Pushover

I am such a chump, and easy mark, a pushover.  I will do anything for anyone—even people I don’t like.  My smile says yes while my innards scream no.  I might as well take a sharpie and doodle “Welcome” across my chest.  Let me lie down so that you can wipe your feet on me.

It’s not that I have any problems being mama bear and forcing my paw when it comes to keeping my own cubs in line, but the Yogis and Boo Boos in my den know when and how to play me.  Madison will ask to download iTunes apps after I’ve had a glass of wine.  John will casually mention he’s invited his ex-girlfriend over for dinner after he’s poured me my third—seriously, I still don’t remember that conversation.  Max was conceived after a good bottle of California chardonnay.  See how this works?

While John says our kids walk all over me, I disagree.  Yes, we never tend to leave a store without some type of whatnot for Kenny (or Sam and Madison for that matter), but there’s a level of respect that I demand and the kids know it.  They have never sworn at me to my face, attempted any acts of violence (does Max count?  He can be a real bully sometimes), nor have they locked me out of the house. 

Okay, Stancey did, but she was only two at the time.

I only wish I could verbalize my needs to people who aren’t related to me.  Only those I truly love have seen my dark and belligerent side.  Case in point, while coloring Easter eggs with my boys this year, I yelled in exasperation, “God dammit, it’s Good Friday!  Could all of you not be asses today?!” 

There are days I’m only a beer and a cigarette shy from epitomizing all white trash.

I really admire assertive people.  I would love to be able to say, “No, tonight really isn’t a good night to come over” or “Did you really have to trash the house in the two hours I’ve asked you to watch the kids?”  Instead what I hear myself saying is, “The melting popsicles in the bookshelf are a nice touch and thank you for pointing out my children’s shortfalls.”

But seriously, the pulsing blue vein on the side of my head is going to explode if I have to force just one more smile.

Over the years, I think I’ve made some real strides.  While I admit that today I am in a less slippery occupational place, in the past I have taken in laundry, cut hair, and cleaned up poop all for people who have no relation to me whatsoever.  I guess it’s just my nature to take on crap whether it is figurative or literal.  Today it’s more, “Ten pounds of potato salad for tomorrow’s luncheon?  No problem!” 

See the growth?

My fear is that one day I’ll just snap.  All the irritation I’ve suppressed over the last few years will hiccup out in Tourette's manner. I’ll become that woman on the street wearing road-kill furs and scary red lipstick applied in Ronald McDonald fashion. 

Until that liberating day, I’ll just keep smiling. 

I hope no one notices that my vein pulsing.

The Greeter

Kenny spent the first half of his life not talking, and has since spent the last few years making up for it. 

Kenny is to Morgan Street as Mr. Leon is to Wal-Mart.  Kenny will talk to anyone, anytime, about anything.  If you’ve ever walked past our house, you might have already encountered him. 

“Hey!  Hey!  Hi!” or

“Be careful of my bike!” (You know, the one laying on its side in the front lawn, wheels spinning?)

He can often be seen riding a fresh groove on the sidewalk in front of our house or pushing trains, cars, and trucks through intricate dirt trails.  If no one happens to be nearby, he will talk to himself. 

Last weekend, when we went to Five Guys, he sat down at the counter next to a pretty teenage girl on her lunch break.  He gave her his entire order right down to the napkin.  She had to go back to work just so she could take her break. 

He talks to bike riders, pedestrians, sane people, crazy people, police officers, and criminals.  If you have a pulse and you make eye contact, I can’t save you. 

And sometimes he’ll talk to you even if you don’t talk back.  He once caused a mass exodus from Kohl’s intimate apparel department when he bellowed out, “Boobies!” 

Not one of his better opening lines.

Kenny is a greeter.  I love that there’s nothing shy about him.  What I don’t understand is where his social streak comes from.  He's stemmed from a socially retarded gene pool.  Where I will go out of my way NOT to mingle, Kenny will insert himself.  I am my own best friend and the world is Kenny’s.

I’m having a hard time remembering the silent Kenny.  Up until age three, he was a grunter—a boy without words.  He had his very own early intervention staff come to our house for weekly play dates aspiring to pry a syllable or two from his tightly clenched tongue. 

Today every moment is punctuated by some random phrase.

“Mommy!  I love you!”

“Mommy!  You’re my best friend!”

“Mommy!  Uhhhh.  Mommy!”

Once, in an attempt to find a moment or two of silence, I locked myself in my bedroom and just sat quietly on the bed.  Within moments, I heard his not-so-graceful gait on the stairs and his knock on the door.

“Mommy?” 

Silence.

“Mommy?!”

Deep sigh.

“Mommy, it’s me, Kenny.  Kenny with a K!”

He’s just never quiet.  And mostly, that’s okay.  I think there’s a real future for him.  Just watch out all you introverted people.  Kenny with K may be coming to a Wal-Mart near you.  I guarantee it will be a conversation to remember.

I Feel Pretty

I’ve often been told I look great for having six kids. 

Just recently while I was working in the yard, a passerby commented, “You look marvelous.  You’ve lost a few pounds and you’re not pregnant!”

Ouch.  Way to give a compliment.

I’m not delusional.  I know my kids could swing on my varicose veins.  I also know that no matter how many flat abs workouts I do, I will never again be able to tighten my core.  I’m not certain it’s even there anymore.  

On the upshot, at this moment, I do not have pink eye, ringworm or head lice.  I am, however, harboring the Lamisil monster under my left middle toenail. 

For all my shortfalls, I do still have some positive features.  Kenny loves to sniff my hair—though his fascination with it is bordering on creepy.  (He gets that from his father.)

