Mom-dern Vignettes

The Olympic Fail

Let’s not kid ourselves. In today’s world of über kiddom, parents are training Olympians. Kids start training at four in their parent’s desired sport of choice, and by six are doing three to four days a week of practices and private lessons. Forced to pursue their parent’s dream and pay for college with their finely tuned talent and lost childhood.

Who wouldn’t love to see their child be amazing in something? The world’s best! A thrilling reverie, however unlikely.

My husband and I stood at the pool’s edge, anxious excited. Our competitive juices pumping. For the past four years, and laboring through an assortment of other sports first, our cumulative efforts to guide Wheels into swimming were about to pay off as he chose to tryout for a year round swim team. Four years of general how not to drown swim lessons, learning the strokes, encouraging him with swimming is a lifelong sport and consciously reminding, Sports are for fun! Do your best and we will be proud, had slowly turned his disdain to love. We were ready to watch him, at 8, grow in the first sport he’s enjoyed.

As the swimmers before him dove in, we noticed the fluidity of their strokes. The poise in their breathing. The steady velocity of their kicks. Up to this point, we restrained ourselves from over coaching and infusing Wheels with his parents’ rabid desire to win. But quickly after watching the others, nervousness cropped up.

We are not sitters. So standing poolside arms crossed, with crazy intense eyes, seemed most appropriate when attempting to make your child feel at ease.

Wheels stepped onto the block and took position. My husband leaned in whispering, “He just needs to show he has potential. He’s ready. He’s got this.”

The coach bellowed GO! and Wheels plunged, full cannonball belly-flop dive with arms correctly together over his head, but were the last body parts to enter the water. Surfacing in the same spot, he began butterfly. Arms flying, flailing really. No rhythm, no kick, just a frantic splash-filled effort to not sink. Up, down, up, down his arms gesticulated as a flying fish who just can’t seem to catch air. I have never seen anything like it. It looked like a seizure.

Nearly 30 frantic fly strokes in, he finally swam halfway down the lane where my husband I stood. Just as he reached us, he was over taken by the seven year old girl next in line.

“Oh holy mother of God,” I muttered, “We failed him.”

Without connecting dumbfounded eyes, my husband pinched his as though having a migraine, and sighed “Yep!”

For years, we had been concerned about injecting our competitive natures into the boys too young. Our desire to be the best has served us well. It allowed me to attend a wonderful college and be one of the top goalkeepers in the country, all while my husband swam his way around the world in the Commonwealth Games and Olympic Trials. We were pushed hard by those around us, internalizing both good and bad from the experiences.

While dating, we found out quickly we could never be on the same team in Pictionary (that was cookie, not a pizza!). I have been known to toss Goblet because in 11 years of marriage I have yet to defeat him, just as he refuses to play Connect Four and Backgammon with me. To this day, we have different partners during Hand and Foot and I will refuse play, if I do not sit to his immediate right because he fiddles so long with his cards I can never determine if I have enough time to get a snack!

Yes! We are competitive. But that instinct has provided us with all the gifts we possess. For our kids, we hoped to develop this once they reached double digits.

But according to this tryout, we waited too long. With these kids, there was no way, no matter how much he wanted it, that Wheels was going to make the team.

After the final length he pulled himself out of the water, eyes wide, knowing. Dripping he sulked to us wringing his goggles and asked, “Mom, Dad. I don’t think I made the team. Do you?”

I put my arm around him and looked him in the eye, “No baby. You didn’t. So now what do you want to do?”

“Well, I would like real lessons so I can make it next year.”

Looking up at my husband, I felt more pride than if he made the team. He was determined. And that is the most dignified and valuable quality of being competitive.

*Note*

To our great surprise, the coach emailed us impressed with his effort and asked Wheels to join the team. The boy teared up and accepted.

We are still conflicted.

July 30, 2017 0

Elusory

Elusory

My Love.
a term of endearment
for the common
and
uncommon.
A notion, whim
claimed to be held
by many
but
understood by too few.
an overused declaration
which embodies
my eternal devotion
to you.

