SWOOSH! SLAM! CRASH! THUNK THUNK THUNK!

My six year old just lost control of his controller. Yep, that’s right. The Wii controller that is his golf club just went flying across the room, slamming into the wall and knocking over a small replica of an old Italian abbey, blessed by the Pope himself (according to my mom). 

“WHAT WAS THAT?!” I hiss possibly with fire coming out of my mouth, myself being perched on a tall barstool, attempting to deck my halls with boughs of holly, falalalafreakingla, on the last day before December begins.

“DON’T TELL DADDY!” Ryan emerges from the TV room, eyes wide, controller in hand behind his back.

WHAT?! I think to myself. YOUR FATHER?!  Give me a break. For these are three words that I hear often in my house, from two out of my three speaking children. And Daddy is the least person in this house to flip out! Do you not see the level of rage in my face? My mom brought that back from ITALY, for crying out loud. And by the way, I am up here decorating for the holidays,  have been all day, I do NOT need another shelf to deal with, got it?

But, he’s moved on. Because no matter who is the one to lose their cool faster in this house (me), no matter who is the one to have some illogical meltdown (me), who is the one with the be all, end all threats, empty as they may be (me), it is THEIR FATHER that they seem to fear the most when it comes to doing something they know they weren’t supposed to be doing. Your Dad doesn’t even know what shelf that thing belongs on!  I mutter to myself as I right the abbey in its place, reminding Ryan to please, for the love of God, wrap the Wii wristbands around your hands so you don’t put a hole in the tv!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! SWAAAHHHSH, goes the dragon’s breath from my mouth!

Who knows if he understands because he’s got a hot game of Wii golf going on and his mother yelling at him is just another day in the park, deaf ears activated.

I have no answers to this, none. I have an image of the house burning down and as I’m scrambling to save all of us plus the dining room table, my children saying “Don’t tell Daddy!” and handing me the matches to hide.

Yesterday morning, a close friend of mine called and asked if I’d like to go do something with her and her two daughters.  Since yesterday was my sixth day of vacation, and the girls had run out of things to break, toys to fight over,  games to play and hair to pull, I couldn’t get us dressed and out of the house fast enough (as usual, the remaining clothing was put on in the car).  My friend and I decided to head to the Houston Zoo, as we hadn’t visited in over a year and we used to go regularly when our four girls were little.  In fact, our younger daughters celebrated their first birthdays there (they are born a day apart), so it’s practically a tradition.

I couldn’t help but get emotional about how much the girls had grown since we first took them years ago.  (Well, I get emotional about greeting card commercials, so that’s not saying much).  My friend and I marvelled about not only how much the girls have grown, but how drastically the trip logistics have changed.  My heart brims with happiness when we walk in carrying merely a purse and a camera, compared to how much baggage we had to heft back then.  Those Mt. Everest climbers had nothing on us (and they had Sherpas!)!  Extreme mountaineers didn’t have to pack wet wipes, favorite binkys and blankeys, extra formula or breast milk in a temperature-regulated pack, several diapers (the exact number of diapers determine by polynomial algorithms and geometric equations calculated to not overfill the bag, but also account for our children’s bowel cycles, then multiply by the distance to-and-from our targeted destination), spare clothes for when the diapers didn’t work so well (ALWAYS in public), non-messy, healthy snacks that are color-coordinated with the kids’ outfits, non-staining sugar-free drinks in environmentally safe boxes, cameras, video-cameras, spare batteries, scented bags to hold soiled clothing till we got home, books, crayons, toys, bug spray, sunscreen, tissues, medication, spare axle for the stroller, etc. 

In fact, now that I think about it, those mountaineers had it EASY.  They were going someplace cool, quiet, with perhaps a storm or some ice to worry about. 

Wusses.

My friend and I also marvelled over the fact that we now can linger at each exhibit, and actually learn about the animals, instead of hollering “YESthoseareBIGelephantssweetiequitpokingyoursister” as we pushed our expedition-in-a-diaperbag-laden strollers at top speeds.  On the contrary, this trip our girls were engaged, interested and their commentary was priceless; Eva stated matter-of-factly that the elephant house smells just like her brother’s room, all four girls ‘ewwwwwed’ at a proudly-pooping giraffe, and they chortled merrily when a baby Galapagos Tortoise attempted to bite off their wormy fingers through the glass. 

Yesterday we wandered the zoo grounds for almost four hours, and only hit the restroom once.  How far we’ve come from those days when we’d pitifully surrender after a mere 53 minutes.  We’d wave our white flags, simpering while all four girls were in full wail, trying to ignore the child fingering something she picked up from the petting zoo, and everyone is sticky.  We’d then carry (the stroller was too full) our whiney, tired, smelly children past the lions, tigers and bears (who looked upon us with pity), through the turnstiles, hop over the surface-of-the-sun parking lot, pour ourselves into volcanic vehicles, and then give ragged sighs of relief as the kids passed out cold the moment the tires hit the pavement. 

