A drive like any other...the black tunnel enveloped our car as we sped out of suburbia and toward the country. The crisp air, the snow-covered fields both quiet, as were the twinkling stars. We were too...in the back seat and the front seat. So much so, sleep tugged at my eyelids and blanketed my thoughts. I almost gave in.
My four-year-old broke the silence with a request: "Tell me about Great-grandma McKean." His little voice warmed my heart and brought to life a treasure trove of memories -- of giggles, treats, hugs, and songs. The contrasting reality, however, seemed much quieter. Like farmers' hibernating fields outside my window. My heart took on weight.
He would never know the same woman I did.
"She's spirited," I started, pushing back an eager tear.
"What does that mean?"
"Well, she's spunky. She likes to giggle. And, her giggle is unique -- it's unlike any other and when I hear it, my heart grows two sizes. You know how it is when it just makes you happy to hear the voice of someone special."
"Mmmmm."
"And, she loves to take care of others. She used to make really delicious meals, like southern baked ham with mashed potato casserole and a side of sweet corn she'd put up the summer before. She always had special snacks for us when we visited, like popcorn she made on top of the stove and then drenched in melted butter. Or the homemade cinnamon rolls, oozing with vanilla icing, she'd serve when we spent the night with her and Grandpa. Did you know she once fed Uncle Brad a dozen Smok-Y-links...just because he liked them? And, you know her white hobnail candy dish that's full of M&Ms...she's always had that sitting on the same coffee table, even though the coffee table moved from her house and then to two apartments."
But it is gone now. Nursing care couldn't accommodate the remainded furniture that 'made the cut' with each successive move. The hobnail candy dish did; it's just tucked between pictures of Grandpa, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren in the small wall unit next to her bed.
"And, she used to make up the silliest little songs...she'd sing them as she held me near or bounced me on her knee. One was in Swiss, a language Grandma's parents spoke when she was a little girl. It was something about a red cow. And, then there was the 'good morning to you' ditty she'd sing to wake us up -- it's the same one I sing to you every day. Did you know that?"
And, now she doesn't know me. Either.
Sure, she knows where I belong. I'm Carol's. Her "Hello" is as warm as I ever remember it being; it's the follow-up questions that hurt worse than an eight-car pile up. Do I have boys or girls? Do I teach or stay home? She isn't confident in her memory from one minute to the next. And she knows it. So, she'll ask me the same questions...again. We play along.
It's the quiet audience she's become, when I remember how much she'd add to any conversation. It's the little routine her visitors do to keep her engaged, when I remember how much sparkle she'd add to any space.
It is what isn't.
And never will be again.
"Grandma is a special lady and that you can always remember. She loves you. So much."
The car slid out of the darkness and into our neighborhood speckled by street lights. I'm not sure which was brighter: the tears glistening on my cheeks' slippery superhighway, or the full feature memories playing in the recesses of my mind.
Write on,
b
Monday, March 3, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
It's happening | Slice 2:31
From the shadows of our bedroom, he teetered behind the door and then out into the hallway's brightness. His blonde hair became golden under its cast; his eyes shone like the summer sky. He giggled, moving his chubby fingers toward the door's edge and then disappearing again in series of herky-jerky movements. The door, still propped open by the puddling corner of his terrycloth hooded towel that hung from its handle, invited him to continue the game -- close, open, giggle, catch Mommy's gaze; close, open, giggle, catch Mommy's gaze.
Until one time, his over-confident hand shut the door. Like all the way shut. Like no lightness; no brightness. Like no serendipitous, stolen glimpse of Mommy. Like nothing. Nothing but a big, dark room fed by one tiny glowing crack stretching from underneath its wide stance.
He squealed; this time with less delight and more urgency, as if to say, "I mean it. Now, Mommy! Help!" Faster than a first-base runner I saved the day by revealing a sweet sliver of space between doors A and B. It grew bigger and brighter until finally more than one fleece-jammied foot peeked out.
Round tummy shaking and arms outstretched, Grant chortled as he took quick, short steps toward me. I bent down. We laughed. His eyes twinkled.
