, I would glance out that window and wonder. If I left, just for a day or two, could I get some sleep? Some peace? Could I watch TV all day and rest? I am so tired.

A guilty knot grew in my throat, hard and full of wallowing self-pity. I breathed him in one more time, deep, so his innocence filled my gaps, desperate to make me feel stronger. The only tear I would allow stained his hair and once again he begged, “Mommy, how could you forget me?”

Pulling back, dropping to a knee, I held his face, “Baby, I didn’t forget you. I dropped you off, and went home to eat. I just… I hadn’t eaten all day. I was hungry… I know I had never left before, I… I didn’t know practice changed… I just, wanted to eat… I am sorry, I would never forget you.”

Hugging again, my mind wholeheartedly affirmed I would never forget you, but I have to stop forgetting me too.

November 12, 2017 0

Raw Emotion

In a worn red stadium seat, inside a mid-size arena, my hands rung with utter impatience and concern. My sons, Wheels, 8, and Malcolm, my 6 year old in the middle, sat between my English husband and their Kentucky bred Momma. Of the four of us, I was the only one who knew what was to come. The neon spotlights illuminated the bright white square at center floor, yet untouched. The black ropes glistened with fresh polish as the padded posts rose powerfully from each corner, prepared for their impending assault.

“Mom? Mom!? Is that what I think… MOM!?” squealed Malcolm, each word elevating to a higher pitch and frightening delight.

“What is it? Dude, what is,” Wheels so innocently queried.

“Yes sweetie, yes… It’s a wrastlin’ ring,” I sputtered in perfect Kentucky drawl.

Malcolm erupted in hoots, matching the seasoned onlookers yell for yell. Wheels stared puzzled at the ring, slowly drew himself into his hoodie, allowing only a vision slit to assess the situation safely, from inside.

Holy Crap! Jesus Sam, what were you thinking? You are so going to pay for this! One is going to practice what he sees on Stewie and the other will have nightmares for weeks.

The videos began recapping the previous week’s drama with Smackdown, and I felt an inner twerk. A spark rumbling at the base of my voice box. A silent choke, preparing its extrication. I held it down, along with visions of familiar basements packed with faces unseen for 20 years and once again, became completely immersed in this new drama; for Raw was #undersiege by Smackdown and it was, the most important thing I’d heard all day.

I glanced to my right and noticed the boys felt the same. Malcolm stood speechless, his small body shifting foot to foot, hands in prayer with murmurs of Why? Why would they do that? Wheels face was at least slightly exposed, his fingers twizzling his bottom lip anxiously. I knew the story-lines would be his weakness. Can’t drag that kid away from books or TV.

A warm up wrestling match entered the ring, providing the opportunity to reiterate the notions of fake, professionals, practice, theater, and entertainment. Malcolm heard, but with each intricate flip-fighting sequence of Cedric, his jumping and shrieking blocked out half. Wheels, with his delicate soul and kind spirit, listened intently, wincing at each slap. Worried the wrestlers were actually in pain. I encouraged him to watch their feet when they hit… he figured it out and was more at ease.

“Thirty seconds until Raw goes live!” boomed the slick announcer.

Malcolm lost it, counting down with the flashing numbers. 10, 9, 8, my pulse quickened, 7, 6, flashes of light, bumpin’ music, 5, 4, I could feel the natural inclination to rise to my feet and go nuts, 2, 1! But I didn’t. I kept it cool for Wheels and let my husband and Malcolm do their thing.

The lights downed, Medal music pounded our chests, and out struts Raw General Manager Kurt Angle. Playing cool, I explained to the boys who he was and how I used to watch him along with The Undertaker, Stone Cold, Goldberg, Sting, Ric Flair, and The Rock when I was a teenager (I left out the WWE/WCW rivalry for it makes no difference now). David locked eyes with me and mouthed Who are you?

I rolled my eyes, turning back to Wheels. I got this. I am knowledgeable. I am playing into Wheels’ love for story details and he can deal with Malcolm’s…

The lights suddenly extinguished on Angle, the glow of purple filled the arena and Welcome to the Queendom blared from every crevasse… meaning only one magnanimous fact… Stephanie McMahon was here!!!!

Cool, evaporated, and I unleashed a barrage of “There she is… AHH” and “Bow Down People” and “You better be worried, Kurt” like nobody else in our row. While she berated Angle, I laughed wickedly and told Wheels to “suck it up, its live TV! Live a little, my boy!” My 16 year old self had emerged for all to see and frankly, it felt good!

