Plant Happiness

I walked into the hallway to see the boy sized dump truck parked on the rug with green tendrils reaching over the sides of the back of the truck.

Someone had planted a houseplant in the bed of the truck.

“Little Legs!” I said to myself.

I was able to easily rule out Baby Brother as the guilty party because he was only interested in moving tiny cars around the house.  

Little Legs, however, was a committed indoor plant gardener and had started relocating plants based on where he thought they would be happiest.

To that end, Daddy Longlegs found a plant in his bed the previous night.

“His plants do look good,” Daddy Longlegs said when I complained about the constant moving of plants.  

“Maybe he’s onto something?”

“You might be right, but I draw the line at taking the plants into bed.”  

“Good luck with that,” Daddy Longlegs said.

We laughed, both of us knowing that the plants would continue to appear where they would be happiest.

Biking with Boys

We loaded the bikes into the back of my Honda and took off for the park.

The boys were so excited to hit the trail, I had to hold them back.

“Safety first,” I said and clipped each of their Paw Patrol helmets under their chins with a snap.

Baby Brother had just graduated from a tricycle to a shiny red bike with training wheels. Little Legs had been on a big-boy bike for a while and rode to the trail head with ease on his bright green bike.

The day was perfect, sunny and cooler than it had been all summer.

“What a great day, guys,” I said to the wind as my companions raced ahead of me.

“Later gator,” Little Legs said with a burst of speed.

“Later gator,” Baby Brother said swerving around his brother and pulling ahead as they both began to coast downhill.

The wheels turned faster and faster.

Little Leg’s brakes squeaked as he slowed and followed the curve in the path.

Baby Brother rolled past him screaming, “Help, help, help,” with both legs straight out from the sides of the bike.

“Hit the brakes! Use your feet to hit the brakes!”

“I can’t stop,” Baby Brother said leaving the path in a straight line.  

The grass and bumpy ground slowed the terrified boy down as I sprinted to him faster than I’ve ever run in the past.

“Brake, brake, brake!” I shouted.  

He collided into a wooden fence without ever once touching his brakes. The fence was the only thing stopping him from rolling into the river where he would quickly be reminded that he couldn’t swim.

I reached him within a second and helped him climb off his bike.

“That was fast,” he said and grinned up at me, blissfully unaware of the alternative outcomes that I envisioned.  

Accidents happen within the blink of an eye and even with the best preparations, things still happen that no one could foresee. They are unexpected and unintentional learning opportunities for growth.

We learned a few things, mostly that Baby Brother needs to practice braking. Helmets are great but won’t stop someone from running into a fence and then the river. And that Baby Brother has no fear. He hopped right back on his bike to finish the trail, which was short and flat from there on out.

Thankfully, we get to live and learn another day.

Forgive and Forget

“I’m mad at Daddy,” Little Legs declared from the backseat.

“I’m mad at Daddy,” Baby Brother parroted.

 “Stop saying what I’m saying,” Little Legs said.

“Stop saying what I’m saying,” Baby Brother repeated.

As any normal sibling, he lived to irritate his brother. It was an all-too-familiar feeling that I remembered from my childhood. There was no satisfaction like getting under the skin of someone with whom you had to share everything. It was a joy that was all yours.

“Guys, knock it off,” I intervened.

“Now tell me, why are you mad at Daddy?”

“He wouldn’t let us sleep in your bed.”

I laughed, they had indeed been sent away when they tried to gain access, one after the other.

“I’m scared,” Little Legs started the campaign.

“You have to sleep in your own bed,” I said.

“You’re horrible,” he said and ran crying from the room.

He was quietly replaced.

“I’m thirsty, Mommy,” Baby Brother appeared from out of nowhere, smacking his lips.

“Go back to bed,” I said, giving him my bottle of water.  

“Please, I’m scared,” Baby Brother said in a desperate attempt.

I knew this ploy, it worked almost every other time.

“No, go back to bed.”

