Have you ever observed a dad with his children at the McDonald's play-place? The difference from that of a mom taking her kids to play is truly unbelievable. Last week I was lucky enough to watch a couple of dads in action, and the experience was one to enjoy.
We were in Sierra Vista's McDonald's, so the customer base is primarily military and it shows. On this particular day there was at least one father present who had the army mentality, and bless his heart he was being overrun by the enemy. I know he was probably there to give the mom some much needed alone time to 1. relax, 2. run errands or 3. run away to Fiji, but it will probably be awhile before this dad braves the torture of the hamster like tunnels alone again.
This young father had two little girls, both under the age of 3 and both were delicate, tiny and sweet little things. They were so fragile and beautiful that I wanted to cradle them in my arms and kiss their tiny faces. But that was a mom's reaction, not a dad's. Dad's don't coddle, they instruct, motivate and encourage.
After the girls finished their food, the older of them made it up to the top of the play-place only to get trapped in a corner that was too deep for her to crawl out of. The well she fell into was conveniently located next to a Plexiglas window, thus ensuring that everyone seated below got a front and center ticket to watch her tear stained face plead with her daddy for assistance. Her loving but distracted father told her she was fine and to just come down the slide, not knowing that she was trapped. The more he told her she was fine the harder she cried, pressing her tiny distressed face into the window and asking for mommy. I know she was thinking "Mommy would have been up here by now, and I really would be fine. This yahoo is going to get me killed." While dad yelled obscure instructions, another family's little girl went to the aid of the trapped princess but soon realized rescue was beyond her 4 year old capabilities and told the dad flat out that he needed to come up. I had to admire the guy's go get 'em attitude when he realized that there was no getting out of it. He asked one more time "I really need to come up?" and when confronted with two scared little faces nodding down at him, he took one last deep breath of fresh air and ascended into hell. As soon as he disappeared from view, his younger daughter let out a frantic wail and tried to follow. However, she was just over a year old and wasn't capable of negotiating the ladder, so she started up the steps on the opposite end of the gym, yelling for daddy all the while. This poor dad was trying to yell encouragement to the trapped princess in the tower, as well as soothing platitudes to the abandoned sweetheart at the bottom. Neither daughter was swallowing the lines he was feeding them and both grew ever more panicked and vocal.
When the overwhelmed dad lost sight of the smaller girl and couldn't get a reassuring response from her, my husband took pity on him and started yelling out directions that only another dad would understand. "You've got a bogie coming in hot on your six" was answered hollowly with a "Copy that" from somewhere in the labyrinth of the plastic tunnels overhead. Jordan turned to me and said that you know that the outing has reached it's conclusion when you need someone to vector you in on your kids, and sure enough- as soon as the weeping and sweaty little family was all safe on the ground, dad announced that it was time to go find mommy. Both girls seemed relieved with the news, and I imagine the reunion with their mother was all the sweeter for their near death experience at McDonald's. I'm sure dad was probably pretty relieved to have mom around again too.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Planetary Vacation
It's official. I've reached the level of pregnancy that makes me think I'm as big as a small planet. It's happened far sooner this time around than with my other pregnancies, and I think the reason for this is because of the early bed rest. All I do all day is lay around and get bigger. Not good for my self esteem, or the furniture. Trying to get into and out of bed becomes a routine that would headline successfully in any circus, and I often hum the classic "circus tune" while gasping and rolling around, struggling with pillows. The truly awful part of the ritual is that as soon as I'm finally comfortable, heaving a huge relieved sigh, I suddenly realize that I need to use the restroom. Now. Or, I need to sit up because of heartburn. And thus, the night progresses.
I am 27 weeks into my pregnancy and cannot see my feet. I am sure they are there because I use them to ferret out small toys and random legos, but I'm not sure anymore what they look like. Sometimes someone will tell me that they are swollen, and I nod like I already had this bit of information, but truthfully I'm just relieved to hear they are still visible and recognizable as feet. If they itch, I am doomed. They might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me trying to scratch. I roll around, rubbing my feet together like some sort of mad cricket, wishing for shorter legs or monkey arms in order to reach the sole of my foot.