With threats accomplished, Stephanie traipsed, elegant and confident, upstage in her leather pants, high heels, and Peggy Bundy size ponytail. I looked to both my sons and breathlessly declared, “We should totally do this again!” Wheels nodded with shocked smiles while Malcolm agreed, “Yes MOMMA! The knee-pads make you happy!”

Oh It’s True, It’s Damn True!

November 3, 2017 0

The Sport of Reflection

It’s been thirteen years since I picked up a stick. I mean really picked up a stick. It’s 7:30 on a Saturday morning, the only day I can squeeze in coaching without my boys. The wet on the turf glistens rainbows across the field as the moisture gently sneaks through the mesh of my shoes, chilling my toes and telling them to get moving or turn numb. Two dozen brown, black, blonde, and red heads can be seen bobbing up the hill towards the head coaches. I breathe in the crispness of the sport, place my hands end and center, step my left foot to cage, and feel the familiar swooping movement through my arms and hips, as the ball powerfully glides to the top left corner.

It has been thirteen years since I have picked up a stick, held it with pride, and thought I missed you hockey, thank you.

Why now? I am an accomplished, highly educated 35 year old, old person. Why relish a forgotten dream? A dream, which crashed into a harsh reality.

Hockey materialized in my life as a floundering teenager; afraid of the kids at school, lost with no direction, and weak. Zero confidence. My entire plan when entering high school, was to melt into the back corner, read, don’t speak and skate through unnoticed. With one, three minute phone call, two weeks before school started from my school’s new Pakistani coach, a small dent appeared in my plan and eventually bared my world to possibilities.

For four years, I practiced seven days a week, 3 – 6 hours a day as a goal keeper. Not because I was forced, because I found my place. Not just “the” sport that I excelled in, but the place where I was comfortable. The place that brought friends to me, my most challenging aspect to this day. The place that showed me being pushed is an achievement in yourself, not in the person pushing you to be better. The place which led me around the country and clued me in to a world outside my hometown and the possibility of leaving it.

Leave it I did. To an amazing college a top an idyllic hill with surrounding, winding river views.

All and none of this explains the pull to revitalize the past.

After the clink of the corner post and the fall of the orange ball, I turn and sprint toward the gathering crowd of young women and coaches. Each on their own journey with the sport. The muttering and laughter amidst the circle gives way to determinations, evaluations of play, and encouragement. Each tired, bed streaked face awakens with life, and though dread of conditioning is evident, they showed up for their team.

Camaraderie.

A word I rarely found in the dozens of others sports and employments through out my life. Having years away, one has time to reflect upon value beyond the surface. Beyond the obvious, tangible rewards a sport offers. Neither teaching in the school systems and working with amazing men and women in trying situations, or fostering mom friends to slug wine with and complain about the tirades of our kids, has provided such positive camaraderie as being a part of a female sports team.

It’s not the same. Pettiness always smears the way.

As old people, these opportunities for true comradeship are far an few between as our complicated busy lives shift the focus away from what we need, to what our kids need.

But as I stand, grasping my cracked wooden Grays stick, listening to these young women on their paths, I know this is what I need. Not only to experience that overwhelming sense of place, but to ensure these young women can one day reflect on their experience and say, Thank you hockey, I missed you too.

October 20, 2017 1

Men, Home Depot, and An Aisle Too Far

The fall air has yet to truly set in, leaving everyone slick, sticky with moisture. Humidity and high temperatures attempt to deceive the growing lateness of the year, leaving many to wonder if Fall will ever grace us with her magnificent presence. As the fall equinox passes, its a lateness that begins to nag at the masculine minds of men everywhere, and all thought turns to pilgrimage and winterization. In short, aeration and fall seeding.

Pulling through my spot, brood entail, the orange edifice consumes my car in a strange highlighter glow. There is something cosmically attractive for all men, no matter their age, and Home Depot. The men in my car are all a quiver with lists, suggestions, and aisles we can’t miss. My husband wants seed, hay, to look at paint, and tape. Malcolm, my son in the middle, wants lighting and ceiling fans. I want to browse carpet. Stewie only wants the car cart, and Wheels desires the Halloween displays.

I close my eyes and visualize our map. Still griping the wheels, I turn to my husband, smiling from ear to ear totally pumped to DO THIS!

“Alright men, GO!”

