The Sound of Silence

Now that Sam has finished kindergarten he is riding with me to his former day care for its summer program. I think it was a wise decision ... He is with his best friend Garrett and has already made a couple of new friends, and the program is so chock full of activities, I'm envious.

I was also looking forward to spending the time with Sam. It's about a 40-minute drive to my office so I pictured us engaged in delightful, witty conversation to and from school.

But getting Sam to talk about his day has proven more difficult. I shouldn't be surprised, if memory serves. But I thought that a 6-year-old would have more to talk about. I try open-ended questions: What did you have for lunch? Who did you sit with on the bus? But more often that not, I am getting inaudible, incoherent responses.

So I thought I would buy a couple of books on tape, something he and I could listen to during the ride. First of all it is hard to find books on tape that are appropriate for young ears. Secondly, books on tape aren't cheap. And thirdly, books on tape suck. Granted I did get The Lord of the Rings, which isn't exactly simple, but I figured if I couldn't follow the story, neither could he.

Yesterday I tried something else.

"Sam, you want to play association?"

"What is it?"

"I'll say a word and you say the first word that comes to mind, then I'll say the first word that comes to my mind."

"I don't get it."

"Let's just try. You say any word."

"Truck."

"Okay, that makes me think car. What does car make you think of?"

"Truck."

So much for association.

Jacob Romine, CIA

Little Jakey woke with a bright, smiley, sleepy face, saw a ball that Abby was carrying and spent the next 30 minutes screaming, throwing toys, teasing Abby and generally making our morning delightful.

After I'd found Abby three other balls to play with, she happily handed 'the' ball over to Jake, who sat down and ate his pancakes as if none of it had happened.

"Mommy, don't be mad," he said.

"I'm not mad."

"Yes you are. Your eyebrows are still mad."

Learning

Last night while I was making dinner Sam brought me a Star Wars action figure and asked me to remove the head. It seems he'd put Obi Wan's head on a Stormtrooper's body.

"I don't think I can get this off Sam. It's really stuck."

"Dad was able to do it. You should be able to do it."

This added to my growing level of frustration. It was 6:30, dinner was no where near ready, Abby was literally pulling at my skirt, and I was starving but wouldn't be eating the hot dogs I was fixing. But after a couple of twists and turns Obi Wan's head popped off the Stormtrooper and I put it back on his body.

"There you go Sam. Fixed."

"Thanks Mom. You're not just good looking ..."

Thanks Sam.

Wild Ride

If you ever question the innate maternal instinct or wonder to what lengths a mother will go to to protect her cub, consider this:

I fell down a flight of stairs last night with Abby in my arms. And although I was sliding head first, kind of like a kid on a slip 'n' slide, I managed to keep her lifted high above me like a tray of fine china.

I shed a few tears, mostly out of embarrassment and anger. Despite the 'thumpitythumpitythumpity' that comes with a spill down the stairs, the only reaction I got from my family was "What's going on in there?"

But I think I actually heard Abby yell "WHEEEEEEE."

Sunday Best

I don't like Sundays.

I like church - it is my weekly vaccination against self-pity, and truthfully, I can feel it wearing off toward the end of the week. Despite the uplift I get, it does seem counterproductive that in order to get out the door by 9:30, we are yelling and screaming and usually someone is crying.

Then usually we don't get home until close to 2. Like the Sunday dinner tradition of years past, we go out to eat, rotating between Cafe Express, Hunky's, Jake's and Potbelly, in the hopes they will have forgotten about us by the next time we visit. So when we get home, everyone is full, tired and these days, hot.

There's the post-church lull, a combination of boredom and restlessness. I rarely change out my church clothes. To do so would be like resigning myself to the fact that the best part of the day could be over. The kids are out of sorts and at at time when we'd really like them to play quietly or nap, they are at their most rowdy.

Today was such a day. Sam was punching and Jake was crying before we'd even made it into the house.

"Look you guys. It's Sunday. Free play all day. No school. You can play or watch TV or swim. Stay inside. Go outside. The world is your oyster. So let's really try to have no screaming, no fighting, no kicking, no punching, no yelling. no tattling." (You really have to be exhaustive or someone will get karate-chopped in the larynx and then you'll hear "You didn't say we couldn't karate chop.")

To drive the point home I said, "You know, it makes me not want to be here. When you guys can't get along, I wish I was someplace else."

"Like Las Vegas?" Sam asked.

"Yes, now that you mention it, Las Vegas would be nice."

But, to take inspiration from church, God works in mysterious ways. And just when I'd thought I might grab the nearest bottle of wine and lock myself in the bedroom, our angelic neighbors, Blackie and Cathy Ann, took the boys to a neighborhood picnic. When they returned several hours later, they offered to let the boys play at their house.

I'll go ahead and say it, there are times I just wish I could sit down and read the paper without the boys fighting or Abby pulling the cats' tails. But after a few hours of quiet, when you've had time to fold some laundry, empty the dishwasher and return all the Lego Star Wars to the right place, your body and soul feel a little better. And a little more prepared to deal with the rest of it.