Archive for the ‘Daily’ Category
November 01 2011
I took an arm, and Jedi chose a leg.
It was a duel.
Like a clumsy dance we moved, clanking our weapons courtesy of a plastic skeleton. I practiced my rookie poses that I obtained from a very limited view of fencing while my oldest son held a firm blocking stance. Even the dearly departed replica skull got into the action, converting into a magical amulet that could defeat all.
With a bout of laughter, Buzz picked up the other leg bone, and Abby the second arm. They had teamed together with 3 against 1, an odds I’m used to. Except now, I possessed a metal pan lid for armor.
There were things I had to do, and I’ll be lying if I said I wasn’t running down the list while we were playing. The laundry needed switched, dishes washed, toys picked up. Same ol’, same ol’ that I worry myself with every day. In truth, it can all wait until tomorrow. Some days, we just need to use our imaginations and play. It’s amazing how included kids can get with a simple game of clanking bones.
“Can we do this again later?”, Jedi asked when we were done. “That was fun.”
Of course we can.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with the bag of skeleton bones that were meant as decoration for Halloween. I never would have thought of sword fighting on my own, but it was a rather brilliant idea.
October 31 2011
The kids have been staying with their dad over this four day extended weekend. While I was slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see them in their Halloween costumes tonight, I quickly got over it when I realized I wouldn’t have to drag them around trick or treating.
Then this happened. When it was clear someone finally decided to cut me a break.
About an hour into their drive to his house, still in the car, their dad called to ask, “Did you pack any extra pants for Jedi?”.
“Extra pants?”, I wondered. What kind of question is that? “Uh, yeah, he has a couple pairs in his bag. Why?”
With a sigh in his voice, he retold the horror. “Well, he was trying really hard to push out a fart and…”
“Oh, yuck!”, I interrupted, knowing where this was going. Then burst into laughter. “I’m glad it’s you and not me! Oh… wait”, I paused, lowering my voice. “I think I forgot to pack him any underwear.”
“You forgot to pack his underwear?”, he repeated, a disbelieving tone in his voice.
“What? I had a lot to do this morning!”, I said, still laughing.
Apparently, that one accident in the car was a prelude for the full blown unpleasantness that erupted by the time evening rolled around. With no choice of clean underwear, but plenty of pants. Of course I don’t want to see my son in any kind of distress, but I can’t help but feel this is a small turn of kismet. Because with all the shit I put up with, it’s nice to know he’s dealing with a bit of it, too.
October 28 2011
Red: My current toenail polish. The kids’ tricycle that each has zoomed on, starting when Jedi was a toddler. A Connect 4 chip. Buzz’s Power Ranger toothbrush. A bloody lip one acquired from another. My heart, for them. Also my head exploding after a long day.
Yellow: 4 rubber ducks in their bath. The glorious sight of the school bus. Spongebob. Frozen waffles, breakfast of champions. No. 2 pencils. Falling leaves taking over our yard.
Brown: Beloved teddy bear. Lion, too. Cafe mocha pick-me-up. The color of Abby’s favorite pants. The frames holding cherished pictures lining these walls. Chocolate ice cream.
Green: The Incredible Hulk. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Buzz dressed up as either or both. The quilt on my bed. A shade of Abby’s eyes. The I’ve been a good kid at school stamp.
Blue: The color of boys. Literally, sparkling back in Jedi’s gaze. Though mine, too. Pajamas. Abby’s markered fingernails that won’t wash off. Our carpet, here. A plastic whale of a spoon. Sully, from Monsters Inc, what we’re watching while I’m writing this.
Purple: Abby’s Princess nightgown. Our living room curtains, a more subdued, almost burgundy, shade. One of many scattered crayons. The sunset, bedtime near. The smallest bruise from rough and tumble play.
Pink: Princesses. Dolls. A Tinkerbell dress, complete with tutu. My little girl, a speed of feist. Headbands and hair clips, she’ll take out as soon as I put in.
These are the colors of my life. My rainbow.
October 19 2011
“I’m almost out of milk and toilet paper. Hmm…”
I said this to myself, since it was just Abby and I. The boys were already at school. I really didn’t want to go to the grocery store, though. I thought that maybe I could put it off until the next day. After looking through my kitchen, however, I realized that what I wanted to make for dinner required milk. And we didn’t have enough. And Buzz will be upset if he can’t have his cereal in the morning.
I really didn’t want to drive to the grocery store for two items, though. Pros and cons. Advantages to disadvantages. Milk and toilet paper.
“Abby, let’s get your shoes on”, I decided. “We’re going for a walk.”
We have a convenience store not far from where we live. A 5 minute walk, if that. Especially on such a cloudy, cool autumn morning. Everything is exceptionally more expensive than a supermarket, but it makes due for a few necessary items. Plus, it’s like an adventure. To a gas station.
“Where we going?”, Abby asked as we were making our way.
“We need milk and toilet paper”, I told her.
“Milk and toilet paper”, she repeated. “And pudding!”
I’m afraid we’re not walking to the convenience store to buy pudding, but I’m glad she has her priorities straight.
October 17 2011
Some days, they wake up bad. You feel cranky before you even open your eyes. Every breath exhaled sounds like a freight truck and makes you want to scream. On those days, I’m the farthest from present. Here’s a donut for breakfast. A cookie for lunch. It’s whatever is easiest and satiates the demands quickest. Don’t sit on my lap. I’m busy, just go play. I need some space, a quiet escape. I should have just stayed in bed.
They deserve more. Some days, I’m just not able to give it.
When those days happen, I apologize to my kids for not giving my all. I hold them extra tight when I can and hope that tomorrow will be better.
Then the next day comes and with any luck, you get out of bed with a bit more bounce. Instead of dreading what it brings, you wish your children good morning, and mean it.
On those days, I am present and aware. I play outside with my daughter. I pretend to fly to the moon with her, making silly sounds and faces, running in circles as if we’re ascending into space. We take a walk to dig for rocks without checking my watch every minute. When we come back indoors, Abby asks for markers and we sit and color together. Drawing flowers and learning letters. I don’t even care if she accidentally marks the shirt she’s wearing. After the boys come home from school, I listen intently as Jedi remarks about his day. I applaud the attempt Buzz is making. We skate across the smooth kitchen floor. I laugh instead of cry. I’m still thankful for bedtime, but I do it feeling full instead of empty.
Those days are better. They are good. I wish I knew their secret.
