Archive for the ‘family’ Tag
January 31 2012
Kids don’t lie. I think all mothers can attest to their child’s blunt honesty up to a certain age. They have yet to learn how to take other’s feelings into consideration, so they answer the only way they can. It’s a part of the magnificent innocence associated with youth.
I know that if I ever want a true opinion of how I look on any given day, I just need to ask Jedi. At 8, he’s still as brutally honest as they come. Never does he miss a chance to tell me that he doesn’t like how I fixed my hair or if my breath doesn’t smell so pleasant. He’s caring, that way.
He’s not the only one, however. Buzz has openly stated his opinion on the freckles on my face and his grandfather’s white hair.
Neither of them tell it like it is like Abby, however. 3 years old is a ripe age for curiosity. And honesty. When her grandpa goes in for a kiss when she doesn’t want it, she thinks nothing of pushing him away. “I’m not talking to you”, she’ll inform whomever when she’s not in the mood. “You’re big”, with a scrunched nose is another favorite. And we won’t get into what she says when she watches me in the shower.
The other day when my parents were over for a visit, she followed her grandma into the bathroom. I heard them giggling a bit long after they were done. When they emerged, it seems my mom had a taste of her candor.
“Your daughter told me I had a big butt”, my mother repeated, utterly shocked.
To which my dad, snapping quickly in laughter, “Well, you know little kids don’t lie”.
And apparently, neither does my father. I guess honesty runs in the family.
January 25 2012
Upon walking in, I took notice of all the elderly couples eating their breakfast at the tiny tables. Their white hair and shaking fingers attempting to open the package of plastic silverware. No other children aside from Abby were to be found. After that, my attention then turned to the cinnamon rolls featured on the menu.
This morning was a treat, and my dad prodded me to order whatever I wanted. Pancakes and milk for Abby. Orange juice, sausage biscuit, and two of the cinnamon rolls.
Abby and I went to find a place to sit, but not until I made sure my 78 year old father didn’t need any additional help. The life he’s lived I’m sure I don’t know even half of. We found our spot and settled in, waving my dad over when I noticed him searching. The tray with our breakfast assortment wobbling with his uneven gait towards our direction.
He’s a great dad, their grandfather. A good man. This past year, he’s stepped in when others haven’t. And unfortunately, his age is catching up to him.
We spread out our morning meal and I went about cutting my daughter’s pancake into small bites. It’s very rare for my dad to go anywhere with us without my mom. But she wasn’t feeling well that morning. Her age, though a decade younger, catching up with her, as well. I looked over at him as he opened the lid to his coffee, bringing the full cup to his lips with both hands.
My dad, my daughter, and I. And my daughter’s dragon.
A dragon that tried to eat my cinnamon roll. I’m glad I ordered two.
January 03 2012
For the first time in 8 years, I do not have the overwhelming feeling of dread when I smell the air only to realize someone needs changed. There are no more wipes, no more rash ointment, no more plump saggy bottoms. Just a toilet that has seen its use triple in this past month and a toilet paper roll that can’t seem to ever stay full. Charmin is making a fortune off of my family alone.
We are diaper free. During the day, anyway. Because Abby still doesn’t stay dry at night. That’s a small hurdle that we’ll jump over in time.
I would like to say that it’s a relief, this new-found diaper freedom. Except I am still an integral part of my children’s bathroom activities. They call me in to show off the product of their hard work, like I’m supposed to be impressed. Reminders have to be given, public restrooms scouted at first entrance, extra clothes packed just in case. I still have to wipe to make sure bottoms are clear. After 8 years, my hands remain far from clean.
The last thing I need is another kid that poops its pants.
My daughter made this past Christmas the year of the doll. She asked for 2 baby dolls from the big jolly guy, and her wish was granted. And then some. My mother noticed the easy opportunity in front of her, and took it.
“I couldn’t tell, is that one of those dolls that wets itself? Because I was hoping it is”, my mother wondered with a clever smirk as Abby covered herself in unwrapped paper and I glared her down with a look of pure evil.
My mom thinks she’s so funny.
She’s not.
October 10 2011
Abby has taken up quite a significant rock collection. Scouring for the perfect smoothed pebble has become her favorite past time whenever we venture outside. Her hands are happiest when they can take an unlimited amount of time sifting through dirt and debris, her small grasp never quite big enough to hold them all.
Not only does she have many stones gathered in different sections across our drive, we’ve brought the best of the bunch inside. My mom was over the other day and noticed the overflowing bowl we store them in, along with a few dusty stragglers scattered on the floor. “Did you wash all those rocks when you brought them in?”, she asked.
“No”, I replied. “Why would I wash off rocks when I’m just going to throw them back outside when she gets tired of them?”
“Well, I used to wash your rocks when you brought them in”, she remarked, haughtily.
“No, you didn’t”, I disputed.
My mother was adamant in her insistence, though. “Yes, I did.”
This wasn’t our first trip down alternate paths of memory lane. I would like to say it stopped here. But like a pebble in water, it had a ripple effect. We went back and forth a bit more before the subject was changed, neither of us willing to budge on our recollection of events. It’s just every day rocks, after all. The preferred kind you can skip onto any pond. I wonder, however, how even the smallest grain of reflection against the resulting folds of reminiscence can skew in such contrast for a mother and daughter who have spent most of their life living alongside. And how, exactly, does that bode for how my children will remember me.
September 19 2011
My mother asked, some time ago, if there was anything my kids needed for school. Jedi could use some socks, I told her. And so one early morning before the boys left for the day, my mom stopped by a general convenience store and picked up a pack of socks.
Upon walking in, my mom handed me this pack of socks as if she were passing off something illicit and more mind-altering than footwear. In a secretive hush and dirty demeanor, she whispered, “I got these, but didn’t realize until I’d already paid. They’re girl socks.”
3 plain white pairs of socks, save for orange lettering on the toe. Which read No Nonsense. From the pantyhose brand.
“When he has shoes on, you won’t even be able to tell”, I brushed the situation off while thanking her. Which is true. I put a pair of the socks on him that morning, none the wiser. My mother, however, continued to feel bad until a week later when she was able to buy him the correct kind.
I have continued dressing Jedi in those socks when needed, though, because socks are socks. As long as they’re clean and match, an accomplishment unto itself. That is, until Jedi noticed.
“Why does it say No Nonsense on my socks?”, he asked.
Quickly, I blurted, “It’s to remind you what a strong boy you are”.
Strong, like pantyhose.
