Bon Appetite!

My van is a mobile cesspool.  Sometimes I feel sticky just looking at it.  It’s not that I don’t clean it; I do…several times a week.  It’s just that it’s the opposite of Teflon.  The windows are smeared, the seats are crusty, and the broken glove box is kept closed with an eyehook—my clever $1.29 fix. After paying $80 last year to have it fixed at the dealership, I opted for the Wal Mart repair. Madison says I have “retard strength.”  Considering he’s the one who broke it, he might have been referring to himself.

Yesterday, while I gathered up the fast food artifacts from our busy weekend, I found a Burger King bun stuck to the carpet, two army men, and Mr. Potato Head’s tongue.  In Kenny’s cup holder, I discovered what appeared to be an uncontrolled sample of microorganisms that I can only guess to be a blend of soda, ice cream and boogers.  As I tried to vacuum under Max’s car seat, the separation of car and seat sounded like industrial strength Velcro.  Must have been the push pop from last week.

If all this tactile stimulation isn’t enough, there is the olfactory sense to accompany it.  By midweek, my travelling taxi reeks of sweaty football players and recycled chili.  If Max happens to load his diaper mid-destination, you can count on a not-so-subtle aroma of sweat, feces, and underarms.  If I were to lose my sight, I could find my van on scent alone. 

Sometimes I want to slip into a biohazard suit before I ever slip behind the wheel.

I am the ringmaster to a traveling circus of window lickers.  I could clean the inside of the glass, but it’s futile. Like tiny suction cups, little Thompson lips are passionately attached.  And it isn’t just Kenny trying to get the attention of people outside the car.  Sam did it last weekend while I was pumping gas.  What do you suppose we look like to fellow motorists?

The family van is an integral cog to our family machine.  Without it, we would be fifteen minutes late to every event instead of just five.  Aside from its less-than-savory accessories, it's a great van. It usually starts and it isn’t a theft hazard.  It makes my kids’ lives easier, if not mine harder.  I can’t wait until one of them can legally drive so that I can pass along the keys.  

I wonder if with their newfound freedom they will take on the task of cleaning it out.  

I doubt it.  

Do you think only Taco Bell has a fourth meal? Then I invite you to visit the crevices of our back seats.  

Bon appetite!

Enigma or Enema?

And so it begins.  Not yet four weeks into a brand new school year, and I have had my first teacher phone call.  Phone calls from teachers are seldom good and phone calls from high school teachers are never good. 

Stancey.  

How can one name say so much, but then again, so little?

She’s an enigma. Where did she come from?  I know what she came after—an unholy labor-inducing enema—but her unmitigated butt headedness?  I have no doubt she gets that from her father.

I’m quick to notice this theme.  I admit I have made John the scapegoat to all of our children’s characteristics that make no sense to me.  And though my contributing DNA may not visibly apparent, I do know that my idiosyncrasies too are there.  Mayle’s recent trips to the ER are courtesy of my genetic contribution.  She may not have my nose, but she did inherit my attacks of anxiety. 

Motherhood, it’s the guilt that keeps on giving. 

But Stancey came into this world defiant and John has bucked authority since the day I met him.  His motto is “I won’t pander to anyone!” and mine is, “Just play the game.”  Ultimately it’s a good balance, but when Stancey and John come to blows, everyone in our house tends to scatter—except Kenny, who shouts, “Guys, you’re too loud!  I can’t hear the TV!”

If I could speak for her during one of their arguments, I’m sure I could shave weeks off her inevitable grounding.  But when she digs in her heels and balls up her fists, I can only shake my head and try and remind myself that it must have been John’s idea to have more kids.  Brow to mono-brow they wrangle until she stomps off up to her room, John complains of chest pains, and I pour myself of glass of wine and utter a prayer of thanks that we only have two daughters.

