How to Motivate Maniacs

Two hikers raced past me down the paved trail. They were small boys with dirty blond hair and scabbed over knees. Their dusty, black, Velcro-d New Balance tennis shoes pounded the pavement in unison, differentiated only by the size and the worn heels of the smaller, now twice used pair.

“Red light,” I yelled.

I grabbed my bag to prevent it from bouncing my keys out and ran after the maniacs.

“Red light, yellow light, red light,” I yelled.

They laughed in their temporary state of deafness and ran around a blind curve, accelerating as they went downhill.

I imagined one tripping and rolling down the side of the forested hill or the other slamming into an unsuspecting person on a nature stroll.

Clearly, the light system was not working.  I would have to work with the maintenance department for a reset but in the meantime, I had to put the brakes on the situation.

“Stop,” I screamed.

It was a futile use of my vocal cords.

I assumed they would eventually run out of gas or steam or whatever mysterious energy force gave little boys who refused to eat full meals the energy to still have the zoomies. Yet, I also knew that the chance for mishap was quite high at any point before they petered out and wanted to intervene before the expected accident.

If its expected, is it still an accident when objects collide? Does it become Fate or destiny? Perhaps that is a question better directed to an insurance claims adjuster or someone in the ministry.   

As I continued to consider the possibilities, two older women with grey, curly hair and hiking sticks watched the spectacle as we emerged from around the bend.

“Do you want us to help catch them?” one offered.

She stuck her stick out, indicating her plan to trip or whack them, whichever came first and was easier.

What could I do but laugh? The old stick method was sure to bring the critters to a screeching halt, but it felt wrong to allow strangers to break their high spirits or to use such serious means to an inconsequential end.

“No, thanks. Maybe another day,” I said as I raced past keeping the duo in my sight.

They retired to a bench for a bench break and waited patiently like they hadn’t just gone full racehorse on their old workhorse of a mother.

“Guys, we have to work on listening better.”

I explained that they needed to stay close for safety reasons, obviously, I used the example of a bear or a bobcat grabbing them and taking them into a cave. After that, they stuck around, and we finished the excursion with minimal accidents.   

No tripping, whacking, or yelling needed, just the mention of a wild animal carrying one of them off and they were back on track.      

The Power of A Lifesaver

“If you listen and follow me, then I will give it to you,” I said.

We were in a parking lot, at the edge of a wooded area with a short and shaded trail. It should have been perfect for my young hikers who were already protesting exercise in the heat.

I held a single wrapped, green lifesaver.

“I promise, just give me that green thing,” Little Legs begged.

Baby Brother raised his arms up, “Mine.”

It was impossible to promise the candy to one boy and not the other, so I renegotiated the conditions.

“If you both listen and follow me, then I will break this in half, and you can each have a piece.”

Surprisingly, they both nodded in equal agreement.

Inwardly, I laughed as the ease of the negotiation. All I needed was a pack of lifesavers and I could motivate my sons to do anything. I thought we could tackle a trip to Kohl’s, visit their great-grandparents and maybe even get some yard work done.

We set off on our walk, three brave explorers filled with the promise of candy and good behavior, which lasted about one minute before they began their end-the-walk initiative by alternately crying and sitting on the path, refusing to take another step, like two stubborn, coordinated mules.  

No one got the lifesaver.  

Great Snips

A skinny woman in an outfit of all black ushered the boy through the salon to an adjustable chair. She tapped a silver lever near the base with the tip of her tennis shoe. The chair eased down closer to the ground, while a blurry snake tattooed on her ankle wrapped its way around her leg.

“Climb on up there,” she said to the boy.

“Its too high,” the boy said as he clamored onto the seat, one limb at a time.

“What are we doing today, mom?” the stylist asked.

“Let’s go a little shorter than usual,” the mother said from behind the chair.

 Nodding her head, the stylist ran her fingers through the boy’s hair. 

“And then I get a lollypop,” the boy said.

The stylist shook the folds out of a crinkly cape and snapped it at the back of the boy’s sun-browned neck.

“If your mom says its ok,” the stylist said.

“She says its ok,” the boy said without a moment of hesitation.

He stuck his tongue out at the reflection of his mother in the mirror and turned to his own countenance, admiring the shaggy brown hair as it edged into his eyes and over his ears unaware as a wooly lamb that he was about to be sheared.

He Who Needs No Introduction

A man knocked on the door. His camel-colored company shirt had many, possibly too many, pockets. How many matchbox cars could fit into those pockets? I wondered in my toddler-boy-brain conditioned state.

The name “Brad” was stitched on his shirt, right over his heart. Shaggy, brown hair was pulled back from his face with a grungy bandana. In one hand, he held a black nozzle which was connected to a round, silver container on the ground.

“I’m Brad, bug guy. You want me to start on the inside?” he asked.    

Here was a man who needed no introduction, yet he gave one.  

And while the contents of his container were to remain a mystery, his mission was clear.  

He was there for the bugs. No dilly. No dally. And certainly, no small talk.