Tuesday Before Threesday

Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2000. Elder would have been four years old . . .

Several times on Tuesday, for one reason or another, I found myself explaining to Elder that it was Tuesday — as opposed to another day in the week, such as Sunday.  On Tuesday, Mommy worked and he went to the babysitter.

That night, while we were eating dinner, he told me, “Mom, tomorrow is Threesday and on Threesday, you don’t have to work.”

Well, he’s kind of right.

I’ve never worked a Threesday in my life.

In the Army, Now

Today, I thought I would share a story from around 2005 when Younger would have been in kindergarten . . .

Apparently, for some unknown reason, the school personnel asked the children if their fathers were in the military, which did not appear to faze Younger in the slightest. Apparently, his dad passed Younger’s test for Army material.  But then the school asked about their mothers.

“And, Mom,” Younger told me, shaking his head and snickering.  “I just couldn’t quite even imagine it.”

My husband thinks Younger’s a real riot.

The Not-Quite-So-Introvert

Younger is an introvert. Well, he is now. But when he was six-years-old, he was the not-quite-so-introvert . . .

To give the boys an extra half hour of sleep in the morning, I have been driving them to school.  Unfortunately, I lose a half hour of sleep and am usually shoving kids and backpacks into the car before leaving skid marks on our gravel drive.  Then I have to wait patiently behind a line of cars before I reach the curb in front of the upper elementary and tell Elder, “I love you, have a good day, I’ll see you tonight.  Elder, get outta the car, I gotta go.”  And then it is just me and Younger as we rush back onto the highway.

Now, the other day, as I slowed, grumbling, to a stop at a light, I heard Younger say, “Well, hello, people who hang up their clothes.”

Curious and a bit confused, I spun my head towards him, finding him waving at the three women in the car in the lane beside us, one of them leaning around a jacket hanging in the window.  Smiling, I turned back to watch the light.  And then I heard the whir of Younger’s window.  Alarmed, I spun back towards him, noticing that the woman in the car was also lowering her window.

“Hello,” she greeted Younger.

“Hi,” he responded.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied.

Apparently, to Younger, there is nothing strange in holding a conversation with complete strangers at a red light in thirty-degree weather.  As soon as the light turned green, I hit the gas, leaving the people “who hang up their clothes” rocking in my wake.

“Younger,” I chided.  “You can’t talk to strangers on the highway.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because they might take it as an invitation to follow us home.”

“They seemed nice,” he assured me.

“Yes, but some people wouldn’t be nice.”

“Oh, there’s three of us.  We can take ‘em.”

The “three of us” is me, Elder and Younger and I’m pretty puny.

And I think maybe I don’t wanna take ‘em.

 

 

 

Tough Guy

The other day, in our local grocery store, as Younger reluctantly held the vase of Hershey’s Kisses topped with a balloon that I had bought for his father, he appeared both mortified by and resigned to a moment of less than manly appearance.

He was not always quite so dignified. And I have a story from 2004 when he was four years old to prove it . . .

Leaning an elbow on the arm of the sofa and crossing one foot across the other, Younger asked, “Do I look tough?”

“Absolutely,” I responded immediately.

He cocked his head to the side. “Why?”

Well, it was the “Blue’s Clues” house shoes that did it for me.

As Bad as Daddy

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.

No Hitting Bottom

Tomorrow, I have the honor of playing for a wedding. Due to grading essays and practicing for Christmas programs, I was unable to really practice until this week. So, of course, today, I am trying not to panic as I dig through music I played twenty years ago.

But as I take deep breaths, I share this piece of wisdom from a pre-Kindergarten Younger . . .

“I figured out how to float, Mom,” Younger announced, from his reclined position in our pool.  “It’s easy.  You just lean back, trust God you aren’t gonna drown, and don’t let your butt hit the bottom.”

And now all I have to do is just figure out how to keep my butt from hitting the bottom . . .

 

What Does Tomorrow Matter

Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2006. Younger would have been seven years old . . .

Younger does not like chicken.  Not even a little.  And mashed potatoes are only a little higher on his list.  So, yesterday, at school, for lunch, he ate grapes.  Then he wanted Pop Tarts immediately upon his arrival at home.  Instead, I fixed him a plate of leftovers – meatloaf and corn.  And, later, when he was still hungry, he consumed a corn muffin.

I thought he had been appeased.  But, apparently, I was temporarily insane, from which I was cured at bedtime when Younger’s caterwauling echoed through the house.

“Younger.”  My husband stuck his head in the boy’s bedroom.  “What is wrong now?”

“I’m hungry,” he wailed.

“I’m sorry,” my husband responded, leaving the child to persevere in his attempt at pitiful moaning.

But after a few more minutes of his racket, I climbed the stairs.  “Younger, I want you to stop.  Now.  Or you won’t be able to play Nintendo tomorrow.”

“What does tomorrow matter,” he cried dramatically,  “when I’ll starve to death tonight?”

And it was at that point that even I started to doubt he would live until morning.