My Love,
resides in your gaze sensed
across the room.
the warmth emanating
from your bright, loving eyes
gives me peace
when feeling the most
chaotic.
I look to you,
and
your glance
feeds my embattled mind,
reminding me that
I
am not alone.

My Love,
blossoms with each instant
you teach our sons to
be
men.
gently, respectfully guiding them
to be aware,
kind.
your fatherly education
fills my glaring
motherly gaps

and allows me perspective
into the quieter, subtler world of
discipline.
our little men respond
with awe,
an awe reserved only
for daddy.

My Love,
is nothing less than
trust.
as a flower awaits the knowing
sustenance
of the morning sun,
I turn to you
for my survival,
protection,
passion.
You are my light,
the hope
of bright days and
starry nights
and a boundless future,
for we
manifest an unwavering
force.

And as I lovingly
draw you to my
breast,
I breathe in your
vitality
and spirit.
secure in our place in
this world
together,
I exhale relief
in the uncommonness
of
our Love.

July 21, 2017 0

End of the Beginning

Next to one another, my husband lying flat on the canvas lounge, one leg on the ground, eyes fixed forward and I, sitting with my legs to him, elbows on knees, head down in shame, eyes closed. How did it come to this? Exhausted, verbally spent, foggy. So much has been said, yet nothing truly of consequence nor significance. I love him. He loves me. But the last twelve hours have tested our companionship, civility, and ability to come together as a team.

Twisting my body, I lean back into my chair, carefully place my legs outward and fix my eyes on the mountainous cottony clouds. They come into view and pass so peacefully, smoothly. No notion of harm. No sound of threat, yet their sheer presence implies impending duress.

His voice laments, “Dear God, Sam, how did we get here?”

In my usually stall, I inhale deeply and hold …

We woke the family up at 4:30 AM to make our 7:30 flight to Charlotte and connect to Turks and Caicos. Running through Wheels, Malcolm, and Stewie’s rooms, I stuffed their charged electronics in their backpacks, reminded them about headphones, a change of clothes and books. I snuck a secret toy into each bag, grabbed Stewie, husband, and left for vacation.

Easy. Efficient. Mom-Awesome.

Too, of all of the above.

Attempting to check bags, both were too heavy. Great. Rearranged and took out the stuffed skunk Wheels had to have, .5 pounds under. Boom done.

While in the security line, NSA approaches and kindly suggested, “The line here is too long. Terminal B is faster, go down there. They have five lanes, A only has two.” Practically coercing us out of line, we proceed to B.

Terminal B’s line was astronomically long. I looked at my husband and he mouthed, “Bastard.” The line began to move, and so did Stewie. His nearly two year old body quickly began rejecting the confining line, rejecting my husband, rejecting me, and rejecting life. He was throwing his head backward, to the side, onto the ground whining. College kids stared, either irritated by the child or fearful of their future.

Progressing forward we’re now second, when the inevitable slow motion walk of another TSA member swaggers forward and slowly pulls the cloth tape, blocking us in the corral and coldly announcing, “K9 sweep” and leaves. After five rounds of “why can’t I touch the dog mom?” and 10 minutes for the dog to sweep the entire line, we were released and asked for tickets.

My husband hands her the pile, completely organized of course, with each family member’s ticket tucked neatly into their passport on the page with their pictures. She scans them, allows Wheels, Malcolm and I to pass, and denies entry to Stewie and my husband. “This baby needs a ticket too. This,” she enunciated while waving the incorrect boarding pass wildly, “is not enough. Go back and get it.”

Our eyes lock. Stewie is full on preforming an Exorcist move in my husbands arms, as the despair on his face turns to rage. When angry, his face doesn’t furrow, wrinkle, it goes unnaturally lax, with big wide eyes and the only tightness is in his lips.

I did the only thing I could think of. While kicking my shoes off, I waved to him and said “See ya later” as Malcolm chimed “Alligator”.

Yep, that made it worse.