Every time there's a knock at the door I think there is a very good chance that it's scientists with truckloads of equipment in order to document the all the seismic activity originating from this location. I'm prepared to show them how difficult it is to get in and out of a bed on risers when you don't know where your feet are, but I just don't know how I'll feel when I'm asked to become someone's thesis. Or maybe NASA will have a request to send me into orbit as a planetary stand-in for Pluto while it goes in for repairs for a faulty axis. I might even be a natural disaster waiting to happen and measures need to be taken to get me off planet before I shift the Earth's gravitational pull beyond what's safe. Here's a friendly warning: If one day soon, you are going about your daily life and the entire world seems to tilt crazily, I don't want you to have to wonder what's going on. Your first thought can now be "She's reached critical mass!" and make life saving decisions accordingly.
I have 9 more weeks at minimum, before Henry arrives (personal goal, anyway) and there's no telling how much bigger I will get. I'm hoping it won't get to the point of calling the National Guard to get me out of the house when it's time to go to the hospital, but I'm not going to be surprised if the doctors ask me if they can document the last few months "for science". Sometimes I worry about trying to get in shape after Henry is here, but then I remember I have Mitch and I realize that if I just shadow him every day, I will be rail thin in weeks. I'm pretty sure he'd be a fat child if he had a different personality, so I think it's a solid work out plan to just mimic his movements until I reach my goal weight again. That's what I'm banking on, anyway. However, I try not to think that far in advance right now, or I'll go nuts. Day by day, pound by pound, is the strategy and it's working so far.
I am 27 weeks into my pregnancy and cannot see my feet. I am sure they are there because I use them to ferret out small toys and random legos, but I'm not sure anymore what they look like. Sometimes someone will tell me that they are swollen, and I nod like I already had this bit of information, but truthfully I'm just relieved to hear they are still visible and recognizable as feet. If they itch, I am doomed. They might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me trying to scratch. I roll around, rubbing my feet together like some sort of mad cricket, wishing for shorter legs or monkey arms in order to reach the sole of my foot.
Every time there's a knock at the door I think there is a very good chance that it's scientists with truckloads of equipment in order to document the all the seismic activity originating from this location. I'm prepared to show them how difficult it is to get in and out of a bed on risers when you don't know where your feet are, but I just don't know how I'll feel when I'm asked to become someone's thesis. Or maybe NASA will have a request to send me into orbit as a planetary stand-in for Pluto while it goes in for repairs for a faulty axis. I might even be a natural disaster waiting to happen and measures need to be taken to get me off planet before I shift the Earth's gravitational pull beyond what's safe. Here's a friendly warning: If one day soon, you are going about your daily life and the entire world seems to tilt crazily, I don't want you to have to wonder what's going on. Your first thought can now be "She's reached critical mass!" and make life saving decisions accordingly.
I have 9 more weeks at minimum, before Henry arrives (personal goal, anyway) and there's no telling how much bigger I will get. I'm hoping it won't get to the point of calling the National Guard to get me out of the house when it's time to go to the hospital, but I'm not going to be surprised if the doctors ask me if they can document the last few months "for science". Sometimes I worry about trying to get in shape after Henry is here, but then I remember I have Mitch and I realize that if I just shadow him every day, I will be rail thin in weeks. I'm pretty sure he'd be a fat child if he had a different personality, so I think it's a solid work out plan to just mimic his movements until I reach my goal weight again. That's what I'm banking on, anyway. However, I try not to think that far in advance right now, or I'll go nuts. Day by day, pound by pound, is the strategy and it's working so far.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
One of those days
Today was one of those days that I can't believe we are all alive and relatively sane by the time bedtime rolled around. At two o'clock this afternoon I was certain that by dinner time the kids would be in protective custody and I'd have taken up drinking.