The automatic doors burst open, too slowly as Wheels slips his slender body through the gap at first availability, and is in hot pursuit of a car cart. His dad grabs Malcolm and surveys the other direction for this coveted apparatus and I peal Stewie from his five point harness thinking, If we don’t get this car cart, it is game over!

“Over here! I have one, I have one!” Wheels elates. Stewie inspects the vehicle, and agrees it is legit by sliding in. Game ON!

After our quick greeting, and an even quicker reminder to ask questions in a quiet tone, we breezed past the paint, designating the boys to grab the look books of each color, and raced off to carpet. Like rookies, we made the critical mistake of unleashing the baby. Entanglement in blinds and ruckus laughter ensued, leaving us no choice but to snap a photo of the carpet tag and move on to lighting.

As strangely usual, complete silence fell. Who knew blazing iridescent lights and swirling fans of brazen colors could have such a calming effect? Moving slowly, savoring the peace , I plotted our next move while even my husband only muttered “Oh, that one is nice.”

The aisle ended and Malcolm yelled aghast, “Hey no! Go back! Where was the fan with the outer space blades and Earth bulb? No MOOOOOOM!”

But I was off. I had the wherewithal to search for that gaudy fan upon our immediate arrival and prayed its absence would go unnoticed. With no such luck, I was pushing that car cart like at Daytona, heading straight for the finish at Halloween.

I sent my husband to acquire the seeding necessities, while the four of us beheld all that was Halloween. Each year, the kids want to stare, touch, and get as close as possible to the Halloween decor; Even though, it truly scares the BeGeezus out of them. I pushed Stewie slowly in the car cart, watching the other two dare each other at each display; a howling dog skeleton, a skeleton of a dinosaur hatching, a dancing hand, blood covered corpse. I snickered at their fear and reached for a cute bear playing peek-a-boo, which turned into a rabid animal. Aww… too cute.

My husband returned seed-torious, just as I remembered the tape! We have to get that tape. Slow motion setting in, I said the ominous “I’ll be right back” and hastily strode towards the other end of the warehouse.

Instantly, Stewie let loose the scream of a banshee that reverberated off every metal surface. Faster, faster. With a grab of my shoulders, Wheels and Malcolm shouted BOO!

“You guys left your dad!?”

“Yes, we want to help too.”

Oh no! Faster. faster. We found the tape in Christmas and sprinted back to Halloween. A crowd was gathered around my husband, who was now holding the Exorcist inspired Stewie. I slowed surveying the scene. A group of older women were patting my husband on the back, providing comfort in his turmoil, wiping Stewie’s tears and whispering kind words. Their husband’s waited patiently, grinning in the background. Stewie rested his splotched face on his dad’s chest and fully calmed as we reunited.

The ladies furrowed looks to David and left.

“Wow, what happened,” I asked.

“Oh…Stewie threw his truck and made direct contact with my head.”

“Oh my gosh , what did you do?”

“I picked it up off the ground, along with my self-esteem. Luckily those ladies jumped in. They made jokes and talked Stewie down. Wasn’t that nice?” The sweat on his brow, mixed with the relief in his eyes and the subtle warmth from ghoulish lighted displays made me realize, they took sympathy and…

Yes, it was truly nice. But only happens for a Man, in Home Depot.

October 13, 2017 0

The Rule of Law

splink… scchoooooo tunk. A blonde toddler head, with a glued wound on its forehead, springs up at the front of his giant, Tonka dump trunk. Two pale blue eyes flashing fury. His thin lips openly terse, showing clenched teeth. With inaudible babble and his cheeks puffed red, he climbs to his feet.

“No, No, NO! No rocks in dump truck!” he says with the fierceness of a teacher trying to keep control of their unruly underlings, and failing. He plants both his hands on the either side of the yellow truck, leans in, over, mean mugging, never breaking eye contact and deliberately whispers, “no rocks, in, dump truck.”

Slowly, he kneels at the front and slides beyond sight, continuing to place rocks in the tiniest dump truck I have ever seen, mumbling, “they too big, too big.”

I know!!!! Use the gigantic dump truck! It’s more FUN!

Playing with Stewie, or any two year old, is a lesson in government oversight. Your invited in to observe the genius of their play, yet, they are always there to correct your actions in case your play is, in anyway, an overstep of their inherent parameters:

You can play with Percy, but not Toby and only on the bridge because Toby is not allowed to move. Technically, you can’t touch Toby but looking is fine. Yes, you can “choo choo” but not too loud because then I can’t hear my chugging. Don’t touch, or fix, the tracks without my say, for they are meant to be wrecked.