Eventually, we all met at the gate (even though it turned out we did have the correct ticket). And the next 9 hours did not improve; Stewie was enamored with the planes and bolted frequently across the terminal enthusiastically screaming at the top of his lungs, despite clear instruction Wheels resolutely believed the motorized walkway was for riding and openly chastised all walkers, no one charged their devices, only one headphone was packed, Stewie headbutted my husband just to headbutt, each boy argued constantly over the other’s secret toy and books, no inflight entertainment, no purchase of my superstitious five trash magazines, and Stewie threw an epic tantrum while wiping his face across the germ infested terminal carpet and licking the seats. Most of these events occurred prior to touchdown in Charlotte and just continued with no one napping from 4:30 AM to 5 PM.

Worse than childish behavior made by children, are those made by adults.

My husband and I barked unhelpful comments all day. To the kids. To each other. And to each other again. It was inevitable, highly stressful and highly unusual. Embarrassing. Mostly my doing.

“Sam? Sam?” he cautiously whispered through the warm sea air. I exhaled my breath and turned my sore neck from the calming clouds to meet his weary gaze. A juvenile smile crept across his face, as belly laughs heaved his shoulders creating the warmth I love about him, but hadn’t seen all day. Gasping for air, his classic sly smile inquired, “Honey, how did we get here?”

“Careful love,” with the same smile, “It’s that look that got us into this mess in the first place.”

July 7, 2017 0

A Tale of Two Cooties

Two days before a big family trip is always hectic; wash all the laundry and hide it so no wears anything, clean the house and forbid potentially dirty activities, charge devices or risk an airplane horror show, and begin the process of packing through the vast piling of clothes, so visually, I can assess whether the boys and I actually have enough to almost keep us covered for a week. It is usually around this time, while I am sitting in the middle of my piles and the essential “of course we are on vacation and you got sick” medicine bag, that my husband walks jollily into the room and declares himself “packed”. And just like every other vacation, it ticks me off.

Yeah, it’s easy packing for one.

I throw everything in the suitcase, neatly, storm passed him and further declare, “Great! Well, I ain’t cookin’!”

A quick phone call to the local pizza joint for “pickup” and I peel out of the drive prepared to wait, and enjoy mental silence.

There is something about waiting for a “pickup” that I love. The quiet. People talking breezily. And my favorite Olympic sport, people watching. I call it people watching, the more sinister deem it eavesdropping.

Closing my eyes, I relinquished the past couple of tense days into the semi-uncomfortable red pleather bench, just as two teenage boys walk in. Keeping my eyes closed, they thudded onto the bench adjacent and began.

Boy 1: It’s going be a minute.
Boy 2: Yeah, well. Hey man, you going to that graduation party thing this weekend.
B1: Hell yeah. Last summer we are all together you know. It should be good.
B2: Hmm, should be. You going with anybody?
B1: I think so. I just need to check and see if she is going and then probably.
B2: Who?
B1: Jasmine.
B2: Oh man really!?
B1: What? Why?
B2: Nothing man, nothing. It’s just that, you know, I don’t know.
B1: What? What the hell? You can’t do that!
B2: I don’t know. Its just that, you know she strikes me as a chick with… some kinda a…
B1: With what? Some kinda… WHAT!?!
B2: For lack of a better word man, she’s gotta have something, like, like, cooties or something.
B1: For real. What are you seven?
B2: Ok, look. All I am saying is go to the party, have fun or whatever, but be careful. You do not want to end up with all that… cooties or whatever all… over you.

To my disappointment my order was called. Without eye contact, I slowly rose with a huge grin, took my pizzas and left.

There was something so appealing, about this horrid conversation that gave me joy. Perhaps the young being young. Or the fact they openly talked without fret of someone hearing. Or the stupidity of openly talking while naming names in the local pizza place with only half a wall-divider and packed restaurant. No idea. But the fact remained… it made my stressful day. Oh, how I miss high schoolers.

Entering through the garage, I placed the pizzas on the counter and reveled in the chaos. Stewie was wrestling my husband in a match of “you only think you can change my diaper,” while Wheels and Malcolm destroyed another world as Mario and Toad in Mario Bros.

I slowly set the table and continued my people watching. Through the half laughing wails of Stewie and serious pantings from my husband, I absorbed a conversation.

