23: Wisdom...

Tonight Grant asked if there were bees inside the family room lamp.

My head tilted toward his.

He said, "The light is on, Mommy."

I said, "Yes.  It is."

He said, "Then there have to be bees in there."

I asked, "Why?"

He said, "Because you said there are bees in the plug-ins."

My head tilted again.

He said,"If the bees are in the walls they have to be in the lamps, Mommy."

I said, "Riiiiiiight.  We shouldn't touch either the plug-ins or the lamps."

He said, "Buuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Write on,

b

17: 'Old-fashioned' and 'new-fashioned'...

We waited for an opening in the steady stream of northbound traffic to turn left out of the neighborhood toward Target.  It was Wednesday after school.  Our coffee-date day.  So we began the five-minute drive by discussing our snack options.

R: Hey, Mom, when we go to Starbucks can I get an old-fashioned donut?

B: Sure, I think so.  Hey, what’s 'old-fashioned' mean?

R: Um, I don’t know.

B: Sure you do; think about it a sec.  What could be old-fashioned?

...

R: I know — buggies and horses.

B: Oh yeah?

R: Cars are 'new-fashioned.'  Buggies are old-fashioned because they came before cars.

B: What else could be old-fashioned?

R: Amish.  Amish are old-fashioned.

B: Why do you say that?

R: Because they don’t have power in their houses.  That’s old-fashioned.  

B: Sounds like it might be.    

R: A fire.  Cooking food on a fire is old-fashioned.  A stove is how we cook today.  A stove is new-fashioned.

B: What else?

R: Feathers.

B: Oh yeah?  What do you mean by 'feathers'?

R: Writing with feathers and dipping them in ink.  That’s the way people wrote before pens were invented.  That's old-fashioned.

B: Yes.  That IS old-fashioned.  

Good one.

R: Yeah, but then what would you do if you made a mistake?  Cross it out?

B: Maybe.  

R: You know what would be new-fashioned?

B: What?

R: Erasers.

B: Oh yeah?  How is that?

R: Because now that erasers are invented we can get rid of what we don't want on the paper anymore. We don't have to cross it out.  That's a big deal when you write letters.

B: So what do you know about writing letters?

R: Well, people used to write letters to communicate.

B: That's true.  Then they'd have to write them, send them in the mail, and wait for someone else to write them one back to find out new information.  Now how do people communicate?

R: They use their cell phones.  

B: Yep. That IS new-fashioned.

R: It is? 

B: Sure, it is.  When I was a little girl, we had a phone hanging from our wall in the kitchen.

R: WHOA.

Seriously?

B: It stayed in one place and if it rang, you had to run to answer it before it stopped. And then you had to stand in that spot by the phone while you talked because the handpiece was hooked to the phone with a cord that wasn’t very long and it wouldn’t stretch very far.  

R: REALLY?  THAT’S CRAZY!  That IS old-fashioned.

Fires for cooking; feathers for ink...phones on walls?  

Boy-mama tip: Just stick to the 'old-fashioned' donut...

Write on,

b

7: Team colors...

We stumbled into Kohl's, between Target and a date at Starbucks, with merchandise credit worth $21.85.  I had no agenda -- other than to spend every red cent -- however Reid may have disagreed.

With each step further into the boys department, I marveled at our good fortune.

Free money.
(Well, kind of.)

Yellow and red clearance stickers dotted stacks of fitness tops and pants.
(And more stacks.)

We started in the big boys section, with the orange long-sleeve shirts.  Orange has unofficially become our team color -- it seems like this section of my laundry sort paint pallet grows wider and wider -- so the elder little asks to have the one with a soccer ball, baseball, football, and basketball arranged in a neat square on the front.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Next, he went for the stack of lime green long-sleeve shirts.  It fits his favorite genre of clothing -- athleticwear -- and they still have it in L(7).  He's an L(7) now.  Big stuff.  This one shows a big soccer ball, front and center.  Playing soccer, namely practicing his moves as a goalie positioned in the center of our eating area/family room arched doorway, is how he's spent his winter months.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Then, we cross the ivory linoleum aisle into the little boys section.  At his advice.  "Mommy, you know what would be really cool?"  I stop.

Full stop.

"What?  What would be really cool?"

"Well, I was just thinking, it would be really cool if we could find the same clothes in Grant's size."

I found myself instantly back in the yellow hallway bathroom, just months earlier, listening to a crying little brushing teeth before bedtime.  Things like, "Can we just take him back to the hospital, Mommy?" and "It was so much easier before he came to our team" were said for the millionth time. This time, I had something to say back: "Do you ever think it might be your problem...?  I mean, sometimes I think you try really hard not to like your brother, and sometimes it seems like you might give him a hard time just for something to do."  He stopped.

Full stop.

Big, brown eyes betrayed the coping mechanism he labored daily to maintain.  He collapsed into my arms.