I stood up, grabbing his velvety hand before taking a few steps toward his nursery to read bedtime stories.
A first.
In all of 16 months Grant and I had yet to hold hands walking side-by-side. Maybe it is more than the 'big boy' haircut he dons now, or the way he expresses understandable ideas and opinions. Maybe it is more than the way I still see him -- a docile baby who will go anywhere, do anything.
He's coming into his own...
I'll watch.
It's happening.
Write on,
b
Until one time, his over-confident hand shut the door. Like all the way shut. Like no lightness; no brightness. Like no serendipitous, stolen glimpse of Mommy. Like nothing. Nothing but a big, dark room fed by one tiny glowing crack stretching from underneath its wide stance.
He squealed; this time with less delight and more urgency, as if to say, "I mean it. Now, Mommy! Help!" Faster than a first-base runner I saved the day by revealing a sweet sliver of space between doors A and B. It grew bigger and brighter until finally more than one fleece-jammied foot peeked out.
Round tummy shaking and arms outstretched, Grant chortled as he took quick, short steps toward me. I bent down. We laughed. His eyes twinkled.
I stood up, grabbing his velvety hand before taking a few steps toward his nursery to read bedtime stories.
A first.
In all of 16 months Grant and I had yet to hold hands walking side-by-side. Maybe it is more than the 'big boy' haircut he dons now, or the way he expresses understandable ideas and opinions. Maybe it is more than the way I still see him -- a docile baby who will go anywhere, do anything.
He's coming into his own...
I'll watch.
It's happening.
Write on,
b
Saturday, March 1, 2014
The earring story | Slice 1:31
Like an insistent gust of wind carrying pollen to an awaiting field, she blew into the meeting a few minutes early and sat next to me at the conference table. Head buried, I fumbled to finish an email before the speaker began the professional development session.
"Don't you like my earrings?" my friend started.
I quit typing. Questions multiplied faster than bubbles in a bathtub.
The supposition is that I don't? Why is she asking about her earrings before even saying hello? Why is this pair more extraordinary than her others? She always wears the prettiest dangling ones; today's pair looks like carved ivory...a little tribal, a little neutral...just the way my friend likes them. Why does she need my approval, today, on this pair? And is more eager than ever to have it...?
Aligning my flowchart of thoughts with her visual evidence, our eyes met. Confused. Conflicted. An absolute conundrum presented itself. Right there at the table. I fumbled to buy time.
***
Five years ago, Eileen pulled me into her classroom from the drab hallway after dismissal. Between pleasantries and shop talk, she inched closer. Her brown eyes locked into mine.
"So, my sister-in-law; she reminds me so much of you. In fact, she is doing the very same thing you are right now. She wears dangling earrings every day."
I looked on, stifling a nervous giggle.
"You know, I've noticed over the past few weeks you ALWAYS wear flashy earrings and I have a theory about why you do that."
Humoring her, "You do?"
"Absolutely. My sister-in-law wears her fancy earrings to detract attention from her midsection."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. And you are too."
She was right; at 20 weeks I'd exhausted my normal garb in favor of stretchy knit and flowing cardigans. And earrings because they still fit.
"Sooooo, when is it that you plan to tell everyone here you're expecting?"
***
Two years ago and just out of my second pregnancy's first trimester, I recounted this conversation with my friend at school as we prepared to plan her literacy block. We laughed and laughed while I fluffed a fun memory and she filed away an idea.
For such a time.
You know, when she would need the flashy earrings diversion.
***
Other colleagues filed in and picked seats near us as the speaker made final preparations.
"Are you kidding me?" nearly jumping out of my melamine chair to hug her. "I absolutely LOVE your earrings! I simply can't think of anything better..."
And it was then that the past and present melded into a new memory...a new story. One that's hers, one that's mine.
Now one that's yours, too.
Write on,
b
"Don't you like my earrings?" my friend started.
I quit typing. Questions multiplied faster than bubbles in a bathtub.
