It’s really too bad that I can’t use the skills and knowledge I have gained as a mother to three boys on a resume’. Skills like hazardous material clean-up, surgical removal of splinters, tutor, maid, chef, baseball practice partner, and my personal favorite: interrogator.
I had heard stories about how ornery boys could be, but I never anticipated the maze of excuses they weave in order to cover up said behavior. It’s not that those sweet freckled-faces are lying to me, they just only give their version of events like traumatized witnesses at crime scenes.
A mom’s hardest job is trying to hear beyond the words and fill in the blanks to paint the entire picture. Oldest Son, Grant, is easiest. He can’t keep a straight face when he’s holding something back. Middle Son, Sam, is a close second with perfectly blank features giving him away. Youngest Ian is tricky. He is young enough that he truly believes everything he’s telling you, even if it involves aliens landing in the back pasture.
Youngest recently came into the kitchen sporting a limp. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, he has a habit of hurting his leg when it’s time to do chores. But later on, when given the chance to play outside, he refused to go on the tire swing due to the pain. We iced the ankle and got him to reveal that he had twisted it when he jumped on the beanbag.
The next day, the little guy was still limping. Finally that evening, just as I closed one of his favorite Froggy books and his eyes grew heavy I said, “I’m sorry your foot hurts.”
He turned on his side and closed his eyes. “Yeah, stupid bed.”
My eyes widened and I said quietly, “I bet you won’t do that again.”
He pulled the covers up around his face and said, “Yup, no more jumping from Sam’s bed.”
I raised my eyes to Middle Son’s bed hovering above me. Then I leaned down until I was almost touching Youngest’s nose with mine and spoke barely above a whisper. “You hurt your foot by jumping off the top bunk?”
His eyes popped open at the same time his lips made an O. I waited.
“The beanbag hurt my foot.”
“After you jumped into it from Sam’s bed?”
The freckled little nose scrunched up tight. “Oh.”
They should teach college courses for this stuff. Who needs English Lit 101? Give future parents the information they really need to know like Toddler to Teen Obedience, Potty Training 101, or Household Forensics so you can figure out which innocent-looking kid in the room really broke the antique mirror.
|We have these in every available body part… seriously.
Bizarre happenings are not rare at the Funny Farm. Frankly, y’all barely get a glimpse into the craziness that is my life. But Saturday’s funny business bled into Sunday which carried over to today so there has not been time for it to be overshadowed.
What am I talking about?
A hostage situation.
Saturday afternoon, I was making my way back up to the house from the back pasture when I passed my truck and heard a noise. I leaned in and heard it again. Meowing. So I circled the vehicle looking for the source of the pathetic sound. I even opened the doors…cause Ian would definitely think the cab of the truck was a good spot for a kitten.
After I searched around, above and inside, I came to the conclusion that the kitten cries must be coming from under. So I laid down on the gravel driveway and discovered two kittens squatting in my spare tire.
It was all cuteness and fuzzy feelings until I needed to go into town… and they wouldn’t leave…and we couldn’t catch them. Itty-bitty fur balls took my truck hostage. So, being the hard-core-ranchin-woman I am, I did the only thing I could.
I drove the conversion van.
By Sunday night, we finally got the babies settled in the garage and resumed control of the vehicle. But then it turned cold. Where do the two dogs, Missy and Luna, sleep when it’s cold? The garage. Where does the biggest black cat you have ever seen sleep when it’s cold?
And Mr. Spock does not like the new kids on the block. He is not being logical- he wants to eat them.
I know what you’re thinking, Where are the kittens now?
In my bathroom. But I am not keeping them! I mean it!
By the way, we named them Mac and Cheese.
|“Yo! Don’t drink the milk, it’s a trap! Aww man…”
|How to keep three little boys busy for hours…
|“She’s never going to get rid of us.” “Nope, she’s a total sucker.”
No matter your political persuasion, I just wanted to remind all of you who have not yet voted that though you may or may not love your choices, they are a gift. A gift that was bought with the spilled blood of American soldiers. Men and women died to protect your right to choose, so…. choose.
I’m not a poet, but if you want insight to what rattles around in my head while cleaning the stock tank close to an election day, here it is:)
by Amanda Hopper
Dear granddaughter, you rush through life
here and there, mother and wife.
The small moments become lost
and you ignore the cost.
All I have is time
In this dark bed of mine,
Remembering my loss,
Under the marble cross.
Your time is precious, you say.
So was mine until that day.
My child, you only have to vote.
Just a dot upon a note.
Bring me peace.
Dear granddaughter, release
Your iron grip on tedious things.
Lessen death’s painful sting
and honor my choice
to protect your voice.