Wheels: Oh my gosh, we almost have her! Keep going!
Malcolm: Yes! YEEES! We did it!
Wheels: We freed Princess Peach!!! YEEEEEAH!
Malcolm: Look at the fireworks!
Wheels: Yeah… isn’t that awesome. They are dropping on us! You know what that is?
Malcolm: No!?
Wheels: That is her cooties!
Malcolm: What are those?
Wheels: It is what girls have, and when they get on you it means they love you, and you fall in love with her!
Malcolm: Oh my gosh. Is that a good thing?
Wheels: Oh yes, yes it is. You want cooties! You really do. I can’t wait to get cooties all over me!
Malcolm: Oh my gosh… me too.

Now truth be told… that made my day. At least until they are high schoolers.

June 28, 2017 0

Summer’s Invocation

Standing at the brick edifice,
my skin prickles with
anticipation, nausea, joy,
Fear.
Nose breathes deep in,
Mouth forces air out.
feeling stiff,
my chin stretches
to the brilliant blue
early summer sky,
and my thoughts
Escape.

Please, to whomever available,
Don’t let anyone
Break a leg.
or fall down a crevice,
or get eaten by
an anaconda.

May we all have
lazy early mornings,
in PJs
with cartoons,
and days on days
where stopping
laughing
is the hardest
feat.

Give me sense,
to give them freedom,
to be kids.
allow myself to
slack
on math and reading,
Just a tad,
and breathe in their vibrant,
Boundless curiosity.

Tell those boys,
any bickering, any tattle-telling,
any smack,
will find them in Jail,
a scary one!
And remind their hearts
that along with the annoyance,
brotherly love is
Fairer
than
Loneliness.

Provide them time,
to envelope themselves in boredom
and yearn
for the structure
and wonder
of school.

Let my tired voice
rest,
silencing the desire to order
them here to
there.
Give me strength
to enjoy my kids,
to loosen up,
take a joke as a
joke,
and not worry about
where we should
be.

Keep me from
Wine;
especially when whining and frustration,
isolates me into
Solitude.
those notions will
pass.
Besides,
summer defines
friends banding Together,
awash in colorful
Mojitos.

Force me,
to carve time
for myself
to gain the clarity needed
for their and my
survival.

And as the final bell tolls
and the shrill squeals of summer
resonate through the school grounds,
Please,
let my thoughts remain
Mine.
never allow negativity to project
on my family,
nor allow the boys to notice,
that sometimes
Mommy feels this way.

June 9, 2017 1

Tales From the Crypt: Life with Stewie

From the window of Wheels’ violin lesson, a struggling mother wrestled her son to the ground outside the storefront. The boy was nearly two, blonde, bullishly stout and filled with determination. His blue fire truck shirt twisted, exposing his belly, as she picked him up, and tried to calm him through whispers and shushes; but his mind and mouth only shouted “Car! Cool car! CAAAAAR!” His body tensed with all its might, and then went dead weight, forcing her to place his heavy load down. With that, life restored, he sprinted for known kid heaven and parent hell, 5 and Below.

Unrelenting to his demands, she raced after him, scooped him up at heaven’s gate and carried him over shoulder away, car-less. The battle resumed. Her second son, unfazed, used to the ordeal, was sent in to assess the release of another sibling’s lesson as she continued to deflect and endure the writhing demon.

Employees from the upscale hair salon, nail salon, 5 and Below, and JoAnn Fabrics, emerged checking to see if a child was endangered. She sheepishly smiled and kept repeating, “He’s two. Wants a car. No way!” with equal over my dead body determination.

Finally broken, the boy oozed from her arms, still yelling “caaaaar” but too tired to pursue. He melted face first over her shoes, nose smashed on the nasty gum riddled concrete of the portico. Her hands flew to cover her face and her shoulders began trembling.

As her hands pulled away, my out of body experience over, it is me… and I cannot stop laughing. Cry or laugh, this time laugh. It was all I could do.

To add salt in the wound, a woman approached and disclosed, “Eighteen months to two years is the worst. It’ll get better. Hang in there.” As she was the third person this week to utter that exact line to me, she confirmed my knowledge that I looked like a total amateur. Fantastic.