The supposition is that I don't? Why is she asking about her earrings before even saying hello? Why is this pair more extraordinary than her others? She always wears the prettiest dangling ones; today's pair looks like carved ivory...a little tribal, a little neutral...just the way my friend likes them. Why does she need my approval, today, on this pair? And is more eager than ever to have it...?
Aligning my flowchart of thoughts with her visual evidence, our eyes met. Confused. Conflicted. An absolute conundrum presented itself. Right there at the table. I fumbled to buy time.
***
Five years ago, Eileen pulled me into her classroom from the drab hallway after dismissal. Between pleasantries and shop talk, she inched closer. Her brown eyes locked into mine.
"So, my sister-in-law; she reminds me so much of you. In fact, she is doing the very same thing you are right now. She wears dangling earrings every day."
I looked on, stifling a nervous giggle.
"You know, I've noticed over the past few weeks you ALWAYS wear flashy earrings and I have a theory about why you do that."
Humoring her, "You do?"
"Absolutely. My sister-in-law wears her fancy earrings to detract attention from her midsection."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. And you are too."
She was right; at 20 weeks I'd exhausted my normal garb in favor of stretchy knit and flowing cardigans. And earrings because they still fit.
"Sooooo, when is it that you plan to tell everyone here you're expecting?"
***
Two years ago and just out of my second pregnancy's first trimester, I recounted this conversation with my friend at school as we prepared to plan her literacy block. We laughed and laughed while I fluffed a fun memory and she filed away an idea.
For such a time.
You know, when she would need the flashy earrings diversion.
***
Other colleagues filed in and picked seats near us as the speaker made final preparations.
"Are you kidding me?" nearly jumping out of my melamine chair to hug her. "I absolutely LOVE your earrings! I simply can't think of anything better..."
And it was then that the past and present melded into a new memory...a new story. One that's hers, one that's mine.
Now one that's yours, too.
Write on,
b
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Celebration 1: Tiny Prayers...
Every night at bedtime, we are creatures of habit: bath, jammies, vitamins, and brushing teeth with daddy; hair, stories, and prayers at eight with mommy. It all runs like clockwork, right down to the conversations I share with our four-year-old son.
"So, what do you want to talk to Jesus about tonight?"
"Kitty (the Knuffle Bunny equivalent in our family), you, Daddy, and Grant."
"Alright, I think I'd like to thank Jesus for our family too, and also for food to eat and a house to keep us warm. So I have my things and you have your things...would you like to start or finish?"
"No, Mommy, you can do it all. I don't know how to pray."
(Which pains me because I've tried to model for him that praying is just a conversation, but that's a whole other blog post.)
So I pray. We hug. The lights flicker off. He chases sleep like a teenager chases work.
"Mommy, I had a bad dream." (Predictably, one minute later.)
From my bedroom, I troubleshoot: "Tell Jesus about it. He can take it all away."
A resigned "Okay" makes its way though the walls to my heart.
Next, a tiny voice starts a big conversation:
Dear Jesus,
I had a bad dream.
I had a bad dream.
Please take it all away.
Amen.
Decidedly peaceful, his weight shifts, his covers crumple, his breathing slows.
Tonight, my celebration is that he took the risk -- he talked to Jesus himself and for his purposes.
And now, he found rest.
 |
| Sweet slumber -- 10.19.2013 |
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Sweet corn... SOLS
It's like candy. It always has been. And, there's a finite window each summer when it comes available, and if I'm lucky, I seize it.
Each year, my mom and dad expectantly watch the progress of local fields. They keep in touch with their farmer friend, Doug, who grows the best crops just outside my home town. They let me know when it will be ready for the first picking. I wait as a child in line for a sprinkle-covered ice cream treat. This year, my timing is perfect -- the boys and I are visiting when the call comes.
"Jim, it's ready." Doug's voice bounds through the phone's receiver and across the kitchen to me. "How much would she like?"
"12 dozen, Doug. Can she pick it up at the farm this afternoon?"
"Sure, Buck. It'll be pulled and ready; bagged up for her. I'll help her load it when she gets here."
Relying on memories from summers past, I salivate despite the work ahead. It's worth it.