"You know, there is room for both of you on our team.  The four of us go together because God put us together.  He knew we needed each other to have fun, to live, and to grow.  So can we do that together?  All of us?  I promise...we will do great things if we work together.  It all starts with the decision to try.  Will you try?"

"Look!  Mommy!  Here is the orange shirt we found in my size.  They DO have it in Grant's size!  Let's get this, too!"  I say, "Perfect," and on the shelf below the shirt, the matching track pants are available in 2T.  We add them to our stack.

"Hey!  They have the green long-sleeve shirt, too.  Look!  2T!  That's Grant's size!"  I say, "Perfect," again because we have matching pants at home.

"This is so cool.  I know Grant will think it's neat to have clothes like my big boy clothes."

"I agree.  I think he will.  I think you may even like having clothes that match. You know, it was a generous suggestion to spend part of our money on some new clothes for him."

We find our way back onto the linoleum path towards the cash registers up front.  He arranges our items just-so on the checkout counter.  The saleslady makes eyes at Reid and she cooes, "Do you have a little brother?  You're going to match, Handsome..."

"We will.  They're team clothes!"

Here they are representing today...

Write on,
b

30: The one and only...

Her wispy, sable curls
sometimes cover her chocolate eyes
She wipes them away
with emphasis
and moves along to find the next
target
She always does this
like during dinner or
in the car or
at a ballgame or
when she wants more orange juice
in her girly-colored sippy cup
with a straw

Tonight, she picked me to target
Her newly three-year-old self
strides in and catches me
kneeling beside the giant tub
in Grandpa and Grandma's bathroom
as the smaller little 'swims'
She finds a spot to perch
surveying the situation
I know she's up to something
She always is

Me: Do you want to take a bath, too, Emmie?  You can hop in. There's plenty of room.

Emmie: Well, it's not up to me.

Me: What do you mean?

Emmie: 'Is he your kid?' she points at the little's tiny ear half-covered by white-blonde curls.

Me: Yes, he's my kid.

Emmie: I have a booster seat.  Wanna see it?

Me: Hop in the tub.  Taking a bath now will help Mommy and Daddy.

Emmie: But I don't want to get clean.

Me: You can play, though, and that's fun.  Here are some cups.

(She undresses, first tentatively, and then climbs into the tub like the whole exercise was her idea.)

Emmie: But I don't want to wash my hair.  Grandmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.  Grandma has to take me a bath.

(We wait, with baited breath, for Grandma's swift arrival.)

Me: Emmie wants you to 'take her a bath.'  I hear you are the best at baths.

Emmie: Grandmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.  I don't want to take a bath.

Grandma: But you already are, Emmie.  And taking a bath is a good thing.  

(Emmie's mom and baby sister open the pocket door and slide into the bathroom too.)

Emmie's mom: Emmie, you're taking a bath!

Emmie: No, I'm not.  I don't want to take a bath.

(Sheesh.  Girl, you're in the tub.  Quit.)

Emmie: But I won't wash my hair.

Emmie's mom: Yes, you will -- that way you won't have to wash it tomorrow night.

Grandma: Let's play beauty shop!  Here's the special shampoo...  

Emmie: But I won't get it wet...

Me: Alright, little guy -- let's hop out and dry off.

Emmie: But I don't want to get out...


And so it goes
just as it always does
with the one and only

Write on,
b

5: Word play and the girls...

Last night, after bath duty, footie jammies, and stories, I jumped into the Jeep, made my way past four houses -- no judgment: it was snowy -- and parked in front of Francie's house for small group Bible study with some of my favorite girls.

Inside the three of us melted into her gigantic brown leather sectional tucked into a sprawling corner of the family room.  Sunny overhead light cast a warm glow on the newest member of our group --- teeny-tiny Baby Maggie --- who now attends with her mommy; you know, so she can cluster feed before bedtime and we can jockey for who gets the next turn to snuggle her between snacks.

(I waited.  Patiently.)

As always, our 'let's settle in' conversation meandered through myriad topics and then landed decidedly on lactation.  Exhibit A was stealthily stowed under the mod-patterned hooter-hider her mommy wore on the other side of the couch...while Exhibit B (my other friend's baby) slept soundly in her crib at home.

Babyless me listened.

(And, remembered.)

F: "Maggie looooves to cluster feed.  Every night.  Time after time.  Seems like she's never full."

C: "I know!  Emma does that too!  Except she is LOSING weight.  My supply just can't keep up!"

Me: "So, what about lactation cookies?  Have you tried those to boost your supply?  I've had school friends say they really work."

C: "Lactation cookies?!?  I've never heard of such a thing!"

F: "Yep.  Those will do the trick.  I also bought some supplements on QVC -- and wow, they work. Like, I-M-M-E-D-I-A-T-E-L-Y.  If you know what I mean."

(Like taut beach balls...ouch.)

C: "Right now nursing is absolutely exhausting.  My doctor really wants to know how much milk Emma is getting, so he asked me to pump first and offer her bottles for measurement's sake. To do that, I'm pumping at least three times a day."

