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.
Mom-dern Vignettes 