Always Prepared

All three of my boys have small hiking backpacks. Because, of course, they do. We’re a Boy Scout/Cub Scout family.

Tornado A has been wearing his around the house lately. It jangles. It full or partially full. You can hear him coming. And I didn’t think anything of it because I was one of those kids that always had a bag of toys at the ready.

The other night Tornado A ran across the family room, jangling all the way.

Papi: Son, what do you have in there?

Tornado A: (stops at the door, turns, smiles) Nothing. (Then out of the house like a shot, jangling.)

Papi: (turns to me) What do you think he has in there?

Me: I don’t know, Dad. Apparently, nothing.

Papi: Nothing does not sound like that.

Me: Toys. Legos. Star wars toys. Who knows?

The next day Tornado A was wearing his backpack. He put a whistle in his mouth.

Me: Not in the house!

Tornado A shrugged and ran out of the house, jangling. He had a great time blowing the whistle outside. I won’t let him do that when we’re camping or hiking.

Today Tornado A asked if I would buy him the single serve packets to add to bottle water. It was a dollar for a pack. I was already buying several boxes for teacher appreciation week. So I did.

Later that day Tornado A came to me.

Tornado A: Mama, may I make a juice with the packets?

Me: I don’t know if we have enough bottle water, baby. I need to send bottles with you and your brothers for your teachers.

Tornado A: I have water in my backpack.

Me: What?

Tornado A: I have bottles of water in my backpack.

Me: How many?

Tornado A: Three.

Me: What else?

Tornado A: Snacks. And a survival book. And a zombie apocalypse survival book.

Huh. I happen to have my own bug-out bag. Only because I needed somewhere to stash my hiking gear. It too has survival books in it. It too has a zombie apocalypse survival book. Because why not.

Huh.

I smiled. I rubbed his hair.

Me: That’s pretty smart. Where’s your backpack?

Tornado A: In the car.

Me: Let’s go get it.

Man, that kid is so my kid.

Advertisements

A Lecture Series: In One Car Ride

A Parenting Discussion

Starts with

Why my Parents and Brother are Wrong about Minimum Wage: Don’t Listen to Them.

Then moves to

What Is Minimum Wage and How Does It Work: How Studies on the Economy Can Shape Law or Not.

Then turns into

Bias: What Is It, Why We Have It, and What We Do About It: With Examples. (Slide Show Not Included.)

Then changes to

The Last Impeachment Trial: Kids, Politics and Adults are Weird.

Which means an explanation on

What is Impeachment and Why Was President Clinton Impeached: Welcome to History your Mama Remembers

Which leads to

Blowjob: What is It and What the Words Suck and Blow Actually Mean.

Which ends with

Why Would Anyone Do THAT? It’s So Gross.

Yeah, kids, I thought the same thing at your age. I think I vomited a little in my mouth too.

In conclusion, parenting is weird. Discussions with your kids are weird. And I cannot stay on topic.

 

The Illness

The boys were all struck down by illness almost two weeks ago. It got bad. I didn’t get a full night’s sleep. So after a week, I was really drained.

Yawning as I put the boys to bed.

Me: I am one tired mama.

Tornado A: Who has three tired babies.

Yes. Yes, I did.

Thank goodness they are on the mends now.

Tournament

I had my share of competing. Volleyball, basketball, softball, and swimming. In swimming, it was just you in the water. You competed against yourself because if you looked back at your competition, it would slow you down. When the set up your heat, your age and your stroke was all that mattered. So as a freshman, you competed against fully grown seniors. It could be several heats going for three precious spots. You had to push hard because you didn’t know if you could.

The boys’ karate organization breaks down its competitors by age, rank, and size. The compete only in their heat, so each heat has a first, second, third, and so on. At first, I thought it was odd (you know because of ultra-competitive sports), but I’ve learned to see the value in it. Granted, it’s not always fair.

Tornado A got into karate as soon as he was old enough, and he has ranked every semester he has been in the sport, which puts him at a high rank for his age. He does not have many competitors his age and rank. His heats are usually smaller, allowing an easier time to grab a top spot. He still pushes himself though. Those 150 black belts aren’t going to earn themselves.

Tornado E has had the opposite issue. He joined karate at the usual age, and even with jumping rank, he still has lots of competition. Usually his heat is filled with all 8 competitors. He’s small for his age, so he’s competing with girls and boys much bigger than him. A year or so ago, he won nothing until the last event. We had a talk about having to work harder because he’s smaller. This tournament he did rather well.

But in this tournament, Tornado S did not do well. He is small for his age. Then for some reason, only a handful of kids his age were in his rank. So few kids his age were in the ranks around his, that they combined them. So Tornado S competed, not only against kids bigger than him but, against kids that out ranked him by one, two, even three stripes. As you might have guessed, it did not go well for Tornado S. He hung in there until the end, but he never got a coveted place. To add salt to wounds, he even out preformed Tornado E and his heat in points.

So tomorrow I’ll give the lecture of working twice as hard as others because you never know when you’re going to go up against someone bigger and better ranked.

Que a scene of Fae at fourteen (skinny as a bean pole, not yet hitting her growth spurts), on a swimmer’s block, in her team swimsuit, goggles, and a blue silicon swim cap with a braid tucked in, looking over at a big, built senior in her swimsuit, goggles, and silicon swim cap. It’s a sunny day. The senior is doing all sorts of stretches on her block. Fae rolls her shoulders, looks at the camera, and says, “This is not going to end well.” Then she smiles, “But at least, I get to swim.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Easter Church Adventures

What my mother doesn’t understand is that they really do like us at church. Well, maybe not that woman who muttered “Jesus Christ” when she saw me yank Tornado A back from crawling on the pew to pass his brother to get in line for communion. But she was in another row, took God’s name in vain, and left right after communion. So the moral high ground is mine! Mwhahaha!