The boys were sick all week, and I think the strain of being cooped up in the house together for days on end was the reason behind the total mayhem that was today. I knew they were starting to feel better when they tried to kill each other first thing this morning. The first sign of trouble was a small argument over who got to lay next to me in bed this morning at 7 a.m. the end result was the sound of Mitch's body thumping to the floor, followed closely by the sound of his indignant wail and Jack's snicker of delight. Things escalated quickly into fist fights over who got the lion cup for their chocolate milk and then an all out death match when Jack's cereal was spilled on the floor and smashed into the carpet by Mitch on his tricycle.
More than once during the interminable day I heard myself screaming in a voice eerily like Brian Johnson that "if you boys don't stop hitting each other, I will spank you!" or my personal favorite: "Be kind or I will beat you!" What?? I open my mouth to be the voice of reason, and this is what comes out? Good thing I was talking to a 3 and 4 year old, otherwise I would've felt like an idiot. As it was, they both looked at me like I had just grown another head and tried to sell them a timeshare in Kansas. In fact, they were so unified in their aversion to me that they bonded together for safety, and for whole moments forgot to torture, maim and kill each other.
As I write this, I'm watching the little darlings attempt to make a liar out of me by sitting together like cherubs, heads together over a coloring book, sharing crayons and giggles. They are beautiful in their love for each other, and my love for them is all encompassing. Just as my heart begins to thaw a bit and I start to feel guilty for all the yelling and spanking that went into the making of today, Jack digs his elbow into Mitch's side and Mitch retaliates with a straight jab to Jack's eye and they both start screaming. And I'm back to the cold hearted harridan.
The boys were sick all week, and I think the strain of being cooped up in the house together for days on end was the reason behind the total mayhem that was today. I knew they were starting to feel better when they tried to kill each other first thing this morning. The first sign of trouble was a small argument over who got to lay next to me in bed this morning at 7 a.m. the end result was the sound of Mitch's body thumping to the floor, followed closely by the sound of his indignant wail and Jack's snicker of delight. Things escalated quickly into fist fights over who got the lion cup for their chocolate milk and then an all out death match when Jack's cereal was spilled on the floor and smashed into the carpet by Mitch on his tricycle.
More than once during the interminable day I heard myself screaming in a voice eerily like Brian Johnson that "if you boys don't stop hitting each other, I will spank you!" or my personal favorite: "Be kind or I will beat you!" What?? I open my mouth to be the voice of reason, and this is what comes out? Good thing I was talking to a 3 and 4 year old, otherwise I would've felt like an idiot. As it was, they both looked at me like I had just grown another head and tried to sell them a timeshare in Kansas. In fact, they were so unified in their aversion to me that they bonded together for safety, and for whole moments forgot to torture, maim and kill each other.
As I write this, I'm watching the little darlings attempt to make a liar out of me by sitting together like cherubs, heads together over a coloring book, sharing crayons and giggles. They are beautiful in their love for each other, and my love for them is all encompassing. Just as my heart begins to thaw a bit and I start to feel guilty for all the yelling and spanking that went into the making of today, Jack digs his elbow into Mitch's side and Mitch retaliates with a straight jab to Jack's eye and they both start screaming. And I'm back to the cold hearted harridan.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Ruler of the Household
We recently found out that our upcoming bundle of joy is going to be a boy. That makes a total of three boys for the Everett family, which constitutes renaming us as a gang by old west standards. Depending on the boys' deeds in the next fews years, we may even graduate to posse. There's already been some practice runs for a prison break.
We've decided on the name Henry for our newest member, and when I looked up the meaning of the name I groaned out loud. It's a german name that means 'ruler of the household'. Just great. I guess we have the leader of our gang now. Actually, I was thinking about it this afternoon and I believe we nailed the name of our youngest. Little Henry is already controlling things around here; when we eat, what we eat and even how we eat it. The little dictator decides if the house gets cleaned, if the boys get a bath every night and if I make it to the post office this week or next. I've pretty much lost all control over my own household, because I'm pregnant with an incredibly strong willed tiny outlaw.