When I think back to my adolescence and the amount of time I spent looking in the mirror, it’s hard to remember what it was like having extra hours of unblocked time to primp. I will admit that I really do need to set aside an extra five minutes in the shower though.  Stancey is refusing to share a razor with me saying, “It looks like Bigfoot shaved with it!  Gross!” 

There is nothing more humbling to a mother’s self-perception than the insults her children whip at her.  I’ll never forget the day Stancey cried all the way home from preschool when she hated my new haircut.  Or the day in Baker’s Square she asked me why I had spider houses in my nose and cracks in my eyes. 

My hope for her?  That someday she’ll have a daughter just as complimentary to her as she has been to me.

But for having six kids, I guess I’m not looking too bad.  My reproductive tract is not dragging behind me like fish poop; it only feels like it is.  As for my new hemorrhoid that sprouted around 3 a.m. this morning, it only reinforces my belief that my children are trying to kill me just a little at a time.  Things haven’t been the same since eleven pound Sam arrived nearly a decade ago.  I think he pulled out some important plumbing during his descent, or at the very least, carved his initials into my birth canal.

Am I really offended by my neighbor’s compliment?  Naww.    A compliment is a compliment no matter how it’s delivered.  And though my husband is very encouraging in the compliments he gives me, it’s partly his fault my body is the war zone that it is. 

I wonder, if I only had three kids, would I still look as great?

It's Not Funny Yet

After explaining to me why she had been evicted from her second apartment, she looked sideways at me and said,

“Don’t worry.  Someday this will be funny.” 

If my life had a tag line, that would be it. 

The apartment thing is not so funny yet.  I would have never thought the quiet Mayle I’ve known for nineteen years is a girl gone wild out on her own.  I’d tell her that at her age I was raising a daughter, but that’s not necessarily a goal I want her setting right now. 

The time she almost didn’t walk with her graduating class? That’s still not funny.  Well, it has elements of funny.  My uterus still contracts when I think back to that harried week she started and completed the correspondence course that she needed to graduate.  I’m lucky I didn’t deliver Max in the psych ward.  But Mayle isn’t the only one who gives me those moments.  Right now Stancey is running a close second.

Stancey’s moments often involve detention slips in my morning mail or phone calls from her principal in the early evening.  And though her reasons for getting in trouble aren’t necessarily bad, the attitude she spoons back can be. When she was little and she’d say through angry eyebrows, “Quit talking to me!” it was funny.  Somehow, now that’s she’s 15, it’s lost a lot of its funny. 

Now that we’re on the brink of summer vacation, I have this premonition that there will be plenty more of these moments.  I’ve already come home from work to a kitchen full of suds because Madison can’t remember which soap is supposed to go in the dishwasher. 

The topper to all moments are the ones that happen every day with almost every breath.  The steadfast arguing, the not-so-gentle pushing, and the constant chorus from Kenny, “They boys are teasing me!”

And when I’ve had enough it only takes a slow ride past the police station to keep them in line for the rest of the afternoon. 

What’s funny to me is that they just don’t think it’s funny yet.

Is There a Policy for That?

With kids all you can really expect is the unexpected. 

This sort of sounds like an insurance advertisement.  What parent wouldn’t want an insurance policy that would pay for the cost of a meal in a restaurant gone wrong, a child wardrobe malfunction, mental anguish, or a comprehensive stuff-wrecked-by-my-kid type of coverage?

Maybe you’re wondering if a meal out with kids could ever possibly go right.  Sometimes it can, but in our case, it isn’t likely.

I’ve learned to never let an almost two-year old feed himself French fries while I foolishly try to enjoy my meal.  My two-year-old almost never knows his limitations but luckily Sam knows Max’s limitations.  He's the one who noticed Max choking.  Because of my moment of self-indulgence, I spent the majority of that meal in the bathroom washing barf out my bra. 

Sigh.  Another restaurant experience ruined. 

A policy that would have covered the cost of the meal would have been great—especially since Max was empty by the time we got home and I was ready to trade in my meal for a biggie-sized bottle of wine.

That exercise didn’t teach us anything though.  We still take them out and we’re still disappointed.

Last week, John and I took the four boys to a high school band banquet.  Technically it was Stancey’s banquet, but Stancey didn’t want to eat with us. If anything, her learning curve is much shorter than ours because she knows how meals “out” go.  To our merit, that that particular meal “out” went fine. Though after six kids, my standards aren't very high.

An hour and a half into the evening, Sam pointed out that Kenny was wearing one sandal and one tennis shoe.

Would this wardrobe malfunction be considered catastrophic under any policy? 

No, but the time three-year-old Stancey arrived commando at the children’s story hour would.

There’s a fine line between comedic and catastrophic.

When it comes to mental anguish, the entire family could certainly benefit from a policy that would entitle us to psychiatric evaluations every three months.  I’d consider it preventative care.  A non-partial outside party could check under our hoods every 3,000 miles.  My kids are bound to need it.  I’m pretty sure the year I took them to cut down our Christmas tree inflicted some lasting damage. 

And the kid-wrecking part? I don’t need to look far to find examples of that. The refrigerator door won’t stay closed because little men can’t stop hanging off it.  The water in the cooler is green because Max drinks out of the spicket.  It goes without saying what giving birth six times has done to my body.  Even my lips have stretch marks. 

So until such a policy is created with a deductible I can afford, I guess we’ll stay home and order in pizza.  Max can eat the pepperoni that he’s wedged between his toes and Kenny can wear whatever shoes he likes.  I’m just not sure we’ll drink the water.