Archive for the ‘family’ Tag
May 04 2012
Wednesday was my first ever foray into the pick-up line at Buzz’s school. Or any school, for that matter. I had been with my mom that day, so she happened to be along for the ride as well. It was obviously her first time in a pick-up line, too, and a learning experience for us both.
“I called his school earlier, to tell them I’m going to be there to get Buzz and to make sure I know where the pick-up line is”, I said to my mom in general conversation.
“They have a pick-up line?”, my mom wondered, astounded. Though I remember her picking me up at school long ago, this was now apparently a bizarre concept.
A short time later as we made the turn around the back of the school, we drove slowly past to make sure we were headed towards the correct exit. Noticing a few cars waiting in line, my mother asked, “Is that the pick-up window?”.
“It’s not a pick-up window, Mom. A pick-up line. He’s not an order of fast food”, as we laughed and pulled in place, rolling with what we had started.
“I’d like one Buzz to go, please.”
“Can I get fries with that?”
“And can you make sure there’s extra napkins? He’s kind of messy.”
March 06 2012
There’s a story that my mom likes to tell.
It happened a long time ago, before I was born. It’s a tale that starts out ordinarily enough. My father, a very intelligent man with common sense and inner strength for miles, was innocently taking a bath. There’s nothing wrong with that. Relaxing, doing whatever he did. When he was ready to get out, he pulled the plug keeping the water in, as is necessary to do.
Again, nothing out of the ordinary.
Except somewhere between innocent and how in the world, my dad managed to get his big toe stuck in the water drain.
It apparently took much maneuvering to set him free. The details at this point are fuzzy. In fact, I’ve never received an answer on just how this could happen or what type of emergency services had to be called to rescue his toe. Because it’s around now that my mother is always laughing too hard to speak.
She has never let him live this moment in their history down.
My mother will tell this story to anyone, even feeling the need to share it with the next generation of curious audiences. So far, Jedi has been one to sit down for this heart to heart. Through fits of laughter.
And now, every time my son pulls the drain after a bath, he jumps in a hurried panic out of the tub. Terrified that his toe will get caught in the drain. Like Grandpa. When you think of lessons to pass down, I don’t think this was what they had in mind. Though it is an important lesson to learn.
Don’t get your toe caught in a drain, kids.
February 23 2012
I’m a firm believer in picking your battles. That there are some things just not worth fighting over. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em.
There’s no need to go on, right?
This is especially true in parenthood, where if I chose to get riled up over every little thing I would never be anything else. Most of life is just not that big a deal and I simply don’t have it in me. I would lose my mind. Trying to keep them alive worries me enough.
So I pick my battles.
But this isn’t a mantra left merely for parenthood. It flows over into everyday life. There are certain issues, however, that are worth the fight.
Such as toilet paper.
My mom watches my daughter a few days a week for an hour or so just so I can run errands. Often it seems, she has to refill the toilet paper holder while she’s here. Now, I appreciate that she does this. It’s better than leaving it empty. But every time she puts the new roll on, she does so with the toilet paper going over. And then I have to fix it. Because it’s my house, damn it.
Our toilet paper does not go over here. It must go under.
Over or under? It’s a fight worth going to battle over. That’s right, we can take this outside. A knock-down, drag-out brawl I refuse to lose. Oh, Mom, it is so on.
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.
I'm Crystal. A 30-something mom to 3 young kids living in the Midwest USA. When I'm not chasing my children, I'm a freelance writer and web designer. I like to tell stories from our days and share what we enjoy...