We (Jordan and I) decided to get a pizza for lunch, but Hank had other ideas. I didn't even realize that I wasn't going to be joining my family for lunch until I heard myself yelling at the speaker in the drive thru of McDonald's that I wanted a southwestern chicken salad. One minute I was in control, the next I was on autopilot while that scamp made his own choices. He was right, though. It was perfect and I ate every bite.
The way I see life in the Everett house unfolding is that Henry will be the instigator, Mitch will be the willing guinea pig and Jack will be the one to fine-tune the details while Jordan and I desperately try to keep them all alive and out of jail. Sounds fun, doesn't it?
We've decided on the name Henry for our newest member, and when I looked up the meaning of the name I groaned out loud. It's a german name that means 'ruler of the household'. Just great. I guess we have the leader of our gang now. Actually, I was thinking about it this afternoon and I believe we nailed the name of our youngest. Little Henry is already controlling things around here; when we eat, what we eat and even how we eat it. The little dictator decides if the house gets cleaned, if the boys get a bath every night and if I make it to the post office this week or next. I've pretty much lost all control over my own household, because I'm pregnant with an incredibly strong willed tiny outlaw.
We (Jordan and I) decided to get a pizza for lunch, but Hank had other ideas. I didn't even realize that I wasn't going to be joining my family for lunch until I heard myself yelling at the speaker in the drive thru of McDonald's that I wanted a southwestern chicken salad. One minute I was in control, the next I was on autopilot while that scamp made his own choices. He was right, though. It was perfect and I ate every bite.
The way I see life in the Everett house unfolding is that Henry will be the instigator, Mitch will be the willing guinea pig and Jack will be the one to fine-tune the details while Jordan and I desperately try to keep them all alive and out of jail. Sounds fun, doesn't it?
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Terminal Motherhood
I realized today that this is it. This is how I'm going to die. I'm going to be a mother until I expire from this world and pass on to that great big playground in the sky. Hopefully I won't always be trying to make dinner with someone's arms wrapped around my legs while their face screams into my rear end in desperation for a cookie. I'm praying that someday they figure out how to transform their own transformers, there-by freeing up years of my life. But I know that one day I'll look back while they are rolling their eyes and sighing at having me speak to them in public and I'll miss the simplicity of hearing them say "Mom. Mom. Mom..." continuously for 15 minutes straight. No matter what stage of life we enter, I will always be mothering them. Forever.
Days like today, I start to think about the consequences of my actions. Things I do today will forever alter the future of dozens of people. What if I'm too lenient and I end up with sons who are lazy, shiftless hobo's? Or worse yet, what if I'm too strict with the result of pushing them away until they rebel against all reason and wind up in prison? It keeps me up at night, trying to figure the balance required in raising well adjusted humans fit for society. There are some behaviors that I'm not sure I can ever alter in our boys, no matter the degrees of discipline or leniency. For instance; I wonder if Jack will always chant what he wants until he beats down the very spirit of the person opposing him. Someday I'll probably get a phone call from the future Mrs. Jack Everett that begins with "I'm going to kill him if he doesn't stop saying 'chocolate cake and a trip to Maui' ". It takes a high level of patience and a good imagination to withstand 45 minutes of hearing nothing but "dead dog and chips, dead dog and chips, dead dog..." (dead dog means hot dog in Jack-ese, in case you hadn't guessed. We do not eat dead dogs at our house. Just hot ones.) and I spend a lot of time on a deserted island in my head when he goes into one of his rants.
And then there's Mitch. Oh, Mitch. Will he always think boxing is a form of endearment? Will we be required to wear protective gear at his wedding? I picture his bride as a solid girl who can take a hit, and whose father is a dentist willing to do on the spot repair work. One of the Everett catch phrases is: "Hit him back!", but no one ever does. People are squeamish about hitting a baby for some reason. They wouldn't be if they lived with a two foot Sugar Ray.