Actually, since you can’t play as stipulated, your presence may better be served here, in the corner. With the stuffed animals. No touching, or pretending they can talk or snuggle. Fine, if you can’t abide by my laws, punishment is inevitable. Yes… I will give you, my least, favorite toy. YOU, are condemned to tiny blocks. Don’t tell me about their pictures and I warn you, if you build, I will knock it down.

Oh no, no, no, you can’t leave. I don’t want to be alone!! And if you do, I will bring all my toys to you one by one, to show you what you still, can’t have. And, I will do you the honor of leaving them, so you don’t forget.

These are precious times. Precious years. These laws are daily reminders that he wants me around, and I want to be there. Am lucky to be.

But if I am bound to his laws, I will exercise my rights. I will protest his rigidity, one rock at a time. Why?

splink… scchoooooo tunk

Because I love the flash of those eyes.

October 4, 2017 1

missing Home

I am
Home.
amongst the forest of
our childhood.
sitting at the base of the tree
at the base of our hill,
inhaling
the
past and present
brings me whole
again.

My sons charge
slipping on the dry, barren slate bed
defending our mountain
slashing at predators,
intruders
with their
practical sword-walking sticks.
their laughter rises
with the trees
mingling, mixing,
cunningly
deceiving my perception,
as to whether the
happiness ringing out is
theirs
or ours
absorbed, preserved
from decades
gone by.

gathering My soldiers,
and commanding
true freedom
awaits
at the top of the Mountain,
we rush the hill.

steepness soon stifles
bravery,
and encouragement
a necessity.
the same roots
we used to lunge for,
they do.
the same slate crevasse
we overcame,
they maneuver around.
the same encouragement
whispered
to usher this little sister,
she gives to them.

as hard, burnt umber ground
succumbs
to green moss
and lush ferns,
we stand
firm, at the summit.
silence except for
breaths.
this was our happiness.
no pain, no worries, no fear,
no anger.
just us and woods.
Connected.

the forest’s constancy
provides hope,
proof
of brotherly love
in silent challenging
escapades.
Surveying the treetops,
and the boy’s proud smiles,
my heart throbs,
aches,
muscling
the loneliness
of the forest
into my heart.

For nothing
can
relinquish
the crushing
sensation
of truly missing your
Home.

September 22, 2017 0

Summer Fatigue

The week before school starts, and I had finally had it. Songs like Smack My Bitch Up, Crazy Train, Get Low, and Still D.R.E. are silently on cranial repeat to counter balance the swirl of madness throughout my house. Desperate not to yield to the desire of a third day of take out, I am at the stove creating a fast, uninspired dinner to please the kids, of which they won’t eat anyway. Weeks ago, my nerves shriveled, died, and fell like ashes to the floor only to be licked up by Bert because, she’s nasty. Therefore, with nothing to ignite my discipline fire, the wild men have been released, unchecked, and turned my house into Jumanji.

Perhaps our lives were too busy this summer. Perhaps there was just plain too much togetherness.

With my husband between jobs, we had the “rare opportunity to really have a fun, family summer. Everday! Let’s not squander this chance!” We grabbed summer and traveled it abroad, traveled it to the south, eclipsed it, tracked it, museumed it, camped it, scienced it, pooled it, and all togethered it. All seven of us (with dogs).

It has been fun, but that’s over.

Summer may have broke us. Wheels has developed a strange tendency to fall, everywhere. Boom, tripped over his feet. Boom, tripped over a dog toy. Boom, tripped over a crack. Boom, tripped over the same crack. My husband transformed into a restless beast; relaxation made him irritable and he has taken to reading HR books to ready his mind for reentry, while being helpful by organizing things. Stewie’s paranoia peaked because everyone wants his school bus, and he wields it with vicious strength. Bert became wary of Mardi because NO ONE, can be that nice right!? Right. Me? I live in the bitter world of rap and secretly sneak into my closet to dance like I’m in a rap video.

But the true toll of summer falls on Malcolm, my son in the middle.

Stirring my strange dinner mixture and hitting the disc changer in my mind, I begin to Regulate as Malcolm walks up. Nervously, shifting my weight between feet and puffing my chest out, I watch my six year old drag the wooden stool to the opposite side of my island stove, and climb. The hairs quiver on my neck and arms, and my palms clam. His light blue eyes stare, searching, he knows I am weaker now than before.

Oh God it is coming…I have to finish this quick…

“Mom, I have a question.”

His voice washes over. I freeze and barely release a reluctant, “Ok honey, what is …” when it begins.