Suddenly, they were both back, crawling into bed. It was a little-boy-takeover and they weren’t taking no for an answer. Somehow, through all of this, Daddy Longlegs continued to slumber, getting his beauty rest until one cold little foot reached his side of the bed.

He sprang to life, growling like a bear, “Boys, get to bed.”

They were off, falling over their own feet in their haste to escape. I felt terrible, what if they were scared and it wasn’t one of their tricks, and while I considered the possibilities, I drifted back to Dreamland. In the morning, I discovered our slate had been wiped clean. All was forgiven and forgotten. 

Almost everything.

Ashes in her mouth

When the dog found out the news, she was overjoyed.

Another human that would throw the ball, give pats and drop snacks was going to join the family in a few months.

What could be better?

On the topic of snacks, she most appreciated when hotdogs and meatballs rolled in her direction. She assumed that another person in the house meant even more hotdogs and meatballs would soon be hitting the floor and into her open mouth.

In the meantime, she was an ambitious animal and wasn’t above taking the initiative to make good (and tasty) things happen for herself.  

Fortune favors the bold and all that; it doesn’t just apply to bi-peds.

Many nights when the snack giving was not up to her standards, she popped up on her powerful hind legs and snatched extras from the littlest one’s plate. Never from the plate of one of the big humans, she had a sense that would not end well for her.

Once she made her move, it involved yelling from a full-sized person, crying from the littlest one and getting kicked outside “to think about what happened.”

Not that it made a difference or a lasting impression.

By the next dinner, everyone forgot the hairy menace that sat patiently waiting for an opportunity at the easy pickings. The process was like taking candy from a baby, which is exactly what she planned to do in March.

She could barely wait.

Poor Coco, she had no idea of the plight of a dog in a house with a baby.

Already, last to get any extra attention, she was about to move down another rung of the needs-that-are-quickly-met ladder. It wasn’t fair, she had seniority over anyone new with a tenure of several years. Yet, none of that would matter in seven months.

Woe is the sad life of a hopeful dog.

Love can be a subtle alchemy.

“Did you hear the storm last night?” I asked.

The boy in front of me slurped milk and studied the back of the cereal box.

“I dreamed about the storm,” he finally replied.

“Oh, that’s interesting. Maybe you heard it in your sleep and it became a part of your dreams?”

“No, I dreamed about it and that’s why it happened,” he explained.

Who was I to fight this argument?

Maybe the power of a four-year-old’s dream was enough to seed a storm and make all other sorts of wonderful and beautiful things happen. And if that’s the case, what about equally terrifying things that he might bring about?

Dinosaurs everywhere. The floor is hot lava. Lemonade flowing from drinking fountains.

No, it’s all a bit much, but I can’t crush the magic of his belief system (or challenge the belief system of his magic).

My tiny wizard.

Drummers Gotta Drum

Little Legs drummed on the table with metal spoons. “Shhhh…” I hushed and pointed at the phone in my hand. This had the same effect as screaming underwater. I reached over, placing one hand on top of his, to still the fast-moving spoons, “Please stop, I can’t hear,” I said. He nodded in cooperation. I assumed it was from the power of the magic word, please, and the drumming stopped; the air was filled with sweet silence, for about three seconds. “Drummy, drum, drum,” he now sang with his spoons, redoubled in his zest for the work.He has a really lovely voice, clear and bright, and his spoons really did tap out a catchy rhythm. The problem was the timing. I was trying to set up an appointment of one kind or another and couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the phone because of the beautiful music.Then the ‘monkey see, monkey do’ effect took place.Baby Brother walked over to his brother, placed his hand on his brother’s hand and said, “Shhh…mama says it’s too loud.” I was surprised that Baby Brother was paying attention and tried the same technique, in the same gentle way, that he had observed. I thought with pride, they’re going to make it in life. One way or another.   What happened next should already be clear, but I’ll share anyways. Little Legs whacked his brother with a spoon. Baby Brother became the drum. And then, Baby Brother became the drummer when he stole a spoon and whacked Little Legs in return.Everyone cried and recovered without another thought to the fight, as it was one of many throughout the day. There was just one remaining problem; I was still down two spoons, apparently carried off by a pair of drummers.  

