A flippin' victim

I have really struggled, since becoming a Christian, with a number of tenets of Christianity. The toughest ones to follow, it seems, are the building blocks of the whole saving grace. Of course they are. If it were simple, I wouldn't need grace, right?

The one that stumps me daily is the need to love others. This is how the world will know the followers of Jesus—by the way we love one another. Yikes.

I was not feeling love yesterday. I was feeling many other emotions. Not love.

It was my turn to take my son to his little Lego class (snapology.com). I had just dropped him off, and I prepared to pull out of the parking lot, making a left turn so I could then turn left again to reach the gas station for a refill. It was a messy, rainy night, the shiny road surfaces reflecting bright headlights like mad. People were going too fast, as people who drive big killing machines on sleet-y nights are wont to do. I made sure I had lots of time and space, pulled out of the lot, and then drove a short way and into the turning lane in the middle of the highway. I used my left turn signal. Maybe I went too slowly? Maybe the poor visibility made me a tad more cautious and timid than usual? Or maybe I did nothing wrong. Maybe I was just in the path of someone's misdirected rage.

I had come to a stop in the turning lane, blink blink blink went my turn signal, and a large pickup truck pulled in front of me on a slight angle. It halted. The window rolled down with a fervor, and I looked with shock as a clean-cut young man threw his left arm out in my direction and flipped me a very angry, deliberate middle finger.

He glared at me as he saluted me, looking right into my eyes to ensure that I knew this bird was for me and me alone. It took a second or two for it to register in my mind that he was, indeed, flipping me off. Me. Why? I did not know. How to respond? I gathered my wits, smirked at him, and waved a friendly hand. He pulled his arm back in, rolled up the window, and sped back into the moving traffic lane.

How to respond to that? I sat, shaking slightly with bewilderment, perplexed as to what I had done to merit his supercilious assault. Then I got a break in the oncoming lanes, and I pulled into the gas station and filled the tank. Still confused. Still wondering what crime I had committed.

I ran to the grocery store for a few items, still replaying the scene in my mind. Still uncertain what wrong I had done.

I parked and went to get a cup of coffee to waste the remaining half hour before Lego class wrapped up. It began to dawn on me that it might be a good thing that I don't carry a loaded weapon. I began to realize, too, that no matter what I had done, it would not have merited such a mean-spirited, personal attack. I could only hope that the enraged kid had gotten the ire out of his system when he sent his clear message to me, and that his evil would end there.

I know, it's just a finger. Worse things happen to people every day. I guess it was just the senselessness of the act, the sheer meanness of it, and his utter lack of consideration for anything that might be going on in my world. And I pondered, for the millionth time, how God can love us, and how in God's name I can ever rise to the occasion of loving my fellow men and women.

We are, so help me God, an unlovable, awful, wretched, ignorant, smug, self-righteous bunch of jerks.

OMG (a.k.a. Tough kid, sissy mama)

When people ask me what's new, I usually say, "Nothing." And I'm usually thankful to say that. Boredom is often the opposite of chaos in my life, perhaps in other lives as well, and I'm happy to embrace boredom much of the time because I prefer it to the alternative.

We got the alternative Tuesday night.

It was a totally normal night. I was nagging the "boys" about bedtime, and finally managed to make my husband understand that the next morning our child would need to rise at the same old time, and that he needed adequate sleep in order to tackle the day with success, etc. My son ate a quick snack (pizza-flavored Goldfish crackers and water) and I herded him into my bedroom to get his clothes off and into the hamper so that PJs could be donned.

Apparently, after I left the room, the kid had an undeniable urge to run, naked but for socks, and see his father in the living room; when he didn't show up, I had to call out and remind him to stay on task and come in for pajamas and tooth-brushing. I was selecting the pajamas from a drawer when suddenly, I became aware that my child was running from the living room into his bedroom. I saw him approaching from the corner of my eye, not really registering the speed with which he came, and a second later there was a loud thump. I glanced up in time to see his feet literally flying out from under him, up in the air—and then saw him hit the floor, landing right on his back.

