Twenty-Two Accomplishments

Some people, at the end of their career, are able to say things like, "Look at the bridge I designed," or "Listen to this song I wrote," or "Look at the productive American citizens I taught in school." I don't have anything like that to show from what I do day in and day out. I wish I could show you a clean house, but the second I mop the floor, somebody spills something. I fold the laundry, and more lands in the hamper. I clean the bathroom, and within five minutes, Luke doesn't aim quite right. I feed everybody, and pretty soon, somebody is hungry again. When I boast about what I accomplished as a mother, I think all I will have to do is pry open my children's mouths and show you the teeth they grew, pearly white from being polished to a shine with watermenlon-flavored toothpaste. Yes, getting through the teething process is my personal opus.

I guess whether or not teething is difficult for the mother depends on the child. Some have an easy time with it. I once had a close friend tell me, "I always knew when my kids were teething because they just wanted to sleep all the time! We'd get home from church at lunchtime, and I'd put Max down for a nap. I'd have to wake him up for a bottle at night, and then I wouldn't see him again till morning!" The restraint I showed by not slapping her silly when she told me that falls under the umbrella of my great teething accomplishment.

My kids are quite the opposite. Like many children, teething renders them unable to sleep. They require doses of Motrin and homeopathic teething tablets and want to be cuddled all night long. They're prone to frequent screaming fits around the clock. Through teething, Luke had bleeding diaper rash that made every diaper change an emotional roller coaster. I handled nineteen of his twenty teeth on my own, as Joe and Luke seemingly struck a deal that Joe would be in some far-off country through any dental growth. The week my husband left for his second deployment, Luke started cutting six teeth. It was the same week that I had to rush Luke to Urgent Care twice for mysterious hives, I had to replace an oven that wouldn't turn off in the June heat, I killed a snake, and I had to clean up a bunch of glass shards from a mysterious explosion in my dishwasher. And then a little bit later, he cut eight molars at once. It took a month--it was like four exam weeks in a row.

All of these factors have led me to look at my son's smile and see much more than teeth. I look at his big, cheesy grin and see twenty major accomplishments. I view his teeth very much the same way I viewed my merit badges in Girl Scouts. I worked for them. His mouth is like my green vest.

This week, I'm pulling long hours through the night with George, who is finally going to be able to eat steak, it seems. I was so excited this morning when I put his fork in his mouth and I felt and heard a scraping of teeth. I imagine that this elation I feel is akin to how the Forty-Niners felt when they struck gold in California. Two down, eighteen go to. I look at Luke, smiling at me, and see twenty little promises that I will get through this, and that someday, I'll have forty little merit badges to boast.

Fine Dining

Today at lunch, Luke told me that his lunch was making him feel good, and that it was also making him happy. This was a nice departure from yesterday's lunch, when I made him an adorable ham and cheese plate, with the cheese cubes in a checkerboard pattern, and he told me, "That's cute, but I really wanted cheese triangles." After he polished off a popsicle for dessert, he said, "Momma, tonight you should make the BESSSSSST DINNER EVERRRRRR!" The pressure was on.

Around 5:00, I started gathering the ingredients for meatloaf. As it turned out, I only had about half of what I needed. I don't know about you, but when it comes to ground beef, I don't like to improvise. And since I had been challenged to come up with the "BESSSSSST DINNER EVERRRRRR", I was apprehensive to leave it to chance, so we decided to go out.

Luke made some guidelines before we chose a place. He requested that we eat at a place that had a booster seat for him to sit on and water to drink. It seemed reasonable enough. Joe's request was that we not drive far. This would limit our options, as this is small-town Mississippi, and the base is not exactly located in the heartbeat of the town. You'll see. I looked at the gang and requested that we not go anywhere nice because we were not exactly dressed for success. Joe was wearing a t-shirt boasting his membership in the 200-mile club of Balad, Iraq, which he earned by running 200 miles during one of his deployments. Luke, handicapped by male color-coordination blindness, was wearing a lime green shirt and olive green shorts. Oh heck, since I'm among friends, I don't mind admitting that this shirt is a pajama shirt...and he'd been wearing it since bedtime last night. George was in a white onesie, dingy from a day of scooting around the floor that I have yet to vacuum since moving in last week. Also, he had remnants of lunch on his face. As for me, I had a chip in my toenail polish. What, you think I'm going to really criticize the way I looked?

