I had already pushed my luck and stayed up later than I should have. Just as I was drifting off to sleep sometime after midnight a little voice cried out, “Mommy!” I hopped out of bed to discover my third born quietly crying in the bathroom. He was tired, hot, and the light was “too bright”. I comforted him and tucked him back into bed only to be beckoned once again a mere twenty minutes later with more tears.
This good-natured almost-five-year-old rarely complains. I did my best to find out what was bothering him and then he drifted back to sleep. This is where is all becomes fuzzy. At some point in the wee hours of the morning he succumbed to a stomach bug. My Bearded Husband and I agreed long ago that this clean-up was my department (don’t worry, he takes care of vermin and clogged drains) so he sweetly asked me for help when he discovered our boy covered in sick. It always amazes me how I can be yanked from a deep sleep and jump into decisive and efficient action. Not bragging, I’m really surprised at myself every time. I cannot recall how often this scenario repeated, but by 6AM I knew I would not be able to be an effective (or pleasant) teacher with so little sleep and a potential conduit of “bleh” coursing through my body. I called in my last remaining Family Care day.
Was up most of the night with a 4YO and the stomach flu. Come and get me, zombies. I won't put up a fight.
When I got up for the first time that day (or was it last? I was so confused) my body cried out at the injustice. I tense up whenever one of the boy is sick so my entire upper back was knotted and turning my head was a challenge (just stay out of my peripheral vision boys and the world is your oyster today). I had that queasy feeling you get from pulling all-nighters, but those supply notes weren’t going to write themselves. In fact, I wrote them twice. Once for the wrong day, and once for the correct one.
We muddled through the start of our day surprisingly well. My little guy kept down his toast and ginger ale and seemed to be on the mend. Mid-morning, however, he had that drained and pasty look and told me he was cold. Nothing a good cuddle couldn’t fix, right?
He’s a twitchy sleeper, that one.
I gladly wrapped my arms around my boy and we sat quietly on the couch together looking at the family portraits on the wall. “I wish I was sick every day so then I could always get to have pop,” he told me just moments before he drifted off to sleep. On my lap. Curled up and snoring. That hasn’t happened in at least three years. My neck started to ache, my left foot fell asleep and I had an itch I couldn’t reach because my arm was pinned under my boy who all too soon will turn five.
And it was completely worth it.
Celebrating all of you who are the special someone to someone little. Or big.
I cannot name the hometown of grandmother. I don’t know the names of my great-grandparents. I could not tell you how many siblings my grandpa had. Those people are insignificant, too. Yet without them, I would not be here. They are insignificant, but important.
There are four young boys who call me “Mommy” and I matter to them. My attitude, choices, and example influence theirs. But their grandchildren will think of me in passing, if at all.
Every day I interact with more than two hundred students in my role as teacher. I matter to them, but their own children will not hear about that teacher who held their hand when they were scared or helped them learn to be a friend. I matter, but I’m insignificant.
I am insignificant, but important, influential. I will leave a legacy. We all will.
What will that legacy be?
Opa dancing on the back deck with his granddaughters creates memories of fun and silliness. Don’t take yourself too seriously.
Fishing trips with Dad let you know that a favourite pastime is better when shared with someone you love. Relationships matter.
Being ridiculous and crazy and uninhibited with your children teaches that life is to be lived joyfully. Small things have a big impact.
Serving others and sacrificing for a greater purpose says that there is more to this life.
Going for that bike ride with your son fulfils the promise you made. Honour your commitments and live with integrity.
What you choose to do here may seem insignificant, but it has a lasting impact. You will leave a legacy. Intentional or not. Planned or not. Purposeful or not. We will all leave a legacy.
The legacy will go on long after we have left this earth. What will yours be?
Growing up, our family of six always had two cars – one big enough to for the entire crew all at once, and the second, a smaller one (typically a hatchback) to supplement our transportation needs.
It looked just like this except with a big white stripe down the middle.
The first cars I remember were the wood-panelled station wagon with vinyl seats and optional seat belts, and one of several “second” cars, an orange and white Mercury Capri. Both cars were AWESOME. The Capri resembled the “General Lee” a bit, and you honked the horn by pressing the handle of the turn signal. What kind of engineering magic was that?! Forget getting my license, I just wanted to honk that horn.
Sadly, the Capri gave up the ghost before I was able to drive. But it was replaced by an even better hatchback: a Chrysler Turismo. And guys, it was gold. Gold. GOLD. It was painted gold with matching beige interior. That little gem was a demo car for the dealership our cousin worked at so we got this fully-loaded two door for a great deal.
