family

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

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

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

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