My mom and I shuck the large pile of tasselled ears out in the garage, accumulating husks and corn silk by the wheelbarrow-full. She uses her electric knife plugged into two extension cords to shave each kernel from the each ear, letting them plop line by line into her large Tupperware bowl. When mounds of juicy sweet corn cascade over its edges, I arrive to fill my two stockpots, warm and ready.
Grandma Lorraine's recipe is a tasty one; we use it each time we 'put up' corn. Which, as an aside, I used this term with my husband early in our marriage -- he looked at me, befuddled, at what this phrase could really mean in city-speak. I translated, "Freeze." A little sugar, a little salt, 10 cups corn, and some water in each pot...boil for seven minutes. That's it.
Over and over, I use my crocheted hotpads to transport the finished stockpots to empty Pyrex containers waiting on the kitchen table. This is where our golden treasure cools before bagging. This year, we're without fans to speed up the process...usually, the whirring blades surround our resting space like summer shade trees. At first, steam fogs the nearby windows. Little by little, the backyard returns to view.
After dinner, my avocado green measuring cup dips into the shallow Pyrex, scoops up its golden yield, and drops two-cups worth into each baggy. Again and again, my left hand instinctively flattens its contents while my right zips over the blue and green lock-tight tracks.
42.
Our bounty lies stacked like bricks at Fort Knox. The cookie sheets underneath secure its transport to the garage deep freeze to harden before the two-hour trip home.
"If you can ration this, b, your corn will last until next spring," my mathematical Dad figures.
"Yep..." I'm already dreaming of the comfortable happiness each serving will bring my family on hum-drum school nights. "It will."
That is, if I can exercise such restraint...
It's like candy. It always has been. And, there's a finite window each summer when it comes available, and if I'm lucky, I seize it.
Write on,
b
Each year, my mom and dad expectantly watch the progress of local fields. They keep in touch with their farmer friend, Doug, who grows the best crops just outside my home town. They let me know when it will be ready for the first picking. I wait as a child in line for a sprinkle-covered ice cream treat. This year, my timing is perfect -- the boys and I are visiting when the call comes.
"Jim, it's ready." Doug's voice bounds through the phone's receiver and across the kitchen to me. "How much would she like?"
"12 dozen, Doug. Can she pick it up at the farm this afternoon?"
"Sure, Buck. It'll be pulled and ready; bagged up for her. I'll help her load it when she gets here."
Relying on memories from summers past, I salivate despite the work ahead. It's worth it.
Grandma Lorraine's recipe is a tasty one; we use it each time we 'put up' corn. Which, as an aside, I used this term with my husband early in our marriage -- he looked at me, befuddled, at what this phrase could really mean in city-speak. I translated, "Freeze." A little sugar, a little salt, 10 cups corn, and some water in each pot...boil for seven minutes. That's it.
Over and over, I use my crocheted hotpads to transport the finished stockpots to empty Pyrex containers waiting on the kitchen table. This is where our golden treasure cools before bagging. This year, we're without fans to speed up the process...usually, the whirring blades surround our resting space like summer shade trees. At first, steam fogs the nearby windows. Little by little, the backyard returns to view.
Every once in a while, I tiptoe over to the table to sneak a bite. I'm providing the necessary quality control. I fancy myself an ice cream taste-tester; really, this is much better. It's the perfect marriage of salt and sweetness. Each bite reminds me of another summer, in another garage where I sat, toe-headed with a trendy Dorothy Hamill cut, observing as my mother and grandmother journeyed through the same ritual. Grandma always came to help. They'd giggle and chat while they shucked, cut, and cooked sweet corn. It felt more like a coffee date than a big, messy project.
Today, the baby sleeps while we shuck, cut, and cook. We snicker as Reid 'waters' my mom's plants that encircle their house like a multicolor necklace. We consider inviting Grandma; the high temperatures deter us. She's fragile now. My mom carries on the tradition -- she selflessly invites the mess and invests her time in my freezer-filling campaign.
42.
Our bounty lies stacked like bricks at Fort Knox. The cookie sheets underneath secure its transport to the garage deep freeze to harden before the two-hour trip home.