We drove off base, planning to go to The Little Kitchen, which is right outside the gate. The Little Kitchen is a greasy spoon kind of restaurant. It happens to be located in a doublewide trailer, with a singlewide trailer annexed off the side. They are known for their breakfast platters and for the Chinese food they make later in the day. I know, it doesn't make sense! Sadly, The Little Kitchen closes at 5:00, so it was a no-go.

We passed up on a pizza place located in an ancient gas station to get barbecue at a place a little further down the road. This barbecue place is located in a small clearing in the woods and operates out of a shed. You heard me right, a shed. This shed sits right next to a charred foundation of another shed--the one they used to operate out of until it burned down...when we lived here six years ago.

As we pulled up, I asked Joe if we could just get it to go. They have two picnic tables outside, but I didn't want to eat there. Trust me, I had my reasons, but let's just say that it was because they didn't have Luke's booster seat.

Joe came back out a few minutes later bearing dinner (and Luke's bottle of water), and we headed off to the base park to have a picnic. "Thank you for understanding about my not wanting to eat there," I said. "No problem," he replied. I explained further, "It's just that I think we were overdressed."

The barbecue was delicious.

Humble Blueberry Pie

There was a time in my life that I would have argued that a woman who can get annoyed with her children is the devil incarnate. I had a whole power point presentation and printed pamphlets outlining an argument that if you were lucky enough to have children, you should walk around with a smile on your face and rainbows shooting out of your fingertips all the time, with no exceptions. Baby's eating dog vomit off of the floor? Smile, Momma! Baby just tipped the dog's bowl of water over the the fifth time today, threw your phone in the toilet, and screamed the entire time you were at the grocery store, while every single senior citizen you saw commented, "Little fella's not happy, is he?" Say cheese! You guessed it, this period coincided with the time that I was recovering from losing my first pregnancy.

Since the day he was born and refused to nurse, all the while screaming at me because he was starving, Luke has been destroying all of my preconceived notions about parenting, and humbling me every step of the way. And this morning...good gravy, was he annoying me!

As I sat down to spoon-feed George his delicious Gerber baby food, I gave Luke a bowl of blueberries. Since Luke can put a whole pint away in one sitting, this was no modest portion. And as he ate each berry one at a time, he asked me, "Is this a blueberry?"

I remained cheerful the first few times, answering, "Yes, it's a blueberry," thinking that it would get old after a few bites. But I failed to remember that NOTHING gets old to a two-year-old except putting on his own shoes and being quiet at church.

After about twenty-seven blueberries, I started answering through clenched teeth, if answering at all. And then the little sucker baited me. He started asking me if it was a blueberry with nothing in his hand! What a clever little guy! "Yes, it's a blueberry! OKAY?" I'd say, and then he would show me his empty palm. Talk about egg on my face!

Finally, when he was about two-thirds of the way through, I told him that his question was getting annoying and he needed to stop asking it. "They're all blueberries. Got it?" He pouted and asked me, "Why are you treating me like that?"

I decided that on Monday, the next time we're alone for breakfast, he will get grapes. They're bigger, so fewer fit in a bowl. Also, "grape" isn't nearly as fun to say as "blueberry". We'll just make blueberries a rare treat...like, for when his father is flying solo with the kids.

Effective communication is important for so many reasons. Throughout history, poor communication has changed the outcome of wars and shaped major policies. I remember a recent piece of Arkansas state legislation being written in a way that allowed babies to enter into marriage. The legislature had to cut into their recess time to fix the blunder. In my personal life, miscommunication has only served to irritate my family members and me.

Yesterday, my baby brother landed his dream job. This means that after many years of living modestly and paying for school, he's going to live a little higher on the hog, and we're all thrilled for him. "I think it's safe to say that Uncle Matt is going to buy you a pony for Christmas," I told my kids excitedly last night. Luke misinterpreted what I said to mean, "Tomorrow is Christmas! Candy and presents await you in the morning! And don't forget to be really difficult at bedtime, it's a Christmas Eve tradition!" Needless to say, Luke woke up asking if Santa Claus had come to see us, and if presents were under the tree. When the bad news that Christmas is still nine and a half months away was broken to him, he had a royal fit, stormed into my parents' room, and tuned out the world around him by watching television. He then started to complain of a headache. I'm not surprised, as this is the way I handle disappointment, too.