Catching Pests

A giant, fuzzy wolf spider made a heroic attempt to enter our house.

When I squashed it with my husband’s nearby Croc, I realized she had a good reason to try to find a safe and dry place.  Or rather, about 800 reasons.

The squash sent hundreds of baby wolf spiders running in every direction, including into my nightmares for the next week.

I learned that wolfies, as I will affectionately refer to them, carry their eggs and then their young until they are big enough to fend for themselves.

It makes me shiver to remember the mass exodus of spiderlings spreading out over the pavement, like an end of days flood, reaching everywhere at once.

My mom was visiting at the time and casually asked the next morning, “What was all the fuss about last night?”

If only you knew, I thought. I wanted to protect her from the mental image of the swarm.   

“Just a little spider situation.”

Naturally, Daddy Longlegs put out about fifty sticky glue traps to catch any of the runners that made it over the threshold before I screamed and slammed the door.

And just as naturally, we caught some things over the following days.

I just never imagined the pests would be so big, as in 40lbs and three feet tall.

I heard Daddy Legs say, “Why would you put your fingers in there? Now you are both stuck.”

And I knew, we caught the boys.

“What happened?” I asked even though it was obvious with each boy attached to his own sticky glue trap.

“Well, Baby Brother put his fingers into a trap and then Little Legs put his fingers into a trap and now they are both stuck.”  

Clearly, the traps work just as well at catching pests as curious, little boys who are up past their bedtime.

From the Mouths of Babes

We finished with a hike and were sitting outside enjoying cold treats. Baby Brother had a push-up pop, Little Legs had an ice-cream cookie sandwich, and I had a sensible fruit popsicle.

“Let me have a bite,” Little Legs said.

“Let me have a bite,” Baby Brother said.

“No way,” I teased already knowing that I was about to lose at least half of my popsicle.

“Give me a bite of yours and you can have a bite of mine,” I offered.

The deals were accepted. I got a nibble of a cookie and a slurp of the push-up pop and they both took giant bites of the quickly disappearing strawberry popsicle.

“Hey,” I said.

They laughed and returned to work on their own treats.

Baby Brother was wiping away his orange sherbet goatee and his brother started to whirl around, powered by sugar, when an old blue car rolled past us.

The back windows were filled with boxes, blankets, clothes, hats and old food containers. A beast dog with an enormous mouth and sagging jowls sat in the passenger seat while a scruffy looking guy steered the car to the edge of the lot.

I watched the man step out of the car and his dog haphazardly followed, sniffing and peeing every few steps. The man lit a cigarette and held it between his fingers.

“C’mon,” he said over his shoulder, not paying attention to Beast-dog, that was romping through the curated garden of early Spring flowers.  

I grabbed my still-spinning son and pulled him closer. Baby Brother was still at the table, pushing the push-up pop with all his might. If you ask him to show you his muscles, he will point to his elbow, which is obviously where strong boys keep their strength hidden away. Elbow power for the win.

I was preparing for a few different scenarios. The first thing that came to my mind was that Beast-dog got away from his unconcerned owner and attacked one of the boys. The next thing was that the dog’s owner did some lewd act or asked for something. The absolute last possibility was what actually happened.

Baby Brother locked eyes with the man.

“Hi,” Baby Brother said with a wave.

“Hey, small dude,” the man replied.

“You want some?” Baby Brother asked, offering his push-up pop and all the genuine kindness of a two-year-old.   

The man stopped and considered the offer with all the seriousness of an adult man who was just offered a mostly eaten push-up pop.  

“Nah, you eat it,” he said.

“We don’t talk to strangers,” Little Legs whispered.  