I got this off wikipedia, but it could be ours, there’s a limited market for gold hatchbacks.
When I say “fully-loaded” I mean it. This 1985 Turismo came with the following features:
– AM/FM radio with tapedeck
– Swivel light for map reading (or lipgloss application, whichever need arose)
– Air conditioning
– Hydraulic action hatch
This beauty even had a hidden perk that I did not discover until I drove it myself: in a small town, a gold hatchback really stands out. My parents did not need GPS to know where I’d been or what I’d been up to – I was my own one-car parade. I drove around and people waved even before they saw who was behind the wheel, because it was A GOLD TURISMO. I may as well have been driving the Pope-mobile for all the camouflage that car provided.
Although we treated old Goldie with respect and care, it did not take long for things to start going wonky. And my parents, being financially responsible and never having to drive that car, decided it was best to avoid most repairs and just live with it.
First to go was the driver’s seat tilt option. If you were foolish enough to adjust that from the leisurely position my too-tall brother had set it at, your loss. It took a lot of prayer and tears to get it to stay in the upright position again. I spent many hours sitting up perfectly straight and clutching the steering wheel for leverage.
Next we lost the eject function on the tape deck. But it turns out I was a bit of a MacGyver – all we had to do was press eject and yank the cassette out with a pair of tweezers that became a permanent fixture in the ash tray. (Do not attempt that manoeuvre in a moving vehicle).
The air conditioning went next. And since “you only drive it in hot weather for really a few weeks, we aren’t going to spend the money to fix it”, we learned to live without it. A decision I support now as a parent of four on a budget, but COME ON – it was so hot.
Apparently the Turismo didn’t like the AC decision either and started to really act out. The clutch had always been a bit finicky, but now it took things to a whole new level. If you adjusted it one way, it would stall at every intersection or slow-down. If adjusted the other, it would run on after you turned off the ignition (hard to roll into the driveway or school parking lot incognito when followed by ca-klunk, ca-klunk). We opted to go with the “stall” option and learned to pop it into neutral regularly, earning Goldie the title of “Automatic Car that wants to be a Standard”.
This temperamental car didn’t stop there, though. Next it went on to overheat – the vehicular equivalent of holding one’s breath. Any time it was in stop-and-go traffic the engine temp would rise at an alarming rate. This was both scary and embarrassing. BUT WAIT – we figured out how to deal with that, too. All you had to do was crank the heat at maximum power to offset the heat from the engine. And good news, it only overheated in the summer so you were already dressed for the temps and had the windows down anyways (remember, no AC).
The hatchback feature was perhaps the most amazing part of this car. If you folded down the back seat you could move the contents of your entire university bedroom in one trip. The demon that possessed the Turismo decided to thwart that, too and within a few years, the hydraulic doo-dad that held the hatch open stopped working. BUT WAIT. We dealt with that, too – it was nothing a hockey stick couldn’t fix.
The university years were hard on our relationship, but we wouldn’t give up on old Goldie. The passenger side door no longer opened from the outside, so the driver would get in, then lean across to open it for the others. That was fine except for my sister with whom I shared the Turismo insisted on locking that door anyways. So that meant one lunge across to open, realize it was locked, lunge across to unlock, and a third to open the door. We did not agree on this method. Also, no one would want to steal that car.
Once winter hit, the fun really began – all the quirks of the Turismo came together. The doors froze shut so the only way to get inside was through the hatch, but remember, it wouldn’t stay open without the hockey stick technique which was precarious at best. So you always had to travel with a buddy who could hold the hatch open for you and then pull on the outside handle of the door while you body checked it from inside. Thankfully, living in student housing, there was always someone around willing to help out for a free ride to campus.
Winter was also the Turismo’s time to shine. Perhaps it was the overheating engine, or the over-running clutch, but that car would start in the coldest of weather. The Polar Vortex would have been no match for Goldie.
The attempted sabotage this car tried to inflict on me only managed to give me wizard status. As the car aged, it became more finicky and eventually only two people on the entire planet were able to get it to start and stay running. I wore that title with more pride that I probably should have.
Eventually the Turismo’s time here on earth came to an end. It was on a dark and slick highway one evening in March. The interior lights started to fade, the radio grew faint, and I barely managed to coast into a gas station to call the Clean Shaven boyfriend (who later became Bearded Husband) to come rescue me. We all had to agree that sinking any more money into Goldie was a fruitless endeavour. We had her towed to a wrecking yard and I think I received enough cash to cover the last tankful of gas I’d put in.
Oh, sweet Turismo. You never ceased to cause anxiety levels to rise. You always kept things interesting. I’ll never forget some of the phrases often spoken in that car:
It makes that smell all the time.