"If you can ration this, b, your corn will last until next spring," my mathematical Dad figures.
"Yep..." I'm already dreaming of the comfortable happiness each serving will bring my family on hum-drum school nights. "It will."
That is, if I can exercise such restraint...
It's like candy. It always has been. And, there's a finite window each summer when it comes available, and if I'm lucky, I seize it.
Write on,
b
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Simply complex... SOLS
The conversation drifted into our sunny playdate like an errant cloud.
"Mommy, my flower died," Reid held up the sponge-painted clay pot he created for my Mother's Day gift this year. We were in the middle of building castles and mountain-covering roads in our backyard sandbox yesterday.
"We can plant another one in there if you'd like. I bet we'd find a nice flower at Home Depot..." I encouraged.
"Does everything die?" his newly four-year-old voice crafted tiny, innocent words.
"Yes. Everything dies...when it's time." My calm exterior hid the storm of explanations churning inside my mind.
He added support for my claim, "Flowers die. Bugs die. Even PEOPLE die, Mommy."
Death.
I avoid the topic like the plague in books and stories and even in real-life. I don't know how to explain it. What, we're alive...and then we're not...it's like sleep -- no, scratch that...you'll be afraid to go to sleep tonight -- and then we'll wake up in heaven.
Around Easter, the question du jour was, "How do we get to heaven, Mommy? Will we take the car?"
Gosh, I hope not. That's my worst fear. WORST.
He broke into my thoughts, "Well, how do we die?"
From the rolodex of possible scenarios, I picked the easiest. "Someday, when you're old, your heart will just stop beating...because it's tired and you've lived a long, happy life."
"Will you die?" The small words exploded like faulty fireworks sputtering along the driveway.
Lord, give me wisdom to answer this sensitive child.
"Yes. I'll die someday when I'm old and you're old."
"Will you come back then?"
"No. When we die, it is forever. But, I'll be in heaven with Jesus and you will too someday. Then, we'll be together again."
"Don't die, Moooooommmmmmmyyyyyy," his little voice pleaded.
"Are you scared that I will?"
My heart lay bare in the afternoon sun, writhing in the depths of the unknown... My fears. His fears. They mixed in a way only abstract artists appreciate.
"Yessssss. If you do then I won't HAVE a mommy."
While two chocolatey eyes searched mine, I wrestled God to gift me with enough time on Earth to raise these two blessed cherubs. Thoughts of my cousin's two small children -- losing their own mommy at ages seven months and four years -- competed mercilessly.
"I'll always be your mommy," I cooed as he slid into my lap and curled up like his two-year-old self, "and I'll always love you. Soooo much."
"OK."
With only a second's pause, he climbed back toward the sandbox and grabbed his favorite plastic digger from the gritty pile of toys.
"Let's build another road, Mommy."
And just like that, the sun reappeared and the project resumed.
But he has me thinking...
Write on,
b
"Mommy, my flower died," Reid held up the sponge-painted clay pot he created for my Mother's Day gift this year. We were in the middle of building castles and mountain-covering roads in our backyard sandbox yesterday.
"We can plant another one in there if you'd like. I bet we'd find a nice flower at Home Depot..." I encouraged.
"Does everything die?" his newly four-year-old voice crafted tiny, innocent words.
"Yes. Everything dies...when it's time." My calm exterior hid the storm of explanations churning inside my mind.
He added support for my claim, "Flowers die. Bugs die. Even PEOPLE die, Mommy."
Death.
I avoid the topic like the plague in books and stories and even in real-life. I don't know how to explain it. What, we're alive...and then we're not...it's like sleep -- no, scratch that...you'll be afraid to go to sleep tonight -- and then we'll wake up in heaven.
Around Easter, the question du jour was, "How do we get to heaven, Mommy? Will we take the car?"
Gosh, I hope not. That's my worst fear. WORST.
He broke into my thoughts, "Well, how do we die?"
From the rolodex of possible scenarios, I picked the easiest. "Someday, when you're old, your heart will just stop beating...because it's tired and you've lived a long, happy life."