When I think of my children as adults, I realize that even when they are over 6 ft. tall and have children of their own, I will still be worrying about them, praying for them and loving them day and night. I will probably find myself laying in bed at 4 am, wondering if Jack has made his yearly appointment for a physical, or if Mitch has found his wallet yet. I will be doing what I'm doing now until the moment I die, which will be a lot sooner than the 90 years I had envisioned if Mitch doesn't stop riding his tricycle down the porch stairs. That kid is going to give me a heart attack.
Days like today, I start to think about the consequences of my actions. Things I do today will forever alter the future of dozens of people. What if I'm too lenient and I end up with sons who are lazy, shiftless hobo's? Or worse yet, what if I'm too strict with the result of pushing them away until they rebel against all reason and wind up in prison? It keeps me up at night, trying to figure the balance required in raising well adjusted humans fit for society. There are some behaviors that I'm not sure I can ever alter in our boys, no matter the degrees of discipline or leniency. For instance; I wonder if Jack will always chant what he wants until he beats down the very spirit of the person opposing him. Someday I'll probably get a phone call from the future Mrs. Jack Everett that begins with "I'm going to kill him if he doesn't stop saying 'chocolate cake and a trip to Maui' ". It takes a high level of patience and a good imagination to withstand 45 minutes of hearing nothing but "dead dog and chips, dead dog and chips, dead dog..." (dead dog means hot dog in Jack-ese, in case you hadn't guessed. We do not eat dead dogs at our house. Just hot ones.) and I spend a lot of time on a deserted island in my head when he goes into one of his rants.
And then there's Mitch. Oh, Mitch. Will he always think boxing is a form of endearment? Will we be required to wear protective gear at his wedding? I picture his bride as a solid girl who can take a hit, and whose father is a dentist willing to do on the spot repair work. One of the Everett catch phrases is: "Hit him back!", but no one ever does. People are squeamish about hitting a baby for some reason. They wouldn't be if they lived with a two foot Sugar Ray.
When I think of my children as adults, I realize that even when they are over 6 ft. tall and have children of their own, I will still be worrying about them, praying for them and loving them day and night. I will probably find myself laying in bed at 4 am, wondering if Jack has made his yearly appointment for a physical, or if Mitch has found his wallet yet. I will be doing what I'm doing now until the moment I die, which will be a lot sooner than the 90 years I had envisioned if Mitch doesn't stop riding his tricycle down the porch stairs. That kid is going to give me a heart attack.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
What did you just say to me?
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Oddly enough, I had titled this blog BEFORE Jack decided to tell his side of the story. I chose to keep it because it was just too good of a coincidence. When I came back to my computer to continue blogging, he pointed and exclaimed proudly "Look Mommy! Nine horses!". It's a good thing he told me what it was about, because there was no way I was going to guess the story he had written was equine in nature.
Two weeks ago a candle fell off the mantle suspiciously. I say suspiciously because when asked, all the children who had been present at the time said that "no one" had broke it. Jack had not been in the room when the candle was broken by no one, but the sound of glass shattering had his little feet pounding the floorboards to get to the scene as quickly as possible. He came screeching around the corner yelling "What happen?" and I threw my hand in the air like a traffic cop, causing him to stop mid-stride. His expression said that he fully expected me to place blame for no one's crimes on his tiny shoulders, and he took a step towards me as if to seek reassurance that I wasn't mad at him for today's mayhem. I gave him a kind, but stern look and told him to "Stay where you are, pumpkin." until I could get the glass cleaned up. The incident was quickly forgotten, at least by me. It must have stuck with my little guy however, because a few days ago I was folding laundry in the back of the house and heard an odd crashing sound coming from the front room. On a destruction scale, it didn't sound massive- more like slight, so I yelled "Jack! What are you doing?" and got the instant reply: "Stay where you are, pumpkin!". Nothing else would have been so successful in making me run the length of the house faster, but when I got to him I saw that he had only dropped a tote bag full of hot wheel cars. As I drew in a shaky breath and moved forward to help him, he stopped me in my tracks with the hand in the air, traffic cop style and I full on belly laughed. Apparently this was not a mess that I needed to get involved in, and I left my little mime to it.