How have Stewie and I created such toxic, public interactions?

Ok, ok. So I resent him a little. I am sorry, but I do. Before he came along, life was easy. The older boys played on their own together, everyone was potty trained, evenings were bliss for the first time in 5 years, dinner was almost enjoyable (almost), everyone was in school! Instantly, we were back at the starting gates with way more afternoon activities, homework, stress. Bonding took a backseat and he became the purse I grabbed on the way out the door to… something. Perhaps that is what is missing…

So, I made a concerted effort to be more Stewie present.

The result culminated at Malcolm, my son in the middle’s, preschool graduation. Stewie, uninterested and unimpressed, mean mugged kids on the playground, took off in any direction Malcolm was not, wolfed lunch, and bee lined for the playground again, alone. He toddled from the picnic tables through the woods, looking over his shoulder to determine if more speed was necessary. Stopping at the fenced entrance, he eyed me, challenging me to stop him. If I did, screams would reverberate through the graduation. If not, possible limb reorientation from a fall down the windy slide. I stared.

His soft, fine blonde hair, covered his forehead and eyes wide, yet squinting his thoughts. Mouth, as always, turned slightly down in a frown, body defiant, but still.

Like a rising gasp of air, I saw my exact image. He is me. All my wonder and horror. My independence. My determination and stubbornness. My Blackburn-ness. My boy.

And that is why we struggle. It is hard enough to struggle with knowing yourself, but knowing your child, who is all you, is deceiving. It should be easy, because you know what is coming. But knowing what’s coming, blinds you.

Slowly, with refreshed insight, I walked to save him from breakage, so we both could cheer for Malcolm. I stopped, knelt, and braced myself for the impending onslaught. He forcefully threw his arms around my neck, whispered “Mommy” and kissed my lips.

My Grinch heart grew three sizes. Thank goodness he loves his kisses, just like me.

We’ll get there…

June 2, 2017 0

I am an Advocate… Hear Me Roar!

Meekness can be one’s tragic flaw. Growing up, it was mine. People pinpointed my flaw and exploited it, until a flitting advocate found their way into my life for a lasting, yet short spurt.

Her name was Renee.

We shared a neighborhood and a love for roller skating. She was strong willed and would run away just to watch people’s attempts to find her. A good influence? Probably not, except she had all the confidence I lacked.

While slowly, rhythmically skating backwards to Gloria Estefan’s Turning the Beat Around, I recounted how a neighbor girl stole my favorite beach towel and refused return. I wasn’t worried “my God, it is only a towel!?” Renee viciously grabbed me by the shoulders and yelled over the chorus “if you let everyone take from you, everyone will, until you got nothin.” It stunned me, that my friend knew I was a chump. And therefore, so did everyone else.

The next day, Renee crossed my street, marched up to that girl’s door, knocked, shoved her out of the way, found my towel, and brought it out. The girl’s mom was raging, from a distance. As Renee handed me my towel, she said “and that is how you do it.”

She moved away three weeks later. But I started to alter my flaw. In middle school, I learned to speak a little louder. In high school, I learned to finger wave, roll my head, and give a ‘tude to match. In college, I learned the art of debate. And in teaching, I learned to advocate.

Sitting across the same generic faux wood conference table with a plastic black trim that resides in every school, I learned to channel the meekness into helping a parent and/or student come to terms with whatever actions were necessary. Ease, convince, and advocate.

But this week, I was on a foreign side of both the table and advocacy. My first time not advocating for my purpose, but for my sons. Going into the meeting, I never realized how intimidating that table was; teachers, psychologist, counselor, principal, coordinator then me and my husband. They all have their agenda, their needs of which I support, as long as my son is supported as well.

Immediately, the majority of their concerns seemed minimal compared to mine. Phrases of “does not effect his work, now,” “very spontaneous,” “maybe take the summer to mature” filled the air but my son’s potential was opaque, lost. It took three interruptions by my husband and I to clearly vocalize our concerns. Not because those present weren’t listening or desiring to help, but our explanation was unclear. As a former teacher, I thought I had this, but that damn side of the table is a challenge. It is greased with emotions and every word that slips out just plots on the table and smears.