"Will you die?" The small words exploded like faulty fireworks sputtering along the driveway.
Lord, give me wisdom to answer this sensitive child.
"Yes. I'll die someday when I'm old and you're old."
"Will you come back then?"
"No. When we die, it is forever. But, I'll be in heaven with Jesus and you will too someday. Then, we'll be together again."
"Don't die, Moooooommmmmmmyyyyyy," his little voice pleaded.
"Are you scared that I will?"
My heart lay bare in the afternoon sun, writhing in the depths of the unknown... My fears. His fears. They mixed in a way only abstract artists appreciate.
"Yessssss. If you do then I won't HAVE a mommy."
While two chocolatey eyes searched mine, I wrestled God to gift me with enough time on Earth to raise these two blessed cherubs. Thoughts of my cousin's two small children -- losing their own mommy at ages seven months and four years -- competed mercilessly.
"I'll always be your mommy," I cooed as he slid into my lap and curled up like his two-year-old self, "and I'll always love you. Soooo much."
"OK."
With only a second's pause, he climbed back toward the sandbox and grabbed his favorite plastic digger from the gritty pile of toys.
"Let's build another road, Mommy."
And just like that, the sun reappeared and the project resumed.
But he has me thinking...
Write on,
b
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
SOLS: Frozen yogurt break?
With a tired baby ahead of us in the stroller and a promise tethered behind us, we hobbled into Orange Leaf this afternoon for frozen yogurt. The idea was thrown out like the first pitch of a baseball game -- the rest of the outing hung on its fruition. We'd been to Carter's, and Nordstrom Rack, and now this, our final stop. The treat would be a soothing salve...
Except, Grant voiced atypical objection as we entered the cheery storefront. I thought he was just hot in his fleece-lined pumpkin seat. I can fix that once we sit down...
And, Reid demanded full attention; the kind he was used to getting just a few short months ago. The promise of a peaceful frozen yogurt stop slowly melted. Is this REALLY how it's going to go down?
Selections were made carefully at the pay-by-the-ounce yogurt dispensers. Wedding Cake for Reid and Oreo for me. I really can't wait to sit down and enjoy this....yummmmmmm.
But, once we made it to the toppings smorgasboard, little cries became wails, and a toddler became a self-sufficient little boy who helped himself to the pinnacle of add-ons: chocolate sprinkles, which incidentally stood tall in an obnoxiously large container next to the crushed waffle cones. I unhooked the straps of Grant's seat, rescuing him from its humid confines...all while Reid 'helped himself.'
In slow motion, the sprinkles rained down on the orange bowl...puddling his meager medallion of frozen yogurt. I watched, helpless, and handless. Oh my goodness, he's using the whole container. I can't put Grant down fast enough to stop this mess!!! The slow motion became fast-forward.
I'm surprised I didn't yell, because I really wanted to; inside, my words were like the soundtrack to a train wreck. Finagling Grant in an unnatural position, I wrangled the sprinkle container from where it rested inside Reid's bowl and let it tumble sideways onto the sparkling countertop.
This bowl. THIS BOWL. I stared at its contents in disbelief. There is NO way Reid will eat all this -- even if he could, I wouldn't let him. Really? Really.
AND IT'S PAY BY THE OUNCE!!! Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
In the periphery sat a welcoming trash can. Would anybody notice if I dumped the excess sprinkles in there? Then, Reid wouldn't even get the chance to eat them all...and there would be no forthcoming fit when I have to take them away unfinished.
BUT IT IS PAY BY THE OUNCE, AND REID TOOK ALL THESE. SO, THE RIGHT THING TO DO IS PAY FOR THEM. Even though I really, really don't want to...
The cries ensued, despite my rhythmic bounces, and a dancing toddler encircled me as the two bowls were placed onto the scale for tallying. "$4.73, please." Grudgingly, I handed over my credit card and smiled politely at the close of the transaction. My eyes still focused on his ostentatious topping display.
With no delay, Reid's inverted bowl hung high above the trashcan...sprinkles falling like a spring shower. A nice coating remained for his enjoyment.
