Mom-dern Vignettes

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.

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.

The flowers are popping and the days are growing warmer, longer.  Everyone emits an essence of giddy hope. Freedom.  Windows fly open and the dust flies up. Awww, Spring is here. Baby bunnies. Baby lambs. Baby anything that has four legs! And the most essential winter relief for all adults who have, or watch, or get roped into kids… hours at the playground!

With three rambunctious boys, my right eye begins to twitch from cabin fever mid January when daylight hours are so short, you are trying to send you kids to bed at 5:30 just because it’s dark! Doesn’t always work.

Last week, Spring Break, was our first week in which we hit a playground a day.  I loved it. Not just because the kids are active and their imaginations firing, but I revel in feeling like a kid.  I run, squeal, pretend to be a pirate, and climb the jungle gym equipment trying to be a Ninja Warrior.  It is just plain fun to be reminded that you are not too old for kid tendencies.

This particular day, Wheels and Malcolm, my son in the middle, were chasing each other defending themselves with various Pokemons, while I was making sure Stewie didn’t fall to his death on the designated 5 – 12 year old equipment. We successfully surpassed the stairs and fireman pole from hell, and made our way to the slide.

The one true happiness in Stewie’s world, the slide.

Clapping wildly, he sat down two feet from the slide’s edge and began to scoot his bottom towards the crest, when it happened.

BAM BAM BAM… up the slide came that kid. That kid we all know. That one, who sneers and brings you back to being alone on the playground and bullied.  That one who, even though you are an accomplished adult, instantly makes you revert to your childhood and pisses you off that you never did anything to stand up for yourself. That one who was just older than you and exerted their dominance by holding cool stuff hostage.

That one, who brings out the worst, in adult you.

As that kid reached the top of the slide grabbing the poles either side, they stared into Stewie’s eyes and grimaced, “You are never coming down this slide,” glancing up at me, “Nope.”

Blindsided and quite taken aback, I carefully raised my right foot, placed it in the middle of that kid’s furrowed forehead, and gently nudged them back down the speedy silver chute impersonating evil Santa, “You’ll shoot your eye out kid! Ho HO HO!” as they slid helplessly, shocked, whimpering.

Sinister chuckling ensued. It felt gooood.

I grabbed Stewie’s hand to bring him closer to the slide, looked up, and that kid was still there, sneering and defiant as ever.   The trouble with a vivid imagination and not so wicked heart is you don’t act upon your musings.

Leaning down making firm, committed eye contact with that kid, I whispered as forcefully and controlled as possible, “Oh I think he is. Right now.” Immediately, the child slid away, relinquishing the fun from its cold grasp and I kindly expressed thanks.

Awww, the joys of spring! Fresh air.  Exercise. Baby animals. AND, the incredible return to kid-dom and playground etiquette.