These young people are always watching, aren't they? It makes me feel... amazed, scared, pressured and more than a little creeped out that my every move is under scrutiny and could be repeated at any time. Probably at church. I thought I had been doing a really good job of watching what I say, but I guess not. Yesterday, Mitch kept bringing items to me that had been on top of the fridge. At first I didn't realize what he was doing, and I would take an object while muttering to myself "I thought this was on the fridge? Hmmm." I was sufficiently distracted in that it took me three times before I caught on to him, but in my defense he was being more covert than any two year old has a right to be. He was moving the barstool back along the wall before he would bring me his prize. Sneaky, right? I thought so too. Once I caught on, I belatedly started trying to assert myself with discipline. Do I have to tell you that it didn't work? Probably not. He would give me his vacant stare with a charming half smile and a big eye blink, then run away to play and bide his time. Some time would pass to find us in the same positions once again, with the same results. On one occasion I caught him in the act and exclaimed "Damn it, Mitch! I told you NO!". I didn't even realize what I had said until an hour later when Jack came running to find me, yelling "MOM! Damn it, Mitch!". Sigh. Now when Mitch starts doing anything that might be deemed inappropriate, Jack tattles by saying those three little words. Mitch is going to start thinking that's his full name soon. Other children get middle named when in trouble, not my kid.
Oddly enough, I had titled this blog BEFORE Jack decided to tell his side of the story. I chose to keep it because it was just too good of a coincidence. When I came back to my computer to continue blogging, he pointed and exclaimed proudly "Look Mommy! Nine horses!". It's a good thing he told me what it was about, because there was no way I was going to guess the story he had written was equine in nature.
Two weeks ago a candle fell off the mantle suspiciously. I say suspiciously because when asked, all the children who had been present at the time said that "no one" had broke it. Jack had not been in the room when the candle was broken by no one, but the sound of glass shattering had his little feet pounding the floorboards to get to the scene as quickly as possible. He came screeching around the corner yelling "What happen?" and I threw my hand in the air like a traffic cop, causing him to stop mid-stride. His expression said that he fully expected me to place blame for no one's crimes on his tiny shoulders, and he took a step towards me as if to seek reassurance that I wasn't mad at him for today's mayhem. I gave him a kind, but stern look and told him to "Stay where you are, pumpkin." until I could get the glass cleaned up. The incident was quickly forgotten, at least by me. It must have stuck with my little guy however, because a few days ago I was folding laundry in the back of the house and heard an odd crashing sound coming from the front room. On a destruction scale, it didn't sound massive- more like slight, so I yelled "Jack! What are you doing?" and got the instant reply: "Stay where you are, pumpkin!". Nothing else would have been so successful in making me run the length of the house faster, but when I got to him I saw that he had only dropped a tote bag full of hot wheel cars. As I drew in a shaky breath and moved forward to help him, he stopped me in my tracks with the hand in the air, traffic cop style and I full on belly laughed. Apparently this was not a mess that I needed to get involved in, and I left my little mime to it.