Big, stubborn eyes witnessed my discontent. "I don't want it now, Mommy." I'm sure you don't; this is how our whole day has gone.
"OK, I'll throw it away then." He will not take me up on this. 3, 2, 1...
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. I'll eat it."
And eat it he did. Right down to the very last sprinkle swimming in the melted yogurt, right beside his tired mom, who, despite rocking and cooing one little guy, figured out a way to consume her frozen treat with warp speed.
Jackets on and pumpkin seat occupied, we hobbled back out toward the car.
One red-faced crying baby.
One toddler covered with curious melted splotches of white on his navy fleece pants.
One mommy who imagined herself warm on a sunny beach, underneath a palm tree, atop a soft terry cloth towel, and beside a riveting book.
And that's where I spent the entire drive home...
Write on,
b
Except, Grant voiced atypical objection as we entered the cheery storefront. I thought he was just hot in his fleece-lined pumpkin seat. I can fix that once we sit down...
And, Reid demanded full attention; the kind he was used to getting just a few short months ago. The promise of a peaceful frozen yogurt stop slowly melted. Is this REALLY how it's going to go down?
Selections were made carefully at the pay-by-the-ounce yogurt dispensers. Wedding Cake for Reid and Oreo for me. I really can't wait to sit down and enjoy this....yummmmmmm.
But, once we made it to the toppings smorgasboard, little cries became wails, and a toddler became a self-sufficient little boy who helped himself to the pinnacle of add-ons: chocolate sprinkles, which incidentally stood tall in an obnoxiously large container next to the crushed waffle cones. I unhooked the straps of Grant's seat, rescuing him from its humid confines...all while Reid 'helped himself.'
In slow motion, the sprinkles rained down on the orange bowl...puddling his meager medallion of frozen yogurt. I watched, helpless, and handless. Oh my goodness, he's using the whole container. I can't put Grant down fast enough to stop this mess!!! The slow motion became fast-forward.
I'm surprised I didn't yell, because I really wanted to; inside, my words were like the soundtrack to a train wreck. Finagling Grant in an unnatural position, I wrangled the sprinkle container from where it rested inside Reid's bowl and let it tumble sideways onto the sparkling countertop.
This bowl. THIS BOWL. I stared at its contents in disbelief. There is NO way Reid will eat all this -- even if he could, I wouldn't let him. Really? Really.
AND IT'S PAY BY THE OUNCE!!! Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
In the periphery sat a welcoming trash can. Would anybody notice if I dumped the excess sprinkles in there? Then, Reid wouldn't even get the chance to eat them all...and there would be no forthcoming fit when I have to take them away unfinished.
BUT IT IS PAY BY THE OUNCE, AND REID TOOK ALL THESE. SO, THE RIGHT THING TO DO IS PAY FOR THEM. Even though I really, really don't want to...
The cries ensued, despite my rhythmic bounces, and a dancing toddler encircled me as the two bowls were placed onto the scale for tallying. "$4.73, please." Grudgingly, I handed over my credit card and smiled politely at the close of the transaction. My eyes still focused on his ostentatious topping display.
With no delay, Reid's inverted bowl hung high above the trashcan...sprinkles falling like a spring shower. A nice coating remained for his enjoyment.
Big, stubborn eyes witnessed my discontent. "I don't want it now, Mommy." I'm sure you don't; this is how our whole day has gone.
"OK, I'll throw it away then." He will not take me up on this. 3, 2, 1...
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. I'll eat it."
And eat it he did. Right down to the very last sprinkle swimming in the melted yogurt, right beside his tired mom, who, despite rocking and cooing one little guy, figured out a way to consume her frozen treat with warp speed.
Jackets on and pumpkin seat occupied, we hobbled back out toward the car.
One red-faced crying baby.
One toddler covered with curious melted splotches of white on his navy fleece pants.
One mommy who imagined herself warm on a sunny beach, underneath a palm tree, atop a soft terry cloth towel, and beside a riveting book.
And that's where I spent the entire drive home...
Write on,
b
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