Now, there have been a few times when my son hit the wall—with his head, or his foot, or his back end when he was crawling around in a clownish manner. So, we'd seen similar situations before; panic did not immediately ensue. He lay there for a second, and my husband and I both scurried over from opposite directions to ascertain the damage. Marcus was still on the floor, and he seemed to have hit not only his face, but also the back of his head when he fell; our home is tiny, and the space in that little hallway outside bedrooms is quite unforgiving.

I was totally unprepared for what met me at close range: my son's forehead was gashed, straight up and down, and blood was spilling out in spurts. I thought I would be sick, and one look at his dad told me he was feeling the same. We sat him up a bit, I grabbed a washcloth and we held it on the forehead, and all the while Marcus was huddled there unclothed, red splashes landing on his bare legs, crying full tilt. Todd remembered to tilt his head back a little, to minimize bleeding, and when the washcloth did not stem the flood, we grabbed a dry hand towel to better soak up the mess.

A minute passed, I threw a blanket on my boy (can kids go into shock from a gash? no matter, it's winter and he's naked), and we worked up the nerve to take another look at the cut. This was the OMG moment, people: it was unspeakably horrific. It looked like a hockey injury. The giant slash running between my child's eyes could have come from a skate blade or a big, sharp stick; it could have been carved in with a knife. It was a perfectly straight line, because (we've since determined in hindsight and re-enactments) he hit it squarely, somehow, on the frame of his bedroom door.

Todd and I both stared at it, trying not to reveal in our faces just how awful it really was. In my head, I was screaming, "OH MY GOD that is so DEEP! I can't believe it! He needs stitches! Holy CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!" but on the outside, I was trying to remain calm and tell my son that everything would be okay. He kept saying, "It hurts," and I was thinking, no *!?# it hurts because I can practically see your SKULL in there!!! But I couldn't say that. So I murmured useless, soothing phrases, and Todd and I spoke with our eyes. Yes, we agreed, yes; we must go out on this snowy, slippery night, to the nearest hospital, right now.

We resigned ourselves to our fate, put some zip-up PJs on the wailing child, fashioned a headband made from destroyed T-shirt in order to secure the blood-soaking cloth, and got ourselves into the car, praying for safe travel, for quick treatment, for the best possible scenario. Thankfully, we made it out of our snow-covered driveway, and the roads were passable.

Let me take a moment to rave about Suburban General Hospital in Bellevue. The folks there were wonderful: quick, thorough, calming and friendly. We were the only ones in the ER, and they saw to us immediately, talking through what had happened, chatting with Marcus who had since stopped crying and was looking quite pitiful. One look at the depth of the cut and they knew it needed stitches; no skin glue for this one. To their credit, they were honest with my little guy, and told him (not all at once, but as needed) what they were going to do. There were three of them prepping him; a matronly type wrapped him in a sheet tightly, to immobilize his arms, but she talked with him as she worked, joked a little, made him as comfortable as possible. The assisting nurse, an affable fellow who was blind in one eye, was warm and friendly with all of us and put everyone at ease. The doctor who washed, gave numbing shots, and stitched was confident, very capable, and worked with speed.

Here's where I must confess that after they began to wash the cut, and I got a better look at just how horrible it was, I had to sit down and I missed most of the really gory stuff because I was fighting the simultaneous urges to throw up and fall down. I didn't see the stitching; I simply could not look. I saw the doctor's hands lifting, going down with the needle, pulling it up again, but I certainly wasn't counting; I couldn't watch for that long. (He got 5 stitches, according to his dad.)

But as much as a wimp as I turned out to be, my son was beyond stoic. The only crying he did was at home. When the doctor told him there would be stitching, and shots to numb the injury, his mouth turned down on the outsides—the telltale pre-cry face. Yet somehow, it never became full-blown. He set the mouth back to a normal line, he nodded or answered when asked a question, he allowed the nurse to hold his small, frightened face perfectly still while a man with a sharp object laced a nylon thread through his lacerated forehead. He never made a sound. Nothing.

The ER folks were impressed. I was speechless. What a tough guy. He was lying there, we were encouraging him and telling him it was almost done, and I was too sick to feel proud of him at that moment—but I knew, even as I fought the urge to hurl, that his behavior was pretty amazing.

