Broken Wing

Little Legs is a dancer now; he taps his toes, wiggles his hips, and shakes to the left and right. Sometimes, he even dances to the beat. He loves Ray Charles and wears sunglasses indoors. He bumps into walls, while bopping along to “Hit the Road, Jack.”

Adorable, yes. Dangerous, maybe.  

He was working on a new move that involved flipping from one side to the other while on the ground, we’ll call it the Fish Flop, when the Flop got out of control, and he landed on his outstretched arm.   

A heart-rending scream and an immediate flood of tears burst forth from the tiny dancer as he held his arm to his chest like a broken wing. It took a few minutes to confirm that this boo-boo was more than a band-aide, a kiss and a popsicle could restore.

The emergency room was at least a seven-hour wait, a few hours too long to only be turned away, as we heard happened to our neighbors. The community urgent care was at capacity for appointments. They graciously told us they were taking walk-ins but expected a minimum of two hours in the waiting room. The pediatric urgent care was the same, the waiting room was spilling over with sick kids (and their germs) with not enough time or staff to see everyone in a reasonable amount of time.  

All the while, Little Legs was crying, “Hurts, hurts, hurts” and holding his arm against his chest.

As parents, Daddy Longlegs and I are similarly yoked in that we would move heaven and earth for our boys. We don’t want them to suffer one unnecessary minute. Yet in this world of Covid, our choices are severely limited in what we can and cannot do to care for them out of sheer availability when it comes to treatment and healthcare.

We aren’t doctors or magicians.

But we are resourceful. And determined.

So, we drove to the next county and went to an after-hours sports injury clinic where the moonlighting foot doctor agreed to see our son for his arm injury and our sweet boy’s arm was set and cast.

Silently, Little Legs watched with wide eyes as the technician wrapped his arm in cotton and then with various layers of cast materials, hardly moving muscle as he allowed his arm to be mummified.

“You should get a treat,” the technician commented on his stoic bravery.

“You have lollipops?” Little Legs asked, blinking several times as he came to life at possibility of sugar.

“You have yellow lollipops?” he continued, very specific and very excited.

“We’ll have to see, but I think we might. Mom, Dad, is it ok?”

“After all this, you have can have all the yellow lollipops that you want,” I declared.

I was grateful for the ability to seek treatment, for the kindness our son was shown and that it was a relatively minor injury compared to some. Still, there remains a persistent irritation that borders on anger/rage for the people filling the chairs and beds in the hospitals and urgent cares that could have been vaccinated or masked to prevent the spread and mutation of Covid, again.

It is for selfish reasons that I write, get the dang shot and wear a mask, so in the future the next little boy with a broken arm can seek treatment and get back to dancing as soon as possible.

Amazing Grace

We were listening to the radio when the announcer began to discuss the terrorist bombing in Afghanistan followed by a soulful rendition of Amazing Grace for the loss of life.

The movement of the song, the tragic deaths and the plight of the Afghan people brought tears to my eyes, the suffering on all sides was suddenly right in our Tennessee home, from over seven thousand miles away.

Baby Brother continued with his work, picking up Play-Doh containers and trying to pry them open. Little Legs, however, stopped peeling and placing stickers on his dump truck.

He looked up and asked, “Mama ok?”

“People died in another country, and it is making me feel sad,” I muddled through an explanation of the events, carefully omitting words like suicide bomber and terrorist.

How does one begin to explain the way of the world to a young and impressionable person? What is too much, too soon, too little, too late? We are still working on things like the alphabet and wearing underwear. Death was only introduced recently after our beta fish, Blue, floated upside down and was flushed to fish-heaven.

Little Legs thoughtfully reflected, “People died.”  

He then repeated this to a random lady at Starbucks, Grandpa on a Google Duo call and then Daddy Longlegs on his lunch break, which brought the conversation, quite literally, back home.

Three Sisters

The day is already hot and muggy with air that is hard to breath. I hope that a storm is on the way to break the heat and drop some water on our pathetic little garden of corn, squash and beans.  

I read about The Three Sisters planting system, credit to Native American wisdom, in which corn is planted first. Once the corn is six inches high, beans are planted, followed by squash a few weeks later. The idea is that each plant supports the others.

Corn is the big sister; she gives structure for the beans to wrap around as well as shade during the hottest part of the season. Beans are the middle sister; she replenishes the lost nitrogen in the soil. Squash is the baby sister, she grows on the ground, trapping moisture in and keeping weeds away from her sisters.

It seemed like the perfect plan. Plant the seeds at the right time, add water and let Mother Nature do the rest.   

Everything sprouted as planned but then, like with children, the siblings began to experience life and misbehave. I suppose the troubles started when the eldest sister was munched on by a passing deer, leaving just a few inches of her stalks. She regrew but was never as strong or developed as her cousins in the fields. By the time she regained her shape and independence, the beans were starting to shoot out tendrils in search of anything on which to climb and grow.

The beans latched onto the still weakened corn and they began to grow upwards together while their baby sister snaked around their bases, littering the ground with orange blossoms the size of a child’s hand.

Today, on inspection of the raised bed garden, contained within its wooden walls and on top of a miserable limestone shelf of grass and thin topsoil, the effects of the sibling rivalry, rather than sibling love, are quite clear. Bean tendrils are wrapped around the corn every few inches, the corn is crippled and choking, leaning over to the side and dangerously low to the ground.

So much for working together. I think of my boys, in constant competition for attention, toys, time and energy. I don’t let them fight without intervention, for the most part, and wonder if the same thought process should apply to the garden. Who am I to intervene, but the gardener who created this mess?    

My inner scientist wants to do nothing, just observe the relationship and see what happens. And the mothering part of me wants to fix it and implement a no-touching, hands/tendrils to yourself policy.