(I remember being hooked up at all hours to my pump.  Undeniably a labor of love.)

C: "And, I'm nursing.  Wherever; whenever.  I'm so tired of it all.  It sucks."

Me:  "Literally."

(Crickets.  Really.  Crickets.  Then, finally, a giggle.  And, a stare.)

Me: "Hey, that comment was low-hanging fruit.  Just waiting to be picked."

C: "Does your husband get your sense of humor?"

Me: "He has a degree in English."

C: "Ooooooh...."


Write on,
b

13:31 -- Knocking over the bank...

A stifled voice on the other end of the line led me to believe there was more to the story.

"We're at Grandma's.  You should talk to her," Mom measured her words.  I detected a smallish giggle underneath.

"Sure," with impatient curiosity I waited as the phone made its way to Grandma's wrinkled hands.

"Hi, Grandma.  How are you today?  Is everything alright?"

With spunk and a little sparkle, she laughed.  "Well, I am; but the bank isn't and my car has seen better days."

Nearly falling off my chair, the scenarios I began to see as 'Saturday Night Live' clips bubbled over the edges of my imagination.

Old lady's car drives through bank instead of drive-thru.

Old lady's car drives into bank; misses parking lot.

Old lady's car makes bank account deposit.

"What happened?" I tried my best to fashion a neutral response.

"I ran into it when I was parking the car.  It jumped the curb and even though I tried not to hit the building...I did."

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh my goodness!!!  This was so rich, I could barely handle its humor.  And irony.  You see, this wasn't just any bank -- it's the bank in my small town where she spent her entire career balancing debits and credits and it's the bank in my small town where my grandfather spent much of his retirement career doing odd jobs.

I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that this is also the bank where my dad works...

On the other side of the wall she nearly took out.
After she misread the gear shift.
And stepped on the gas instead of the brake.
And bolted over a yellow bump.

"Was the accident by Dad's office, Grandma?  Was he there when it happened?"

And jolted into the southeast corner of the building right where his desk sits.

"No.  He was home eating lunch.  The girls called him.  Your mom was home eating lunch too.  The insurance office called her to come take pictures for the claim."

Sheesh.  This is definitely going to be on the front page of my small town's newspaper.  I can see the headline now: Banker's mom just misses desk with car.  If it wasn't my own family, I'd submit it to Jay Leno; this is just the kind of story he'd like to share between a black cardboard-mounted newspaper clipping and a pile of laughs.

"Were the police there?"

"Yes.  They came.  They asked if my son was alright."  

It gets even better.  Now, I can just imagine the chatter after receiving that call from dispatch.  "Yeah, um, can you believe it?  His own mom almost ran into his desk," they'd gossip.

"Well, I'm glad no one was hurt," I chew my words to a pulp to prevent giggling.

"Me too.  I'm just so thankful your dad wasn't there."

"Me too.  I love you, Grandma."

"Love you too.  Here's your mom..."

"I'll call you when we get home," her words blurred together.

And, that's when I knew I'd get the rest of the story...

Write on,
b

10:31 -- Sticky fingers...

Within the first five minutes of arriving home after school, the contents of Reid's school bag are usually strewn around our house like a board game path.  Sitting cozily on the living room couch Friday in wait, I pre-emptively invited Reid over with the big red tote so we could go through it together...you know, in an organized fashion.

"Do you have any projects?" I asked the two little hands already sifting through stuffed animals, a lunch bag, a Ziploc bag full of spare clothes, and his favorite chamois blanket.  Reid looked up, flashing a mischievous glance, and continued rifling.

Instead of an item involving glue, construction paper, pipe cleaners, and/or googly eyes emerging, before me hung a string of silver Mardi Gras-like beads shining in the late-day sun that streamed through our white wood blinds.  And, behind them, stood a wild-haired toddler now sporting a nervous grin.

"What are these, Reid?  Did you get them at school?" 

"They're beads," he offered; his eyes and smile conflicting.

"Are they yours?" I asked, confident I had cracked the case.

"No."  he replied without skipping a beat.

(That was quick.  And easy.)

"Well, whose are they then?"

"Mrs. Clark's,"  he answered and our deep brown eyes locked.

"Then Mrs. Clark should have them back.  They aren't yours.  And, when you take something that isn't yours it is called 'stealing.'  Jesus says it isn't good to steal.  It makes him sad."

"I'll write Mrs. Clark a note and take her beads back to the dress-up station next time I'm at school." he planned.

"I think that's a great idea," my heart leapt in response to his thoughtful solution.

"Can we put the necklace and note in a plastic bag?"  he asked already moving toward the kitchen drawer containing plastics and foil.

"Sure.  Mrs. Clark and the other boys and girls will be glad to have their beads back."

"They will," he confirmed as the silver necklace disappeared  back into the red tote to be hand-delivered next week.

Hopefully, this case of 'sticky fingers' will be an  isolated occurrance...

Write on,
b