Marcus bounced back just fine. When the procedure was finished, he stood with boots back on; since his face was still numb, he was in very good spirits. His dad and I? Both of us were sitting, ashen-faced, glad it was done but shocked it had transpired at all—and wondering which of us would be able to drive home. (Todd was; he thankfully did all the driving that night.) The amazing thing was the timetable from start to finish: On a treacherous winter night, my boy had run into a wall at approximately 8:45, and we pulled back into our driveway, stitched and bandaged, a couple of minutes after 10pm.

God is good. He put all the pieces in place, so that while my poor child had to go through that experience, it was as painless as possible. He didn't even miss kindergarten the next day (I'd been planning on keeping him home) because the weather turned very sour again, and the school district cancelled classes.

It's alarming to realize you are not nearly as tough as you would like to believe. Happily, my weakness was more than balanced by my offspring's strength. It would have understood if he'd cried, if he'd been a bit uncooperative, but it was as if he knew that his behavior would make or break the whole incident.

Thanks for listening, especially to my bragging about my boy; I try not to do that, especially here, but I feel it's more than merited on this occasion. And by the way: absolutely NO RUNNING in the house.

To quote Pulp Fiction, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go have a heart attack."

P.S. Stay tuned for a future post about the bill. Haven't got that yet... but I'm anticipating ugliness, as our plan has a ridiculously high deductible.

Hollow mom

I run errands by myself these days. Each morning, I take a too-small child to a bus stop, where he climbs on a big, yellow transporter with a bunch of mostly older kids, and we wave and blow kisses at each other until he's out of sight... Then I make my lone way back home, or to the store, or to the bank, or wherever the day demands I go.

It's not the same. I feel adrift, un-ruddered, nostalgic for days past. I'm wondering what he's doing while I shop, thinking of what he'd say if he were with me, envisioning how I'd turn a sign into a teachable moment. I'm talking to the radio, to myself, casting sad and envious glances at other moms or dads with their little one still in tow.

I know it's not bad for him to be away from me now, and that he needs to be around other kids his age; I am certain that he'll benefit from professionals who are trained to work with small children and who are far more patient than I. But must he be away for so many hours every day? He's still so small; he still needs his mommy.

I'm at a bit of a loss, even two months into this separation. Staying busy, working, will not fill the void left by his advancing years. When he climbed onto that bus, he took some of my purpose with him.

While he was an infant, a toddler, I longed for time by myself. Now, I have it and more—yet I find I am not nearly as interesting as I once was.

A silly little rhyme from a sweet, silly little boy

How can I bottle up the unutterably dear little kid that my son has become? I don't want him to age. Not for a long time, anyway.

In the past few weeks, he has suddenly turned into a very touchy-feely kid; he has always been pretty affectionate, but now much of his loving attention is focused on my hair. He likes to pet it, pull it into ponytail shapes, detangle it for me (albeit painfully sometimes). When we're reading together, I'll feel someone fixing a strand...and there he'll be, small fingers entwined, looking sheepishly at me when I stop reading to see what he's up to. "I'm almost done," he'll say as he works to pull out a lock that is wrapped around and under another, or to tame a stray strand that's sticking up. When he pulls too hard, I make him stop. But if I'm not militant about his keeping hands to himself, he's back at it within a few minutes. I don't know if he's even aware he's doing it half of the time.

(He's touchy-feely with his dad, too; I've noticed lots of embracing, climbing, kissing and wrestling of late.)

A recent, memorable moment came one morning this week. My little guy stopped me in mid-play and told me to listen while he said a poem for me—one that he'd obviously learned outside our home...

(No worries, readers: this blog is almost always rated G.)

Here is what he recited to me:

Mommy and Marcus are in a tree
H-I-G

That's it—that was the poem. Then he stopped, partly because he didn't know what letter came next, and partly because I had burst out laughing hysterically. He was laughing too, and then he realized his own mistake and said, "H-U-G! Hug!" which made the entire event that much more hilarious and precious. We cracked up for a good minute together. I praised him for spelling the word right, then put the word into action; I hugged him and kissed his little cheek until he was chiding me: "Mom, stop!"