I look back to the early people for guidance and remain unsure on what to do next.

However, I imagine they never would have let things go so wrong.

Strawberry Fields Forever

The rows of strawberries stretched on forever, long ribbons of black and green, with serrated leaves and heart-shaped pops of red. Runners shot out and away from their mothers, landing in the soil between the established plants, and rooting where no berry had ever grown before in an exciting bid for independence.

Dark soil was carefully tilled between the rows in a continual fight against the weeds that desperately wanted the same nutrients, water, and sun as the berry plants. The prickly purple thistle and milkweed and ragweed remained blissfully unaware of their uninvited status as they continued to show up with friends and family only to be pulled and discarded, again and again.

This field was my first place of employment; my brother was my (only) coworker, and our mother was the site supervisor. Begrudgingly, we learned to till and turn the soil, to plant and pick strawberries. We learned how to quiet our minds and settle in to do the work. Quart after quart basket of strawberries passed through my red-stained fingers as I grumbled about the things I would rather be doing.

It wasn’t that the work was hard, it was, in fact, easy to pluck a strawberry from the plant and put it into a basket. The hard part was to do it for an hour and then another hour. It was overcoming the boredom and tedium of doing the exact same thing over and over in the hot Indiana summer sun. I hated every morning that there were strawberries in the field. I prayed for rain and thunder and lightning, especially lightening, if only to strike me with a bolt to end my strawberry picking misery.  

Yet, now when I think of summers growing up, it always starts in the field, wiping the sweat from my brow, feeling the perspiration drip from the tip of my nose and chin and run down my chest. I recall my brother, in one of his protests, selecting a particularly fat and rotten berry, lining up his sights and launching it directly at our mother’s back where it landed with the most perfectly spectacular splat between the straps of her tank top.   

Now, the field is a dumping ground for old construction equipment. The old farmhouse is long gone, burned to the ground, rebuilt without a single bit of the original character. And the strawberry pickers are scattered around the world, left to reminisce about the old days and time spent together.

Old Man Turtle

A toddler sized turtle stared out from inside of the grimy glass. Its shell was battered and worn, a sharp contrast to the shells of its younger tankmates. The other turtles paddled along the top of the water, kicked from the bottom to the surface and crawled onto a rocky ledge to rest.

Two boys stared with mouths agape at the prehistoric looking creature. They shared the same light brown hair and dark eyes of wonder as they observed the turtle. 

“So big,” the older boy said.

“Whoa,” his brother agreed with a solemn nod, a boy of few words.

Their mother hovered nearby, a nervous hen clucking over her chicks, she agreed with her sons.

“I have never seen such an enormous turtle in a tank,” she reflected, excluding all previous trips to the zoo and Ripley’s Believe it or Not Aquarium.  

The turtle was unnatural in the aquarium where tiny, silver fish darted between the other resident turtles, ranging in size from a small pancake to a medium pizza. Old Man Turtle managed to survive the past fifty years of hungry birds, chemical spills, plastic straws and acid rain only to end up wedged between some fake rocks and algae covered glass, literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“Oh no, can’t move. Turtle too big,” the older boy observed.

“Whoa,” his brother seconded his concerns.

Then to everyone’s surprise and delight, Old Man began to move. He stretched one limb and then the other, wiggling his powerful claws as he prepared to leave his nook. He extended his neck, draped in wrinkly skin. He emerged a glorious testament to the years to stand on his back limbs, reaching all the way to break the surface of the water.

He stood there, breathing in air through his royal beakish nostrils, surveying his world and subjects; finding only chickens and turtles, he returned to the water for another long rest.

Finder of Lost Things

Little Legs raced through the house, streaked would be more accurate, as he flashed a full moon along the way.

It was rest time and, clearly, he was not resting.

“Poop,” he yelled as he traveled from his room to the bathroom.

I assumed he was on his way to do his business and felt no rush to jump up.

Our potty-training efforts were finally paying off. Diapers were dry in the morning, and he made it to the bathroom during the day almost every time. I laughed at how much easier life was with one in underwear and thought of Baby Brother’s remaining time in diapers. I considered starting him earlier than his brother, perhaps only by a year or so, if only to save the landfill from another 8,000 diapers.

Little Legs pitter-pattered out to me, interrupting my ruminations, curious why I was not in the bathroom with him.

“Mama, come see,” he encouraged.

First, he led me to the bathroom which was conspicuously free of the fruits of his labor which he was usually so proud to show off.

Interesting.

“Did you flush already?”

“No,” he said.

Very interesting.

He then led me to his room.

“Little potty. Me peed there.”  

“Wow, that is great,” I exclaimed in surprise as he had previously refused to use a potty that he considered “for baby.”

The only problem was the missing turd.

“Pooped in ‘Mater,” he explained.

He pointed to a crumpled pair of underwear covered in characters from the Cars movie and filled with what I could only assume.

Using my xray mama-vision, I knew that all lost things were now found. And that we were definitely still potty-training.   

Sicklings

A fever raged in both boys.

Free of shirts and energy, they rested on their backs, watching cartoons. It could have been a show on watercolor painting or Murders of Tennessee or Sesame Street. I imagine they would have watched with the same dull and uninterested eyes as their bodies fought the same infection.

I was their Leader, shivering and nauseous, smelling of vomit and ready to run back to the bathroom at any time.

We were a gang, bonded and branded by our shared symptoms of misery.

“So what are we doing tonight?” Daddy Longlegs asked failing to read the room.

We turned in unison to look at the perfect image of health who had just entered the room with rosy cheeks and shiny eyes. We made a chorus of sad moans before returning to the screen.

“You’re it,” I jumped up, feeling the sick rising in my throat, and tagged him on my way back to the bathroom.

I am still waiting for the tag back, however hopeful that as partners who share everything, in this, he is left out.