My dad came in to watch cartoons with him. After a few minutes, Dad shouted, "OH, it's 'BLUES CLUES'! I thought it was 'BOOZE CRUISE'. Nevermind, I don't want to watch this!"

Later, as we were preparing to make our departure to our new home in Mississippi, Mom and Dad started talking about our bill. Something about how many paper towels we had used, how many hours of babysitting services I had wracked up, water bills, administrative costs, etc. As they were yukking it up and I was losing my innocence about where clean laundry comes from, I realized that we had had a miscommunication about the seven-week vacation I was supposed to have been on. I'm not a totally unreasonable person, though. As long as there's a deep military discount, I'm happy to pay for the story hours and the and the floors they're going to have to replace, the drywall they're going to have to patch, the electricity we used, the daytime excursions we took, the personal days used because if the germs we shared, the stamps I borrowed, internet access...

The Laundry Fairy

You know, when you go back home, there are some things that never change. I spent my whole childhood and teenage years plagued by a mystery, and now I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to figure it out, just like old times. Who on God's green earth has been doing my laundry?

Obviously, when I'm left to my own devices in my own household, I have to suck it up and do it myself. But growing up, the clothes would just disappear from my bedroom floor while I was at school, and end up washed, dried, and smelling fresh in my closet.

Ever since I've been home this winter, I've been way too busy catching up with old friends, taking naps, holing myself up and sewing, and navelgazing to take care of my and my children's laundry. And just like in the good old days, the problem seemingly takes care of itself.

I have my suspicions. I think the spritely character of lore, The Laundry Fairy, has been washing our clothes. I remember my mom making a sarcastic comment when I was younger, like, "Who do you think does your laundry? The Laundry Fairy?" But I think she was telling one of those white lies of parenting. you know, the ones that are for a child's best interest, so it's not really a lie. Kind of like when Luke asks me about the snack he abandoned three hours earlier, the one that has probably for sure entered my large intestines by the time he's asked me, and I tell him that a bird flew in the window and took it. And although the window is closed and most of the birds have flown south for the winter, he totally buys it and goes back to playing. That kind of white lie. Why would my mother have to tell a white lie about The Laundry Fairy, you wonder? Well, because that was the year that my brother, aged eleven, was finally told the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. He was having some serious denial since he'd spent ELEVEN YEARS getting comfortable with the whole premise, and she probably had to make it sound like there was no Laundry Fairy to really drive her point about Santa Claus home. She really had to play hardball that time.

But anyway, I know there is a Laundry Fairy, because my dirty clothes are disappearing from my floor (yeah, my floor...too busy navelgazing to be bothered with the hamper), and reappearing so delightfully fresh and spanking clean. George's whites are coming back so white, I need my sunglasses to look at them. That is no small task! And whatever fabric softener she uses, I hope she never switches. I wonder if her cousin is The Dirty Diaper Fairy, who has been picking up the rolled-up diapers that I sometimes absentmindedly leave sitting on the floor wherever I happen to change a diaper. (Childless friends, please don't judge. I was always appalled by people who did that, and here I am doing it.)

On Saturday morning, as we're loading up the minivan to head to our new home, if any of my family members see me thrashing around in the laundry room with a butterfly net, be assured I'm not crazy--I'm just trying to catch that slick little fairy so I can take her to Mississippi, where she can keep working her magic for me.

And Laundry Fairy, if you're reading this, it would be really neat if you would strip my sheets and sprinkle your pixie dust over them. I love the smell of fresh sheets, thanks!

Lunch Conversation

If you were a fly on our wall, here's what you could have heard around our table at lunch:

Luke: Cookie, what's your secret?
Cookie: What's my secret? Wellllll....I eat right, exercise, and get plenty of beauty rest.
Luke: Mommy, what's your secret?
Laura: Sometimes, when George was still in my tummy, I'd be making your lunch, and I'd tell you that your chicken nuggets were poisonous, so I had to throw them away. But really, I'd eaten them right out of the pan, and then you had to have peanut butter and jelly instead.
Luke: What's George's secret?
Cookie: George sometimes keeps secrets deep inside his diapers...Luke, what's your secret?
Luke: I'm eating a sandwich.

Riveting. Simply riveting. Inquiring minds would like to know what other skeletons are hidden in his closet.