The tumultuous toddler years have ebbed into the tumultuous teenage years, with little reprieve between.  When she was a toddler, she’d tell me to stop talking to her.  Now that she’s a teenager, she tells me to stop texting her.  Although I love her, I sometimes don’t like her, and just when I don’t like her, she’ll drop a chink in her armor and all is forgiven.

All of which leads me to explain the phone call from school.

She failed to show up for test day in science class. Without hesitation she explained that no one has noticed how hard she’s worked all year—all four weeks.  But everyone’s quick to yell at her when she screws up. 

That made me smile.  

There’s something we have in common.

Flowers and Rainbows

At age five, Kenny is already a seasoned pick up artist.  He quickly engages in clever conversation wherever he goes.  Although I’ve noticed he has a preference for blondes, really most any shade will do.

At the grocery store, his target is Oberlin College students.  His amazing powers have mesmerized the bag boy, "Man, I need to take lessons from him!"

Kenny can perform with or without props.  Fast food might pull the ladies in, but it’s his tapestry of one-liners that keeps them bewitched.

“Hey,” he’ll say hypnotically wagging a French fry back and forth, “I like flowers...and rainbows!” 

The little girls love that one.  I swear, they visibly swoon.  

In particular, it's John’s office assistant, Lindsey, that he likes most of all.  He once commented to her while petting her long, blonde hair, “So cute!  Can you make me a grilled cheese sandwich?”

I’m baffled by his flirtatiousness, because I know he doesn’t get it from me.  I blame his father.  Aside from telling me about every one of his ex-girlfriends, John likes to remind me that he kissed his own babysitter when he was only twelve.  I’m fairly sure that’s John's own urban legend, I can’t help but think how amazing it is that the two of us even collided.


Sigh, but that’s a story for another day.


Yep, Kenny is the Charlie Sheen of the kindergarten sect.  His goddesses include his twenty-something swim instructor Cora, five-year-old neighbor Breena, and, of course, me.  He can be a bit demanding, but then again, what man isn't?


Every mother thinks her son is going to be a heartbreaker, and I'm no different. As I sit back and watch him work, I can only imagine what he's going to be like when he's a teenager.  


I just hope by then he'll quit picking his nose.

Where's Max?

“Where’s Max?” 

It’s a question I ask aloud several times a day, usually when it’s too quiet or when I’m up to my elbows in salmonella making dinner.  If the gate to the upstairs is left open, he will rummage through the older kids’ bedrooms looking for stale Cheetos or attempt to flush whatever is nearby down the toilet.  He’s never missing long and judging from the way he reacts when he’s recovered, I’m guessing he’d rather not be found.

The fact that our family has remained intact given our hectic schedule is no small miracle.  Weekday mornings usually begin with multiple attempts of waking uneager children, packing lunches that generally get left behind, standing at the bus stop, and dropping off kids to high school and daycare, which all takes place before 8:30 a.m.

Likewise, afternoons are just as hectic.  The real work begins after work when I practically sprint across the parking lot, chase the school bus to the top of Morgan Street, and begin what feels like endless trips to and from school and practices, sometimes until 9:00 at night.

Oh, and let's not forget the almost daily pilgrimages the store for milk that inevitably ends in several bags worth of groceries.  If I'm on my game, I can sometimes do this on my lunch half-hour.


With all the picking up and dropping off, there’s considerable opportunity for someone to get left behind. It doesn't happen often, but when it does happen, I feel my status as mom superhero wane a bit.

This past weekend, I forgot Max.

Again, he wasn't lost for long--five minutes, at most, but for those five minutes he didn't exist.  It wasn't until I was scanning Sam's birthday card for signatures that I realized Max's imprint wasn't there.

"Shit!  Where's Max?!" I blurted.

In his car seat, where I left him.  I raced out into the drive and flung open the van door.  From the safety of his restraints, he grinned at me and continued to play with his feet.

If he would talk, he'd tell you he wasn't lost at all.  Instead, he squirmed and squealed as I carried him inside, once again not yet ready to be found.