“Well I was just wondering, remember when in Kentucky, and the woods, and the sun, and those um, um, um,” head twisting, zombie eyes rolling inside their sockets, and an index finger outlining circles in the air, “glasses and the burning sun could hurt our eyes and people looking at it. Why did, I don’t know it just reminded me of not being smart. President, you know, why people don’t wear glasses…it reminded me of when we were in Turks and Caicos and Cookie Monster and the stove… that can’t happen…” with the look of Duh across his face.

Nodding, I take the food off the heat and place it on the counter behind. With deep breaths and a fast attempt to give him the slip, I bolt down the alley way of counter tops only to be cut off by Malcolm, now on the floor and still talking. His volume has risen and I feel myself walking backwards nodding harder, harder, harder until I am nothing but a Mommy Bobble Head. Trapped in the granite elbow, I can feel my arms slowly rising into a defensive position in front of my chest, and my knee naturally following as the tirade of puzzling words, words, words continues to spew all over me. My sweet, quiet, thoughtful Malcolm has turned into a bad date. I see him coming and hope he isn’t coming for me!

As thunderous cry for help begins to surge from my lungs, he stops.

“Mom. Don’t you think mom? That is not right. Right?” Turns on his heel and leaves without an answer.

I’m exhausted. He is finding his voice. But the transition from exposure to opinion has been eye popping at best.

I just hope we can all recover and return to normal life.

Separately.

September 15, 2017 0

Nightmare on Doodle Street

Smoke circled my head as elbows flew, tracing the skillet. Stirring. Stirring, round and round until the spaghetti sauce collapsed into submission and began to simmer to doneness. I felt uneasy, all evening. The air was dense and each child was unusually amiable. Listening, doing what I asked, no need to yell or evil eye them to achieve a purpose. The hairs on the back of my neck rose slightly. Something was coming.

The sound of my black industrial fan whined from overuse, keeping me cool from the intense outdoor inferno known as summer. All day, we each had dripped with sweat unable to escape the heat, even indoors. Our dogs, Bert and Mardi, permanently laid in front, windblown and calm.

I paced to the sink, eager to keep busy until whatever was going to hit the fan, hit.

The room darkened from our nightly thunderstorm and the crescendo began, as the skies opened with a roar.

Wheels took off with a water gun protecting all from the lightning, followed by his energy equal Bert. Sprinting from corner to corner shooting the thunder amidst high-pitched barks. Focusing on my bowls and soap, Malcolm, my son in the middle, became stoic reaching for his Viking helmet and sword. He posted up in the hallway, determined to battle only if lightning came to him. His loyal subject, Mardi, lumbered beside, staring with complete devotion, moaning in agreement.

As the battle waged and the voices grew more ferocious, my hands moved feverishly to complete dinner before Stewie joined the foray.

With a scream rivaling most battle cries, I closed my eyes for I knew, it was too late. Stewie, armed with blue blankie, ran from brother to brother babbling instructions provided by his commanders. Tiny tennis shoes screeching to narrowly miss corners of tables and walls completed the orchestral climax.

Spraying the stray bubbles down the sides of the sink, I was almost done. My intervention imminent. Prepared to join and protect my boys from the bodily harm associated with the sudden madness of too good of a day! One more task… get the noodle water on.

I grabbed my pot, filled it with water, slammed it on the flickering fire, and turned to a silent house.

Not a single bark. No yells. Just the slow rumble of a dying storm. Something was off. Everything was off. I moved with caution to the dining room where Wheels, Stewie, and Bert were all nose pressed to the windows, discussing whether victory was theirs.

I pattered to the hallway. No Malcolm. No Mardi. This was it. They were the victims.

Eyes up. I saw the front room was dark with only the primary color glow of Paw Patrol illuminating the shadows. My legs took me to the edge and with a peek, I glimpsed an outline moving vigorously on the couch. My eyes adjusted and feel upon the innocent horror writhing in the darkness.

Malcolm lay on the couch, belly down, arms lifeless at his side, head turned to the TV, entranced, oblivious. Mardi was hunched on his back in a full death grip, humping away and hair flying.

“Noooooo! MARDI, NO!”

“Maaaoom, don’t yell! She is shivering because she is cold. Duh,” Malcolm muttered.

With a swipe of my hand, not only did she back off, but Mardi left me with a very interesting conversation distinguishing the difference between shivering, and domination.

Hey, it could have been worse.

August 6, 2017 1

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

Author