The patience of the administrators allowed us to finally paint our concerns and after 45 minutes, we had set goals ensuring Wheels’ potential continues to rise, and avenues for clearer communication with his teachers.

Advocating for oneself is easy. Your kids, it’s a learning curve.

The day after our meeting, still questioning myself, Wheels had a skate party. I zoomed through two songs on my own, reconnecting with childish freedom and the first person who stood up for me.

Nostalgic, I slid into backwards skating and watched the innocent scene to Fifth Harmony’s Work. Scanning back to the wall, a young boy lost control and slammed into an older man, both plowing hard, head first into the ground.

I immediately rushed forward, and noticed the man roll over to face the boy. The boy hugged his knee, looked at the man, and his face contorted in terror. Paying more attention, the man was whispering “[inaudible inaudible] fucking [inaudible]!”

Reaching the pair, I extended each a hand and said, “Honey, you ok? Sir, are you hurt?”

At this the man brazenly exclaimed, “This stupid little shit knocked me down, didn’t you? Stupid shit!”

Humiliated the boy skated away, and I, channeled Renee.

35 year old woman. Full finger wave to an underhand point scolding from hip and my best high school head rolls with a side of “Who do you think you are? I am not going to let you get away with berating a child! This is a kids party, are, are you a kid? NO, I didn’t think so! Grow up and act your age!”

Shoot… I am way more effective without a table.

Note – I went straight to the manager and the man was removed. The child compensated and physically fine.

May 26, 2017 1

The Perpetual Dance Party

Yesterday, after finally being relinquished from duty, I slouched on the couch and began surfing through the outlets on my phone. I came across a Facebook post inquiring, “Did you know today is Middle Child Day? Probably didn’t until now. It’s okay, we’re used to it.”

Oooo Snap. Got me there.

Not that I would intentionally celebrate Middle Child Day as some sort of extra holiday to make up for the fact that Yes, you do get forgotten about, because to be honest, at some point, they all do. But it did trigger me to ponder Malcolm.

Why don’t I worry about him? Why do I feel like I can just let that one slide because, he has a good head on his shoulders?

I don’t even think twice about him holding his own, since he is so strong, level headed and easily walks away from bad situations. Even though he has an unhealthy admiration for his big brother, I know not only could he whoop him, but he would be the first to make things right afterward.

Perhaps I have a false sense of security concerning him and I will have to watch that. But the fact is, I have learned his tell. When he feels low, if something is truly wrong, he listens to music, drifts away and dances.

When he was a year and half, we had our first dance party around Christmas. Until this moment, his world revolved around Wheels. When the music started, I cranked it up and began dancing wildly. His eyes lit up. His knees bent up, down, up, down and tried to jump. He ran screaming in circles, like an animal just released for the first time since captivity, breathing in freedom. And when his older brother shouted “I got something cool, watch this” and dropped bare bum trou… Malcolm, lost in his new moves, didn’t notice everyone’s horrified gasps or Paw Paw’s dulcet “Oh Dear.” He just kept dancing.

California took a toll on Malcolm; he was bullied profusely in preschool and struggled with being stripped from familiarity. He regressed in potty training and language. At this time, we shook off the dust of an old CD player and handed it to him. His eyes lit. His favorite “jam”, I’m a little Tea Pot, would play loud when he was happy, and soft when he needed a hug. Entering his room, he would be staring at his player, waiting for a consoling chat.

Upon moving home, his interest in music and desire to let it replace his emotions and pour from his body, surged when introduced to dance music. Nervous about starting a new Pre-K and what was to come, he asked for a dance party every night until he felt safe at school. Bass Cannon, Daylight, Hello, Harlem Shake, New York would blare through the house, his feet moving in unison to the beat. Sashays, spins, splits, break dance back spins, jumps, booty shakes, and swing naturally took over his spirit and made him feel whole. Only stopping when red, sweaty, and calm.