Sometimes he'll say, "I love you so much I want to hug you," and then when I grab him and squeeze him, he says, "Mom, not that much!" His latest trick is to tell me he loves me so much he wants to pull my arm off, or my leg, or whatever he can think of yanking on that will pain me, and then he shows me how much he loves me by doing what he said he'd do. It's ludicrous. (Of course, then it becomes increasingly annoying and I have to put a stop to it.)

But all these small exchanges are really sweet, and I want to write them down so that years from now, when I have forgotten this period of time, I can revisit my little verbal snapshots and recall the lovable bundle of boy who's sharing my home for this season.

P.S. He learned the rhyme from the PBS show "Arthur." I figured it out when we saw the rerun.

My favorite quote of all

I’m prone to jotting down what my kid says because, like all kids, he comes up with some real gems that are worth remembering. The funniest statements are always off the cuff. Now that he is beginning to understand the power of humor, he tries to make me laugh with vaudevillian efforts—but honestly, while his performances are ludicrous, they’re almost never as amusing as his spontaneous silliness.

But back to the quotes: I’ve recorded some of the recent goodies here, along with what I hope is enough background information for the comment to make sense.



One day as we sat at the table, post-meal, I was singing and decided to show Marcus how you could feel your vocal cords rising gradually as your voice rose in pitch. He watched my throat, and I coerced him into placing his fingers on my neck so he could feel the progression upward, which he found fascinating. Then his dad entered the room, hence this quote: “Hey Dad, wanna feel my vocal cords?”

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We have a shoe tray by the front door, to capture wet, messy shoes and boots (I have yet to put it away for summer). Because my husband has the biggest feet, his shoes tend to take up more than his allotted share of space on the tray. More than once, I’ve commented how Daddy leaves every pair of shoes he owns stacked on that tray, crowding the other family members completely out. One day after I’d dramatically removed Daddy’s shoes from the bin into his closet, Marcus realized that at that moment, he held the majority of pairs placed on the bin. His proud, vociferous exclamation? “Guess who’s crowding the shoe tray now!”

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Marcus loves to build little towns and neighborhoods, be they zoo- or fire station-centered, or mired by road construction. Inevitably, he’ll get the whole thing perfectly arranged, and then either the cat or one of us big, clumsy oafs (a.k.a. adults) will put something askew as we attempt to walk through the room (how dare we). On this occasion, his dad was the instigator, stepping over a bunch of Duplo buildings and causing a couple to be tipped over. The boy’s indignant comment? “Dad, you’re messing up the neighborhood.”

**********

At our most recent restaurant visit, the establishment kept a steady groove of very danceable songs pumping through the sound system. As he polished off a kid-sized pizza, the boy boogied in his booth seat; several other children were doing the same around us. When we finished our meal and exited the restaurant, a light rain was sprinkling. My boy sashayed out the door and, noting the weather development, sang out jauntily, “I can even dance in the rain!”

**********

Often, I blow off steam about things to Todd. One recent rant was based on upcoming church developments, which are heavy on change and even heavier on member involvement at every level. I was blabbing about how the minute a group becomes organized, it assumes the organized group mentality—which means that people become, among other things, either “doers” or “pretty people.” On and on I went to Todd, explaining (in my best the-boy-is-listening-and-may-repeat-what-I-say code) that the doers are the ones who step up and take care of everything, and when folks attempt to convict the beautiful people to get more involved and contribute, they totally miss the message. Or they get the message, and then beat a quick retreat to an exit in order to find another place that appreciates their beauty without expectation. (My friend had a similar concept about workplaces, only she named the players worker bees and delicate geniuses… Yup.) SO, the boy was listening to me going on in my roundabout way, and he interrupted to say, “Mama, what are you talking about?”

I said, “Oh, Honey, I’m talking about how some people do things, and some people get the privilege of just sitting around looking pretty.”

And my quick-witted boy? He replied, “Oh, the pretty people who don’t do anything?”

Yes, those would be the ones.