Yeah, but other than her, they like us. The ushers always are glad to see the boys and talk to them. The deacon is charmed by them. Several of the congregation make it a point to talk to them or me. The priest finds them amusing as they blurt out the homily for a treat or ring the gong. (Yeah, my Catholic church has a gong.) Even the traveling priests are amused by my boys. On a few occasions, one of the traveling priest has included my boys into his homily.

Any ways. I had nothing to worry about getting a seat for Sunrise Mass. The ushers would find us a seat. But we went early with my parents, bringing our own chairs, sitting on the edge, watching the sunrise.

When Tornado A complained (loudly) that he wasn’t blessed with holy water, the deacon came by and drenched Tornado A and me. As though our priest didn’t drench us thoroughly Palm Sunday. (4 times!)

During Giving Peace and after people received communion, a few people walked by to whisper how nice the boys looked. The oldest in their three piece suits with ties. Tornado A in a bow tie and suspenders. (I rock suspenders!)

After services, I sent Tornado A to gather song sheets and the older two to help collect and stack chairs. Tornado S and Tornado E both moaned, dragging a chair or two. I ended up having to hand over my purse to Tornado A to help pick up stacks of three chairs while eyeing my older two.

As we were leaving, an older gentleman came over to me.

Older Guy: Ma’am, I had to laugh when I saw your boys. My brothers and I had to get the same summer haircut.

I looked over at my three boys running through the courtyard. Their heads recently shaved, their preferred haircut.

Me: Yeah, they like it. Less work.

Older Guy: (chuckles) That it is. Happy Easter.

Me: Happy Easter.

I walked away and heard the last part of his conversation.

Older Guy: (to his female companion) Those boys have a lot of personality.

Older Woman: I can tell. Their mother must be a saint.

Oh, they do. I just happen to be a saint with a lot of personality to.

Trampoline

Mama, come play on the trampoline with me.

So rarely do I actually play with the boys. I monitor their homework and help them with their studies. We work together to brainstorm, research, and write. We have tickle attacks and kiss attacks. We read together. I read to them. We watch movies. We go on adventures, both mundane and extraordinary. But rarely do we play together any more.

Mama, come play on the trampoline with me.

We bike ride or hike. In the summer, we swim. About once a week, we play tag where I run as little as I can, relying on stealth to do my job. But when was the last time I play toys with them? When was the last time I played video games with them?

Mama, come play on the trampoline with me.

I’m a little fatter than I want to be. I’m not as young as I want to be. I’m pulling random muscles doing stupid, ordinary things. And giving birth three times has made playing on the trampoline…. interesting.

Mama, come play on the trampoline with me.

It’s their father’s weekend. When will I get to talk to them again or see them again? At worst, Tuesday after work. We only have twenty minutes because he never picks them up on time.

Mama, come play on the trampoline with me.

Ok, Baby!

Not believing his luck, Tornado A grabbed my hand and dragged me outside. We removed our shoes, but once I was inside the mesh, he announced, “I’m getting brothers!” He grabbed one of my shoes to keep me from leaving and ran back to the back door to yell, “Brothers, Mama’s on the trampoline!”

Just like that, three boys were jumping on the trampoline with me. Have you ever played tag on a trampoline? God, I had to stop several times to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

I’m glad I played because I love my three wild tornadoes.

 

Just a Gown

Tornado S needed an MRI, so on the first day of spring break, we went to the clinic to get it done. He was suspicious because last time we were at the clinic, he was forced to give blood. The kid hates getting his finger nails cut. It’s like torture. Imagine trying to get a needle into this kid.

Tornado S has been diagnosed with a developmental delay disorder. Mild, general, physical. But his hand writing is getting worse, so the doctor wanted to make sure Tornado S was not regressing.

The nurse was quick to set Tornado S at ease. She was efficient and cheery. But upon handing me the medical gown, she frowned, looking at Tornado S.

Nurse: See if it will fit him.

It barely made it past his butt.

Nurse: Let me see if I can find a bigger one. (In a moment, she returned and handed me a new gown.) This might be a little big, but it’s the best we got.

Tornado S stripped, and I helped him into the gown. It hit the floor. I giggled to see my boy in a gown.

Tornado S: How do you walk in this thing?

Me: (Thinking back to all the princess dresses I wore as a girl, never missing an opportunity to dress like royalty) You can lift it up like this. Or you can kick-step. Kick-step. Like this. Kick-step. Kick-step.

Tornado S kick-stepped.

Then I remembered this was Tornado S. Uncoordinated Tornado S.

Me: Nevermind. Just pick it up like this.

Tornado S mimicked my gesture and picked up the gown and walked a few steps.

Tornado S: This is annoying. How does anyone do anything in one of these?

Me: Oh, sweetheart, millions of women have been doing everything in dresses like that for thousands of years.

He looked up at me and wrinkled his nose. Yeah, many of them would probably agree with you, kid.

 

P.S. Everything is fine. He’s just lazy on his handwriting, and yes, I do have pictures of Tornado S in his floor-length gown, smiling up at the camera.