“I know, buddy, it’s confusing, Baby Brother is still learning.”

And I really have no clear way to explain it. We don’t talk to strangers, but sometimes we do. And we shouldn’t judge others by how they dress or present themselves, but sometimes we do. There are so many exceptions to these rules of how to stay safe and be a good person.

I don’t want to crush that sweet spirit of sharing and caring, but more than that, I don’t want my son sharing ice-cream with a homeless guy at the park. So, I guess that’s the starting point for our conversation.      

Boy Versus Cat

Hiss.

Scream.

Running feet.

Before me, Baby Brother appears with blood dripping from his face and hands.

He cries and holds his arms out for comfort.  

My brain is unable to process the scene, it is temporarily out of service and off-line.

“Little Legs, what happened?”

I demand an explanation from the most likely guilty culprit. I assume, wrongly, that Little Legs smashed his brother in the face with something heavy.

“Bad tat,” Baby Brother says between sobs.

He speaks for himself now.

“Tat scratched me hard.”  

Little Legs casually walks into the kitchen where his brother’s blood continues to drip and spill to the floor.

“The cat did it, not me,” he says with a shrug.

Apparently, he has become a cool-guy teenager at age four.

Next, the cat slinks into the room, sits and disinterestedly watches the humans of the house.

I gather myself and with a deep breath step into action, wiping the blood from my son’s face revealing a deep slice between his lip and nose.

We don’t need an ambulance, but this is beyond the power of a glob of Neosporin and a Paw-Patrol band-aid to treat.  

I call Daddy Longlegs for help locating the nearest urgent care with the shortest wait time and begin the process of peeling the bloody mess of a shirt from the still crying Baby Brother, getting socks and shoes on both boys and heading out the door for Destinations Unknown.

How did it all turn out?

Baby Brother got two stitches and now has a terrific scar about which he can brag of a knife fight or cat attack when he is older. His brother got a lollipop for being so patient. And the cat, well, she got a new home. Somewhere far away between here and there.  

Judgement Day (or everyday for parents in public)

As a parent, I feel I am always being observed by other parents, grandparents, non-parents and even dog-parents. While everyone seems to have an opinion on the correct way to care for and raise a child, they really have an opinion on the things not to do in childrearing. Topics like co-sleeping, bottle vs breast-feeding and spanking vs gentle parenting come to the top of my mind.

These spectators/parenting experts feel most called to share their thoughts based off a single moment like when the boys have been picking on each other all day until one grows tired of it and shoves the other. The onlooker only sees the shove, the moment of crisis, and makes the judgement about a lack of discipline, too much screen time or the need for more religion in a heathen world. Remember, we are in the South.  

Helpful, not really.

This weekend, we went to a Fall Fest at a winery. There was a face painter, activities for the kids, booths of junk, food trucks and, of course, wine. After the boys bounced out of their socks and shoes in the bounce house, we bought a jar of salsa, checked out the knick-knacks and retreated from the hot sun with water for the boys and wine for us.

Two well-dressed family sets walked past us, the women pushed strollers and tugged on toddler’s hands while the men brought up the rear.

A man in a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt watched them from a nearby table with a nearly empty wine bottle in front of him. He said loudly to no one in particular, “Yee-haw. One has the fan on the baby and the other has the fan on herself. Makes you wonder which one is the better mom.”

Everyone who heard the man gasped and asked the nearest adult for clarification, “Did he really just say that?”

Somehow the only people who didn’t hear the man were the mothers as they continued pushing their strollers and tugging on their toddlers.  

Daddy Longlegs and I looked at each other and whispered, “Hillbillies.”  

While the hillbilly was offensive, he brought up an interesting question about self-preservation and self-sacrifice, which one makes for a better mother? Its something that each parent should decide for their family. One thing is for certain, moms don’t need judgement. We get enough comments and side eyes from the outside world, not to mention the criticism that generates from our own heads and hearts about what we should or should not be doing.

We need support and understanding. And some of us need fans.