After each session, his once insecure face had light again. He was sure of himself. Released from whatever gloom had consumed his mind, and made free.

Impressed with his natural rhythm, I suggested he take dance class but no, “I do it just for me, mom.” Can’t argue with that.

So why don’t I worry about Malcolm?

Unlike Wheels or Stewie, obviously, Malcolm has found a way to tap into his feelings. He was forced to early. He isn’t afraid or ashamed to tell you he is upset. And he wants you with him while he works through it.

And if his chosen way, thus far, is to bust a move, I am all in!

May 19, 2017 0

Word to Your Mother

Malcolm, my son in the middle, provided an opportune moment this week to reminisce about the shaping of my mothering style. While at the elementary school waiting for Wheels to be dismissed, Malcolm and other under 6s were engaging in a preschool version of Wild -n- Out, an impeccable display one-upmanship concerning the coolness of the their moms.

I stood back, watching and listening intently to the circle as their mouths flapped while spinning around the firemen pole, or spattered with feet indeterminately kicking mulch. The intensity was moderate, no overreaching words, no hurt feelings yet. The kids spouted “cool” details of mine is in medicine, mine works for the government, mine can run a hundred miles with no water, mine has an awesome pink shirt with swirls on it that makes her smarter, Well my mom is 44 and that is old and cool….

Snickering at the their sheer amazingness and the fact that Malcolm had said nothing, just looked curiously at each kid as they described the coolness. He saw his opening and stepped up to the plate, “Well my mom is awesome because she is a still a kid and always will be.” With that, he dropped his mic and walked away.

Darn straight kid.

Not growing up has a long history in my family. We have celebrated my father’s 12th birthday each year since I was a kid, even this year. No reason, just an age he loved and decided he would rather stick than grow up.

But the true culprits behind the notion of not growing up derives from my mother’s side. As a youngster, my granny encouraged pranks, laughter. Each Christmas, my brother and I would plot a prank, usually involving a snake to further prey upon her fear, and take her down. We would run past the 1970s Pontiac Firebird she drove because at 70, you’re not too old to feel young, into the house, and up the stairs to master our plan. We practiced our scheme for an increased chance of success, but through our casual veil, she always saw it coming. A twinkle would shine through her large round 70s opaque framed glasses and her shriek ignited the room with delight.

Never one to only be surprised, granny would take everyone’s breath away by attempting dangerous stunts. At 80, while walking through a protected forest, her determination could not be stopped from walking across a fallen tree bridging a rushing creek far below; her denim skirt blew, her white blouse swayed, and as we held our breath with half closed eyes, her brown loafers wobbled along the knobbly bark, never faltering.

My mother inherited granny’s vivaciousness and love of kids. In the hardest times, my mom made growing up enjoyable. Like my granny, there was always time for a joke, a hug, and she’s never broke a promise to her kids or grand-kids. During the long tough days of summer, the sun is never too blistering for her Irish skin not to haul the her six grand-kids to the water park, and though in her 70s, she will knock kids out of the way to go down the water slides. Laughing all the way down and apologizing after. On more than one occasion, her attempts to hilariously scare the grand-kids by grabbing their legs through the steps of a playground, has gone awry by her misjudgment of the set of shoes, and yanking of some stranger kid to the ground. Again, apologizing after and slinking away with a teeter.

At 16, I was struggling with friends and we escaped to walk in the park near our home. Those strolls always made what was wrong, right. On this particular occasion after chatting, she drifted off to the side and moments later hollered my name. She was nowhere. Vanished. I heard my name again, swirled the opposite direction desperately, and there she was… my mid-50s mom had fallen out out of a tree in a heap because it’d been a long time and I thought ‘I can still climb’.

It was then I knew, she was just like her mom, and I wanted to be just like her.

Back at the school, Malcolm turned 180 to face the other kids, continuing to walk backwards and shouted, “You don’t believe me, she is a kid and that’s cool. Just ask her!” No eye contact, just a smile to ground as he walked by.

May I walk across logs, jump fences, climb trees, and try my best not to break promises for many years to come.

Thanks Mom.

May 13, 2017 1

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails