Amanda Hopper Writes

A writer's tale of living and working in the country.

Interrogator

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.”
“Right.”
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.

1 Comment

  1. Classic–and so true!

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