These young people are always watching, aren't they? It makes me feel... amazed, scared, pressured and more than a little creeped out that my every move is under scrutiny and could be repeated at any time. Probably at church. I thought I had been doing a really good job of watching what I say, but I guess not. Yesterday, Mitch kept bringing items to me that had been on top of the fridge. At first I didn't realize what he was doing, and I would take an object while muttering to myself "I thought this was on the fridge? Hmmm." I was sufficiently distracted in that it took me three times before I caught on to him, but in my defense he was being more covert than any two year old has a right to be. He was moving the barstool back along the wall before he would bring me his prize. Sneaky, right? I thought so too. Once I caught on, I belatedly started trying to assert myself with discipline. Do I have to tell you that it didn't work? Probably not. He would give me his vacant stare with a charming half smile and a big eye blink, then run away to play and bide his time. Some time would pass to find us in the same positions once again, with the same results. On one occasion I caught him in the act and exclaimed "Damn it, Mitch! I told you NO!". I didn't even realize what I had said until an hour later when Jack came running to find me, yelling "MOM! Damn it, Mitch!". Sigh. Now when Mitch starts doing anything that might be deemed inappropriate, Jack tattles by saying those three little words. Mitch is going to start thinking that's his full name soon. Other children get middle named when in trouble, not my kid.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Phone Calls From The Edge
This morning I took a call from a dear friend who was so hungry for conversation with anyone who remembered her real name was not "Mommy-can-I?", that she was huddled in her frozen garage with the lights off in the hopes that the children wouldn't find her. When she whispered where she was I couldn't help but be a little jealous that I don't have a garage; it would be the perfect place to have a kid free phone call. Mothers everywhere know exactly what I'm taking about, sometimes you desperately need to talk to someone without having a little person stand in front of you crying, tattling, begging or babbling. My personal goal is to be able to call someone without having to also wipe someone's bum at the same time. I'm not sure what kind of radar Jack has, but if he hears me talking on the phone he runs to the bathroom and minutes later starts yelling for assistance. I guess I shouldn't complain about that because it's actually worse when he comes to me, turns around with a full moon, saying "Mommy, wipe." And no matter how casual I try to be, there's always an awkward pause from the person on the other end of the phone call when I murmur "bend over and stop wiggling." I HAVE to explain what I'm doing at this point and unless I'm on the phone with another mother, I sense a sad wave of pity rolling over the line. I know. I try not to think about it too much or I'll go mad.
So, this morning we spoke about everyday things; a mutual friend's health, grocery shopping, what to make for dinner, and where to get a dress altered for an upcoming wedding. But you would have thought we were passing along state secrets by the way we were acting. I say we because of course I was whispering back to her, have you ever tried to talk normally to someone who is hiding? It cannot be done. You may start out with the intention of remaining aloof, but eventually you will realize that you are speaking in hushed tones too. The simple fear of exposure is contagious and I couldn't help but hold my breath along with her when she hissed "SHH! They're getting close...".
When enough time had passed that she was confident of retaining her sanity if she returned to the fray, she emerged from the darkness of her cell, hand shielding her eyes from the sudden glare of a beautiful Saturday morning to find that her 2 year old had given himself full sleeves of permanent sharpie ink. Was this worth the 15 minutes of self imposed exile to speak with someone who understands how she just needed to hear a friendly voice in the midst of chaos? Absolutely. Besides, it was a lifesaving measure. The kid was eventually going to draw on himself anyway and by taking the time-out she was calm enough that she didn't kill him. I'm probably going to save my children's lives next week when I call my friend from the suffocating darkness of my closet to ask for her mother's russian tea cakes recipe.
So, this morning we spoke about everyday things; a mutual friend's health, grocery shopping, what to make for dinner, and where to get a dress altered for an upcoming wedding. But you would have thought we were passing along state secrets by the way we were acting. I say we because of course I was whispering back to her, have you ever tried to talk normally to someone who is hiding? It cannot be done. You may start out with the intention of remaining aloof, but eventually you will realize that you are speaking in hushed tones too. The simple fear of exposure is contagious and I couldn't help but hold my breath along with her when she hissed "SHH! They're getting close...".
When enough time had passed that she was confident of retaining her sanity if she returned to the fray, she emerged from the darkness of her cell, hand shielding her eyes from the sudden glare of a beautiful Saturday morning to find that her 2 year old had given himself full sleeves of permanent sharpie ink. Was this worth the 15 minutes of self imposed exile to speak with someone who understands how she just needed to hear a friendly voice in the midst of chaos? Absolutely. Besides, it was a lifesaving measure. The kid was eventually going to draw on himself anyway and by taking the time-out she was calm enough that she didn't kill him. I'm probably going to save my children's lives next week when I call my friend from the suffocating darkness of my closet to ask for her mother's russian tea cakes recipe.
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