Thank Dog for my "Boots of Plenty." This is one of my nicknames for Skylar. Usually it's just Boots, but sometime, when I'm feeling particularly bravado, it's "Boots of
Plentissimo." I hate it when parents brag that their kid is just like them. Naturally, I do it frequently. When your child resembles you it is a validation. A validation that you are awesome, and so is your child.
The comparisons between girls and boys began at about 11:30 am, before lunch. I had been chatting with Ryan, and helping him in his quest to deal with stress. Today, I dub his method "Emotional Ostrich" and immediately searched the Internet for a photo. Luckily, he is a good sport and saw the humor in it. Alex starts bringing various canned foods into the office, requesting them for lunch. The buzzards are circling. I tell Ryan I have to go feed the scavengers. Skylar reports a conflict with Hayden. I had heard her tell him not to be rude to her, and to treat others as he wants to be treated. I know she is yelling this in his face, but at least she is not slapping or pinching him. For a nearly 9 year old girl that is impressive restraint.
Hayden is the youngest child in both his homes, and this nether position causes him to constantly boss everyone around in an attempt to compensate for their tendency to ignore him.
"Cameron. Cameron. Cameron Cameron Cameron." Hayden rattles off.
I'm not sure if the name chanting came first, or the ignoring of it, but no one answers Hayden until the 5
th time at least. (This happens in close proximity as well as far. Like when the 3 boys are strapped in with knees and elbows touching in the back of the clown car, the Matrix. Princess Skylar gets to ride in the front because she is the heaviest and the airbag is less dangerous to her, and she gets ferociously carsick in the back of my teeny car. These attributes guarantee her perpetual shotgun and radio D.J. status. I can imagine in 8 years 3 teenage boys, collectively 17 feet of boy, trying not to elbow their brothers, simultaneously annoying one and ignoring the other. I hope they make larger commuter cars by then. )
"What, Hayden." responds Cameron, tiredly.
In order to get lunch requests filled I tell Hayden to turn off the WII. Even though he has been told not to back talk, or question my order with "Why?" he does anyway. Three times. He is sent to his room for a 5 minute time out. He cries loudly as he goes down the hall. He slams the door and I hear a crash and breaking glass. I look in the bathroom. His slamming door knocked the clock off the wall, which broke a vase. Luckily it only broke into two pieces. I bring him in and show him what he has done, explaining in an emotionless tone. I am pissed but don't let it show. His timeout is now 10 minutes. I go make food for #'s 1,2, and 3, as we often refer to them when names are too complimentary for their behavior. I send them out to play and go see Hayden. He is crying on his bed. I lay down and hug him, and he clings to me.
" You should be mad at me." he states, his usual line when he is busted and knows it.
"It's over. I cleaned it up, you served your time. I'm over it." I say nonchalantly, meaning it. I can't stay mad at this little man with his arms draped around my neck.
"I am still mad at Skylar for the rest of my life." He insists.
"That will only affect you. Being mad at someone only hurts you, because they don't care. You are just wasting your energy." He ignores this insight.
After he eats his PB&J with the crusts cut off (Your mom lied. The crusts are not the most nutritious part! Think about it. They are made of the same damn dough the rest of the bread is! Unless your mom rolled the dough in vitamins or something at your house.) we go outside to catch up with the others. I tend to beat a dead horse with the kids, trying to teach them lessons they will not grasp until adulthood. Mid-thirties, like me, probably.
"I wish you could learn how to let go of being mad. I only learned that a few years ago."
"But you stayed mad when you were a kid?" He points out.
"Yes." I say, truthfully. I realize some lessons have to be learned over and over, and repeatedly analyzed in therapy before they sink in.
Skylar, on the other hand, takes my word as gospel. The "do unto others" speech that I drilled into her head stuck, as I heard her preach to her brother earlier through gritted teeth. Once I apologized for something I had said out of spite to hurt her feelings when she was annoying me. It was after the fact and she had forgotten it. I felt guilty and compelled to redeem myself. Ever the student teaching the teacher, Skylar not only accepted my apology but felt pity for the guilt I had experienced.
"It's OK Mom, I already forgot about that. Is that still bothering you? I feel bad for you!"
She is undoubtedly the quickest to forgive person I have ever known. I hope she can hold onto that. It will save her so much grief.
Later, I am working against the clock, trying to plant flowers in the front bed and set up a deer fence before the rain comes. Four hours of weeding, rock removal, planting and post digging and I am done. Skylar has helped me for nearly the entire time, turning the soil, spreading the fertilizer, and artistically arranging the rocks. She adopts a millipede and attends to it lovingly, placing it in a blue plastic bowl filled with dirt, leaves, and rocks "In case he gets bored." I tell her about the hummingbird that bathed in the hose water on the hill Sunday. I was running the hose to soften the ground where I will be planting. The hummingbird, unafraid of my presence, buzzed and bathed for a good five minutes while I watched, spellbound. I describe its iridescent green feathers in detail as she is captivated, squealing "Ooooooh!" I know it thrills her as much to hear about it as it did me to experience it. We listen to Beatles, Britney Spears and Veruca Salt, and talk about how when she was little she thought Veruca Salt was the actual girl from Willy Wonka. I admit I told her that it was. I tell her how glad I am that she likes to hang out with me and how much I appreciate it. She volunteers not for gain but because that is her nature. I remember a time I helped my mom prune the silk tree in our front yard. I drug the limbs around to the backyard. The longest ones I saved to build my teepee. She paid me after we were all done, even though I hadn't expected it. I pay Skylar $5 when we are done, and make it clear that it is only because she was not doing it for money that I gave her some. She beams. After I shower and she works on her fourth Powerpoint presentation (she does these for fun, mind you), we curl up in my bed with the cats and read, then nap. The boys have been playing WII the entire time, as boys will play video games until their fingers bleed. It is their nature.
I spoon my daughter in bed, smelling the sweet scent of her sleep; sweet sweat, shampoo, and popcorn. Her body is soft and strong. She is the size I was at age 11. I wonder how much longer she will allow me to curl around her before it weirds her out. I don't remember when cuddling with my mom faded away. Surely it devastated her, as it will me. I think of this day, this moment, and want to remember it. I get my laptop and begin to write.
After dinner Hayden runs out of his room butt naked, his favorite state of mind and body. He prefers to change into his
jammies in full view, usually singing a penis themed medley.
I sigh, half smiling, and say,"Hayden, you are too old to change in the living room."
"Bunza Buns?" he sweetly questions, referring to our term for a gentle butt squeeze. He has the cutest skinny little butt, two perfect handfuls, and I can't resist as he backs up for a squeeze. "It feels good!" he announces. "Last time?" he asks, referring to continuing to dress in public. I nod. It will not be the last, far from it.
Meanwhile, Skylar and Cameron are wrestling. They are rarely opponents, and I watch with intrigue. Skylar is moaning about her sore tailbone, most likely earned from her dedication in the yard today. She cautions him to stay away from it, then performs a roundhouse kick to his groin.
"Watch the jewels, Skylar." I warn.
"Jewels? She repeats, liking this new term for the boys' most frequently targeted area.
"Dangly dangly jewels!" She laughs.
Ryan and I lock eyes and crack up.
She is so much like her mother.