It’s okay, it’s when you don’t hear that noise that you need to worry.
We’ll make it, just give it a minute.
That noise is completely normal.
Hold on tight.
Open your window, we just need to crank the heat for a few minutes, then it’ll be as good as new.
Hold the steering wheel, I want to change the tape.
Gone, but not forgotten. Gold Turismo, the worst car I ever had.
Miss you.
_________
Worst car experience? Could have been in the Turismo with me, it’s okay to share that, too.
I get the Elmo colouring book. Sit at the table. No, in this chair.I colour this page and you do it with me, okay?
You got it, bud.
I’ll colour all the eyeballs. Not creepy at all.
It’s okay you can’t reach the page, Mommy, just hold your arm really benty. Yes, just like that. But don’t stop colouring. (Big Bird needs to be half-complete by the end of this, just like every other page in this book.)
No, like this. LIKE THIS.
You use the pink. Axshly, you all done with pink. I use that. Here’s a blue one. Why are you stopping? Move your colourer like this. Kay, I do this page – you do the grass. Blue is fine. BLUE. IS. FINE.
I’m just going to fix this for you.
Move over, but don’t leave. I do it. Why aren’t you colour? No, I do it myself. I do it myself. I DO IT MYSELF.
Dinner time, please put your colouring things away, Little.
Don’t jump on the bed. Remember Aaron across the street who broke his arm doing that?
If you race up the front steps, you might puncture your knee just like Daddy did that time. We spent hours in Urgent Care that day. With a newborn.
Donkey-kicking your brother is a bad idea. Just ask Auntie – she broke her arm when she was flung across the basement when we were kids. I may or may not have been involved in that.
Sliding down the stairs on your belly will end badly. Did I ever tell you about the time Uncle Rob got carpet burn doing that?
Don’t ride your bike with your eyes closed. Just trust me on that – I have first hand experience.
Do I really need to remind you why you shouldn’t run around naked?
Chasing your brothers around the bedrooms – guys, I had to call our nurse neighbour last time you did that.
Go ahead and name a questionable activity and I can give you a real life cautionary tale outlining the dangers.
Care to lean really far on the kitchen table while standing on your chair? I recently witnessed a son scrape his belly doing that. I thought he had broken a rib or done some serious internal damage.
Feel like putting some coins in your mouth? My cousin once swallowed a dollar’s worth of quarters and had to go to the hospital.
Think it’s fun to stick your leg through the spindles on the stairwell? A kindergarten student once got her knee stuck in the bars at the playground. It took a whole team of us and a bottle of Palmolive to get her out.
Want to pour yourself a nice, tall glass of milk after a sleep over at your friend’s house? Sit back and let me tell you about Gary.
Gary* spent the night at his good friend, Kevin’s house. He woke up, and as any young kid does, he headed down to find himself some breakfast. Several members of Kevin’s family were gathered around the kitchen table enjoying a selection of cold cereal.
If only there was a way to make this milk stretch a bit further
Gary surveyed the options and made his choice (probably Corn Flakes, Gary wasn’t much of a risk-taker). He topped it off with a splash of milk and dug in. Partway through his most important meal of the day, Gary realized he was thirsty so he poured himself a refreshing glass of milk. He took a swig and thought, “Hmmm, tastes kind of sweet.” Ate some cereal, took another sip, “Yes,” he thought, “Their milk tastes like they put sugar in it.”
Being the polite young man that he was, Gary finished up his cereal without mentioning the sugar-infused milk. As he brought his bowl to the sink, Kevin asked him, “did you drink that whole glass of milk?”
As Gary turned to answer his former best friend, he saw the remaining family members pour the leftover milk from their cereal bowls into the glass pitcher on the table. The very same pitcher Gary had chugged from.
My son, never, ever, drink the sweet milk.
This is perfectly good milk. DON’T WASTE IT.
___________
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and easily duped.
This post is dedicated to the real “Gary” and to frugal parents everywhere.
The signs were all there: the large stock pot was on the stove, my mom was busy peeling potatoes, and I could see the chopped onions ready to take the plunge into the soon-to-be-boiling water. I spied some carrots still in the bag and I knew they would be joining the onions all in good time. And yes, there was the head of cabbage, too.
Without a doubt, it was happening.
Mom was making Stamppot.
This Dutch *mainstay has many variations, some involving kale, others include bacon, some both. But all versions rely on boiling root vegetables together and mashing them up beyond recognition.
Use a really big pot so you have enough to make EVERYONE cry
This was the worst possible dinnertime scenario I could conceive. Stamppot. Why, Mom? Why? I already apologized for the Tupperware Avalanche and the toenails behind the couch.
