Things You Never Thought You’d Say…
I’m standing in the kitchen, appreciating a moment of domesticity. My friend’s daughter has been dropped off for the morning, so we’re baking muffins while the baby sleeps. Maddie’s two brothers and my three oldest boys have disappeared into the backyard with various forms of weaponry, prepared for combat in the two foot weeds that have overtaken our backyard. (Apparently this is what happens when you don’t mow your yard for a month.) Back to my domestic moment…So I’m measuring ingredients and carrying on a perfectly decent “girl” conversation when my consciousness becomes aware of a somewhat desperate cry from the front lines of battle.
Now there are different sorts of “cries” that my boys make and I consider myself fairly astute at interpreting them. Among others, there’s the irritated whine which represents a “He’s bugging me” situation, the frightened / upset / pleading sort of a cry, the “I’ve been hurt” cry, and the “I’ve been hurt and now I will get revenge” cry. I recognized this noise as a curious combination of the first three, with potential to morph into a full-blown war cry.
I snap into “Supermom” mode, complete with supersonic hearing, and instant assessing abilities. I immediately abandon the sugar and sugar-coated conversation and whip open the back door. In less than two full seconds I have surveyed the surroundings, confirmed that there are not yet any casualties and have targeted the perpetrators, victim, and not-so-innocent bystanders. My five year old is standing in an alarmingly awkward position around the tree-house firepole, and actually appears to be semi-permanently affixed to said firepole. He does indeed have that rare but dangerous combination of “bugged, upset, hurt and about to get revenge” look on his face, but is frozen into inaction. Before any of them can try to hide the evidence, or worse, attempt an explanation, I take advantage of their moment of silence and say, “CONNOR… JOSEPH…THOMPSON...DO... NOT… DUCT… TAPE… YOUR… BROTHER!!!”
Another moment of silence as five pairs of eyes shrewdly watch for signs of temporary insanity – the kind of mental disorder that briefly affects mothers when they see their sons perform random acts of testosterone. What they do not know, however, is that I am completely at a loss. My Supermom “S” fades away, and I’m left standing there dumbfounded that I actually needed to give this utterly lame directive. I try to think of some sort of follow-up statement, something profound, with a little more oomph. I can’t… So I do my most serious “Mom Look”, nod authoritatively as Connor hurriedly begins the process of un-duct taping his brother from the pole, and ever-so-slowly retreat back into the haven of my kitchen with a dignified air.
Before returning to the task at hand, however, I pause to reflect on motherhood for a moment. There was a time when I believed that I would spend my mothering years gently imparting wisdom to my offspring – it’s my fantasy, so I’ll go ahead and say “daughters.” Anyway, I dredged up whatever remnant I still have of this Fairy Tale Mother Figure and I laugh to myself. My reality is that I spend my days between muffins and mayhem, occasionally being called upon to bring to light the inappropriate uses for tape. It’s not lofty, but it’s necessary, and everybody’s better off for it.
I walk back into the kitchen only to see Maddie shaking her head with a slightly exasperated but understanding look on her face. She may only be eight years old, but she’s got two brothers and she knows full well that sometimes Moms have to say things they never thought they’d have to say.
