Today, I thought I would share a story from 2001 when Elder would have been five years old . . .
The other day, I wasn’t feeling particularly well. So, I camped out on the sofa with a blanket, a book and the TV remote. Now, I never watch real television. Usually, I concede to the boys when they want to watch cartoons or to my husband when he wants to channel surf. So, even as ill as I was, I had to stamp out the little insurrection that erupted when I turned the channel to Law and Order, otherwise titled “Mommy’s Show.”
I overruled Elder and Scooby Doo with relative ease. Then Steve sank onto the sofa beside me and mentioned with a woebegone look, “I wanted to watch S-I-M-P-S-O-N-S.”
My mouth tightening with frustration, I told him, “You’re as bad as Elder.”
Elder, who had been sitting between us, heard our exchange, his head popping up. “I am not either as bad as my Daddy.”
After a moment’s thought, I conceded the point to Elder. After all, it had been quite an insult to my five-year-old.
Younger has always wanted to be six foot tall and bullet proof. He has somewhat accepted he will never be bullet proof. He still has hope for the six foot tall.
While at the doctor’s office the other day, the nurse indicated for Younger to position himself against the measuring tape. And I grinned because that is the straightest I ever see that young man’s back.
The nurse went up on tiptoes and declared, “Five-eleven.”
And total frustration wrinkled Younger’s face.
But as I went to hug him last night, having to reach up to encircle his shoulders, I said, “I love you, my five-eleven son.”
Grinning, he hung his head a little. “Was I that obvious?”
“You did grow an inch, though,” I encouraged him.
He shrugged. “I think that was my hair.” He tugged at his no-longer-blond locks with his fingers. “It was pouf-y.” Then he frowned. “But she could have rounded up. How hard is that? Just round up, lady.”
One day, he will accept that his height is perfect for him, at whatever inch he stops growing.
And one day, I will accept that he is no longer measured in inches and does not fit in the crook of one arm.
The other day, upon reaching the top stair, I realized that my husband, who had been climbing the stairs behind me, had stopped before the landing.
“Need something?” I asked, glancing back over the railing at him.
“Because you climbed halfway up the stairs and stopped,” I explained the unnecessary.
“Technically, I am not halfway up the stairs,” he corrected me, which one might argue was also unnecessary. “I’m five-fourteenths up the stairs.”
I just looked at him.
“Which is just a little over a third,” he added.
I continued to simply look at him.
Then a second voice drifted from the far corner of the living room, “He is technically correct.”
Technically, the antics of my husband and his minion, Younger, have not yet driven me to complete insanity.
But the fraction is growing.
I cannot connect my laptop to the Internet today, so I am writing this post on my phone. That’s my excuse for the errors. I usually have no excuse to offer, but today I do.
Tonight I will give you a peek at a usual night in the Grown Up household . . .
My husband is stressed from his day at work and has decided to complete a puzzle to “release his frustration.” And raising mine as the sorted piles consume every corner of my table.
Elder’s best friend told him he couldn’t write a poem on nature. So, now, he is researching poetry. He doesn’t like poetry. He likes losing a challenge even less apparently.
Younger is using his Jedi mind tricks to convince me I do not want my portion of the bread with dinner. Even Obi-Wan Kanobi was not that talented. This is the bread that I want with my dinner.
And I am listening to all the chaos with quiet contentment.
I am blessed.