**********

We were brushing the kid’s teeth. He’d been especially demonstrative that evening, I’m not sure why, and had hugged me several times and proclaimed his fondness aloud. As I supervised his brushing, he removed the brush from his mouth, looked me in the eye, and said sincerely, “I love you so much, I think about you even when I’m…” He paused, to measure his words. “When I’m—not in this house.” It was one of the sweetest moments of my life to date.

**********

I’ll let you decide which of all these quotes is my favorite.

Transitions

This morning? It was much like any morn.
The boy and I, we ate our breakfast meal,
But something new was brewing on this day:
We dressed in nicer clothes, put on our shoes
And hurried out en route to a small school.
The place was bustling—squirmy kids, moms, dads,
And each one headed straight up to the door.
My sweetest boy and I walked hand in hand,
His steps uncertain, brave, determined, and—
A teacher saw us there, called him by name,
Applied a sticker to his little shirt,
And gently took his hand away from mine.
I called to him, “Your photo, don’t forget!”
He took the picture from me, one last look—
Then turned, climbed up the stairs, and went inside.

I swallowed back a big lump in my throat,
And made the long walk to the empty car.

Keeping it all in perspective

It’s Friday. That means garbage pick-up.

It sounds simple enough…but it’s not. We live on a relatively small street that shrinks to a single skinny lane before rolling downhill steeply and turning on a sharp, very square little bend. Our street is also located on the very edge of our township. That means, in most cases, that we are serviced absolutely first or absolutely last.

Our mail? We get it last. Our garbage? The giant vehicles break the dawn to come pick up our refuse and recyclables.

And because the road is so slim at its end point and has that sharp bend, the trucks cannot drive straight through our neighborhood and out the other side; they must treat it as if it were a dead end. Which means that either the trip down or the trip back up must happen with the trucks traveling backwards.

Have you heard these trucks back up? Just like every other huge service truck, they beep, loudly and obnoxiously, for the entire time they’re moving in reverse.

None of this would matter nearly as much if I didn’t have a preschooler who sleeps lighter than a hungry housecat. It would also matter significantly less if that kid were a lazy kid instead of a spry, energetic little sprite who detests rest of all kinds, at all times, and seeks any diversion to rise from his bed.

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The boy is having a nightmare in the early semi-darkness: “Mama, no Mama, I don’t want to go outside.” (Do I force my kid outside? Sometimes. Don’t you? Do yours have nightmares about it?)

I wait a bit, but when it continues I scurry over and pat the child, attempting to soothe him in his half-awake state. “You don’t have to go outside, Honey. It’s okay.” Murmur, murmur, pat, pat.

He begins to breathe deeply, taking in air with his typical snuffly little inhalations. I’m thinking that we’re home free, it’ll be okay. And then.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. Oh, man. And to make matters worse, the recycle truck has shown up first for duty. Therefore, the beeps are punctuated by the repeated sounds of glass and metal being dumped into the side of a large metal bin aside the truck. A festival of clinks and clanks, to say the least. Not a lot of plastic in today’s offerings, from the sound of things.

The boy is awake again, tossing, turning, groaning. I repeat the patting and soothing, murmur some more, and he’s almost sleeping again. Maybe this’ll work.

And then, more beeping. I peek out the window. Oh gee. Here come the garbage men.

I give up. It’ll be an early day here, for everyone. But that’s okay, because all things considered, I’m pretty rich and blessed even at this hour: I have a sweet kid to soothe, he’s in his own room in our home, we have people to come pick up our smelly garbage and take it away, we have garbage for them to take because we actually have the luxury of being able to throw things away… And it’s a lovely morning, the coolest, most comfortable time of a hot day like the one that’s brewing.

Have fun counting your blessings.

Another kid update

Every now and then, when the child is wearing me down with his constant rebellions about everything from when and what to eat down to where I’m permitted to park his Matchbox cars, I need to step away and think of all the very cute and funny things he does daily.