Ahhh, sweet memories. 

Of course, our most recent trip to the zoo wasn’t all roses.  I still had to carry my tired, 50+ pound 4-year-old over what felt like 14 miles (I need a Sherpa!!!!).  We placated some mini-tantrums, put a stop to bickering, and got sticky from eating ice cream.  In comparison to years ago it was a walk in the park.  Make that, a walk in the park without the baggage.

It’s 10 am on a Sunday morning.  The phone rings.  All seven  pairs of ears in the house hear the ring, and then the next, and then the next but nobody moves to answer it.  A year ago, before the kids all got their own cell phones, there would have been a mad dash to get the phone and either intercept or prevent interception of a friend’s call.  This morning the phone rang 6 times without reaction before my husband came upstairs and announced with great exaggeration ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it!’

It was my friend.  Steve made small talk with her then made some reference to ‘getting him up’ and hung up.  My friend called my house and didn’t even say ‘hi’ to me.  Feeling a little stood up, I inquired as to why she called.

‘She wants to borrow the boys.’

When my kids were little, our family was like an outcast of most social circles.  It wasn’t because my kids were bad, their manners outside of the confines of our house were impeccable.  People would sincerely comment on how well behaved they were.  No, it was the sheer number of bodies in our family.  7 people, even if most of them were miniature people, was still a small crowd and could quickly fill up a house leaving little room for other guests.  Now that my kids are bigger though, the calls are frequent.

‘Can Becca babysit on Saturday?  Oh, she’s busy?  Well, what about Rachel?’

‘Can I borrow the boys to help me move?’

I borrow milk from the neighbors.  I even borrow sugar and eggs, and once I even borrowed a lawn mower when we still had live grass in the yard.  I have several of their pots, pans and serving containers that I’m sure they still miss.  I wouldn’t think unkindly of them if they were to forget to return the boys to me.  Unfortunately my friends and neighbors are all the conscientious type who always return what they borrow. 

There’s got to be an easier way to getting these birds to leave the nest.

Two years ago, my husband’s family came to spend Christmas with us here in Colorado.  To say I was a little stressed out before they arrived would be like saying childbirth is a little bit uncomfortable.  I spent the 32 hours before they walked in the door scrubbing, vacuuming and attempting to create a four-star hotel inside the more humble walls of this home.  I rearranged the linen closet into neat, color-coordinated piles.  My pantry, after about two hours of weeding, washing and sorting, gleamed in neat rows, arranged by food group, frequency of use and color.  I spent more time then I care to confess cleaning under my own bed, as though there was even a remote possibility that someone would crawl under there for a peek.  I stocked each bathroom with toiletries and extra toothbrushes and had fits of despair over the high-traffic stains on the carpet.  I bought celery.  Just in case someone had a craving. 

It could happen.

All this energetic trauma might suggest that I have in-laws like something out of a bad Ben Stiller movie.  But it’s not even close to true.  I can easily call my sister-in-law one of my closest friends despite the geographic distance between us. My father-in-law is a relaxed man far more interested in teasing Kurt than in any potential dust bunnies behind the couch.  The kids are hilarious together, guaranteed to leave a trail of disaster behind them as they run screaming through the house like little Huns armed with handfuls of crackers. 

It’s actually the fact that I like them so much that throws me into a frenzy of housekeeping.  I want to be impressive.  I want to measure up.  I’d like to be able to say, with totally false assurance, “Sure, we’ve got a jar of homemade honey butter right here, it’ll go nicely with the freshly baked cinnamon rolls I’m just pulling out of the oven.”  (Note to self- find local bakery for which to take credit)

This year, I am determined to relax, even if I have to take a Happy Pill or three to do it.  They arrive next week for an early Christmas and I haven’t even started on the pantry yet.  Instead of working myself up into a full froth of panic, tooth-brushing all the grout and floorboards, I’ve relinquished the heavy cleaning to a local housekeeper.   On a more intimate level though, I’m trying to embrace the idea that, maybe, I have nothing to prove.  We’re family, not just in theory, but by choice and that counts for more than a lot.  We don’t have to be close, but we are.  It’s been a harrowing year on all sides, but no one has been anything but kind, loving and optimistic.  My admiration has nothing to do with my sister-in-law’s amazing breakfast skills-though I certainly admire them- but instead with her strength of spirit.  As for me, I’m hopeful the support they’ve shown me is more about love than the pristine state of my closets or well-stocked freezer. 

Or celery.  (Though I can’t lie- it’s still on my grocery list.  You never know!)

Please read this story.  Yes, I wrote it for the University of Denver Magazine, but I want you to read it because of a mom and her son… two of the most courageous people I know.

Saving Seph:

http://www.du.edu/magazine/archive/2008/04/index.html

Click “Read More.”