There was no escaping the smell of Stamppot cooking. That odour of onions with just a hint of smelly socks was a constant reminder of my dinnertime fate. It was too late to feign an illness or get an invitation to dine at my friend’s house. That meal was coming and I had nowhere to hide.
Once I realized the inevitability of me consuming this “meal”, I quickly went through the five stages of Stamppot eating:
1. Denial: Noooooooooooooooo.
2. Anger: Why? Why? WHY? WHO ASKED HER TO MAKE THIS ABOMINATION?
3. Bargaining: I’ll never complain about another meal if you will just let me have Cup-a-Soup tonight.
4. More Bargaining: Just name your price, woman – it’s yours.
5. Acceptance: Fine. I’ll eat it. But it’s not going to be pretty.
Stamppot is often served with sausage. My mom would claim it was to “balance out the meal” but I knew it was really to bribe savvy children into eating it. Nice try, Mom. No amount of salty meat deliciousness could convince this kid that Stamppot is edible.
Reduce your family’s cholesterol, if not their tears
I had to develop some strategies to get through a Stamppot meal. First, I would ask for the smallest portion possible, often trying to serve myself. Then I would casually move the mash around my plate, giving the illusion of consumption. Next, I would plead at my brother with my eyes to please, please eat some of mine.
Let’s talk about my brother for a moment. I don’t know what happened to him as a young child, but he ate Stamppot with gusto. He would pile it on the platter, not a dinner plate, the platter, then top it with a sausage link, stick his elbows out and proceed to shovel it into his mouth. There would be no polite conversation with him when Stamppot was served. I’m quite certain one of us was switched at birth.
After much threatening and cajoling by my mom, I would finally take a bite. Well, that wasn’t too bad, got myself a nice forkful of potato. Then a bratwurst chaser. A second bite followed – okay, I can handle this. This pattern continued for a few more bites. And then – I just bit into some cabbage! Take this away! Stamppot was my first experience with a “Bait and Switch” scenario. It’s like internet dating on a plate.
I admit that I was a picky eater as a child, and for that I apologize profusely to my mom. But can we all please just end the conspiracy? Let’s have no future generations go through any unnecessary mealtime suffering.
Just say “no” to Stamppot.
*Stamppot has been described by some reliable sources as “punishment in a pan” and tasting like “anger”. There are others who claim it is “delicious” and “the best”, but they are liars.
Moms tend to claim that we get Mother’s Day because labour is the worst. It’s pretty bad, but I’ll tell you the real reason: bath time.
I quietly tiptoe upstairs on a Saturday for a little relaxation in the tub. My expectations are not high, just 15 minutes or so to soak and unwind in the calm ambiance of the bathtub.
Alone.
I clear out the hodge podge of bath toys and turn on the water. No need for bubbles, I know this won’t be a long soak (see how resigned realistic I am?).
No time for the water wheel today
Just as I get in a little face peeks through the door (how did I forget to lock it?) and chirps sweetly: “I, too?”
I tell Little that it’s just Mommy’s turn.
“I soon?”
Sure, you’re next. Close the door.
He pulls the door shut and I presume he goes off to play. That is until I turn on the hot water and hear a muffled tiny voice ask, “mine turn now?”
No, not yet.
I now realize he is standing right outside the door. Any time I make any noise he inquires: “mine turn?”
No, just rinsing my hair.
“I turn now?”
Nope, just dropped my razor.
“I go now?”
No, soon. Still bathing.
“Mommy, me go? Now?”
Pretty soon.
“I go?”
That was just your brother flushing a toilet somewhere else in the house.
“Mine turn? Mommy?”
Nope, toilet again.
“I come in?”
I think a brother just got a drink.
I keep my head under water hoping for the illusion of isolation, but fun fact: you can still hear someone opening and closing all the dresser drawers. Repeatedly. With vigor.
I pretend not to hear the slamming and convince myself I won’t discover my underwear strewn around the room. Or on his head. Or both. I’m pretty sure I hear him nosing around in my jewellery box, but those macaroni necklaces will just have to sacrifice themselves for my inner peace.
The sound of the water draining from the tub is like a rally cry. He scurries back to the door to ask one more time: “Mine turn? Now?”
Yes, Little, your turn.
Thrilled, he strips himself down (something he has vowed to be unable to do, I won’t forget that slip-up, you’re on your own now with your coat, buddy) and clamours into the tub.
No bath is complete without a lobster
“I no need soap, Mommy. No wash my hair.”
Apparently, Little has learned that sometimes tub time is not about the bath itself.
——
Bath time – is it a family affair at your house or a peaceful oasis?