He gets in a mood for hugs and then delivers them generously, usually clutching my legs as I’m standing but sometimes partly strangling my neck when he’s at my level. He’ll say it, too, as he’s moving in for one: “Big hug! I gonna give you big hug!” With his dad, it’s “monster hug” but it looks pretty much the same. Sometimes his stuffed animals hug each other—apparently they all love each other tremendously, regardless of whether they’re friends in the real animal kingdom—so it’s nothing for Mama Polar Bear to seek out a tiny lamb instead of her own baby bear, and hug the sheep for all its worth. Teddy is also quite demonstrative, and the two stuffed kitties are extremely loving as well.

Speaking of Teddy, we’re currently operating on just one bear. The other, the “twin Teddy,” was inadvertently left at my sister’s house on Monday. We didn’t even miss him until the moment she called to tell me what we’d done. But boy, come bedtime, he was severely missed. Tears welled, lower lip pouted out like a shelf, and I had insane but fleeting thoughts of journeying out to get Teddy right at that moment. (Fleeting, like I said… it was after 9:30 pm.) I kept pointing out that we still had one Teddy right here, clutched in the boy’s arms. We even had a lighter colored stand-in Teddy, who looks much cleaner and better preserved but has all the same features as the others. Other Teddy was having a little visit at his cousin’s. He was fine; he was in good hands. None of this made one iota of difference to the child; the logic did not offer any comfort. It never does. Eventually, because he was exhausted, our boy clutched the single Teddy and his Ellie and fell asleep asking, “Why? Why?” As if I, in my terribly finite and flawed brain, could ever address such a monumental query.

(You’ll be happy to know that the next night was easier, and last night, the little trooper didn’t even ask where other Teddy was. No worries: we’ll get him back on Monday. Oh, the stories Other Teddy will have to tell about his big adventure!)

And now back to why: That, you see, is the very favorite utterance of our son. Every single thing I speak is met with, “Why?” Why is it lunchtime? Why must we put Duplos away? Why is it bath night? And why must we go to the store? As all you wiser mom-figures know, answering said “why” does nothing to end the exchange—it only fuels it, thus leading to more and more whys until your head pops off… or something like that.

I wait with bated breath for warmer days, and I hope and pray for a more willing potty training student, soon. Prayers on that front are most welcome!

And mostly, I thank God for this wonderful little person every day.

A funny little exchange with the boy

“Mama, did you drip paint here?” I'm on the floor and he’s sitting in my lap, facing me; he's pointing to my neck. We’ve talked at length about drips of paint, because we’ve had some painting projects of late, and also because the painters who preceded us at this house were rather careless—we’ve found drips in the driveway, in the bathtub, on the bathroom floor, etc. Drips of paint are quite familiar.

“No, honey. What do you mean?”

“Right here?” He touches my neck, and I realize he’s talking about a small mole I have there. “You drip paint here?”

“No, babe. That’s a mole. They grow on your skin.”

“What you hit that on?” He looks concerned; now he thinks it’s a bruise.

“No, honey—it’s a mole. It grew on my skin there. It’s okay, it’s not a bruise.”

He reaches out with his little hand, grabs the thing, and starts twisting it as if to remove it by force. Ouch! “No, Marcus, it doesn’t come off. It’s okay—it can stay there. Look, I’ll show you more of them on me.” I do. Of course I can’t find any on him—his fair skin isn’t even freckled like his dad’s. It’s just creamy smooth flawlessness. And here I am, pocked and marked, sitting before him like a warty frog. The whole conversation makes me giggle, and I tell him, “You’re silly and you make me laugh.” He laughs too, and we hug and then he starts climbing all over me and the offensive mole is forgotten.

I know his skin won’t always look this way. He won’t always mistake a mole for paint, or a little bruise. He won’t always try to twist and rub away my many imperfections with his small hands, although I’m certain he’ll become much more familiar with all of them as he ages and gets to know “everything,” thus realizing his mother's idiocy.

He won’t always be my little boy, on my lap, giggling with me about a mole. And that makes me rather sad.

P.S. I needed to write this today because it’s been a bear of a day. Molars are coming and they’ve temporarily turned the kid into quite a crank-butt. So, it’s nice to recall this moment from a few days ago and remember who I’m really dealing with here.

P.P.S. To any veterans reading this: THANK YOU.