They can bring a top negotiator to their knees with stubborn persistence alone. They can hold adults hostage merely by refusing to pee on the potty. They can bring a grown woman to tears by simply insisting that their socks feel “funny”.
Recently I decided to test some of their better known tactics out for myself. After all, despite repeated redirection, our toddler keeps trying. There must be some sort of payoff.
Our Little regularly flops to the floor in a sad heap if he’s been told not to dip his cheese in his juice cup. When he insists he can put his boot on himself and you comply by backing off, he’ll toss himself to the ground because you listened to him.
What if grown-ups handled their frustration that way?
My internet connection went down before I could update my status.No one folded the laundry for me.Someone forgot to flush the toilet. Again.He wouldn’t stop playing with the light switch.4YO left the bathroom light on.My coffee cooled off before I could finish it.
Our toddler has many super powers – check out his other tactics here.
—————-
Your turn – what frustrates you most? Have you tried the toddler approach yet? It doesn’t solve anything, but surprisingly does make you feel better.
When people learn that I have four boys they usually respond with a shocked look and some sort of astonished reply about how I appear mostly sane. Life with four boys is busy and full of toilet humour, but in so many ways I am grateful. I am not sure I would be cut out to raise a girl. The clothing and hair options paralyze me with fear. When I change my baby niece I am overwhelmed with the decisions involved: Are these tights? Is this considered a dress or a top? Should I be combing her hair? What’s the protocol here?
Boys are simple, at least so far. There aren’t nearly as many choices – pretty much everything matches jeans. Usually our biggest controversy is whether or not you can wear a navy shirt with black pants (no, you cannot). However, even within this simple state, complications and issues arise. Socks can feel “too socky”. Pants can be “bunchy”. A shirt cannot be worn because it just isn’t a favourite. Currently it is our four-year-old who is struggling with these apparel horrors. These deal-breakers have caused us to be late for school, church, even the toboggan hill. So I sat the boy down and said that sometimes you just have to tough it out and wear something that isn’t your favourite because that’s what people do.
They aren’t jeans, but I can tolerate them for a trip to the park, I guess.
Our morning routine had improved immensely since this chat. He was managing his clothing options quite well and I kept my expectations for matching and rotating shirts low. Then Sunday morning hit. He only had two pairs of clean pants that he could tolerate. When he asked me if he matched I discovered a giant hole in the knee. I explained that those pants were goners and “you need to be a big boy and wear the jeans you don’t like as much without crying. Later you can change and we can see what we can do about your pants.” Off he went to change. As I passed by his door a moment later he was getting dressed and I could hear his little voice saying, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”
It broke my heart.
It broke my heart just that little bit. I didn’t go and sob quietly in the washroom, but I was proud and sad at the same time. I was smiling as my eyes welled up. I finally understood that all of his upsets about pants this fall weren’t really a power struggle or an attempt to get my attention. As ridiculous as it sounds, pants really matter to him. He doesn’t care about brand or how they look, but some pants are favourites and some are not. He cannot even explain it, he just knows. And now I do.
That afternoon I took my sweet boy to the store, just the two of us and he sat in the cart and we giggled and talked and I could just listen to him. He sat in the cart. As I wheeled my third-born around the store it occurred to me that even though he can print his name and dress himself and is learning to read, he is still little and likes to ride in the cart. And pants matter to him.
I don’t want to forget this: that even though I might not understand why something is important, the person matters. Taking the time to value what’s important says, “you count, I care about you, you are loved.”
If pants matter that much to you, then they matter to me.
Life can be challenging when you are little. All the good stuff is stored just out of your reach. Would you like to go play in the basement? Sure, but who will turn the light on? You’d like to help yourself to some gum, but it’s tucked away up in cupboard. Thanks to the step stool, you can reach the sink to wash your hands, but what fun is that? If only that step stool was portable. Yes, if you could move it around to the location of your desire, life would be so good – all those things you’ve longed for would be attainable. It would be shining, shimmering, even, dare I say, splendid?
No one could tell you “no” or where to go. Or say you’re only dreaming. It would be a whole new world of possibilities. The new sights – did you know they have a candy jar up there? Indescribable feelings when you discover the pens and pencils that have been waiting for you. Probably one hundred thousand different things to see from your new vantage point.
I’m not sure who invented the portable step stool, but he or she is the hero of every child shorter than the counter top.
Stand amazed at my might. This step stool and I cannot be defeated.See how I deftly move it with just my foot. THE POWER!Nothing is out of my reach now. Bwahahaha.She now has a portable “thinking spot”. I did not think this through.
Tough Bananas 