Birthday Boy

“I want a Thomas cake, and streamers, and balloons, and a piñata, and,” Kenny prattled on detailing what he wanted on his sixth birthday.  I almost stopped listening at piñata, but ever since Kenny decided it was well worth it to commit to talking, I’ve learned never to put a period where Kenny has placed a comma.

So far the only people who have made his birthday party A-list are Breena, our next-door ying to his yang, and Wes (or “West” as Kenny calls him), Mayle’s boyfriend.  Everyone else is just the usual posse. 

Except for Madison--he's been disinvited.  The two of them have not been copacetic lately. 

I’m inclined to do too much when it comes to Kenny.  I blame myself for his damaged early months.  It’s my mommy penance. Kenneth Montgomery arrived scheduled C-section January 23, 2001.  He was a healthy, pink baby with deep dimples in his cheeks.  Maybe it was because he was number five, or maybe I was a little too relaxed.   What began as a what I thought was a harmless cold raged into RSV.  In my memory, Kenny was born twice.  Once on his true birthday. The other when he began to breathe again on his own without the ventilator.

For Kenny, however,  my PTSD has worked out pretty well.  Whenever my mouth says, “No!” my memories kick in and suddenly he’s coming home from the store with a brand new train.

When I asked him what kind of present he wanted this year for his special day, he told me more Legos—police ones, this time. 

“I think they’re $500,” he said as he watched the commercial on Cartoon Network, without blinking.

When I expressed some concern with their cost, he quipped without turning his head to look at me, “You better get another job.”

It frightens me to think what Max will do with that many Legos. The ones he won't try to hide in his nose quite possibly will show up in his diaper.  


They're too expensive to throw away.  I hope they're dishwasher safe.

But it is Kenny’s birthday after all, and what Kenny wants, within reason, Kenny will get.  The piñata might be a bit of overkill, but knowing Kenny like I do, I know he's thought it through. Less guests equal more candy.  I just can't argue with logic like that.

Lost

The roles we played in childhood are the roles we hold onto when we’re adults.

For the most part, I’ve forgotten how I was when I was a kid.  Sometimes I’ll have intermittent rememberings, especially when prompted by questions from Kenny,

“When you were little like me, did you. . .” 

Fill in the blank.  Did I like trains, ice cream, or snowflakes?  And for a moment, I think back. 

And in the next exhalation, it’s gone.

Last week, my mom prompted me to think back a little longer than I normally do when she gave to me a card including the text of a lead she gave during her weekly Al-Anon meeting.  She wrote she was making amends to me, a “lost” child.

This made me think beyond being, as Kenny would say, little.  As I was growing up, I assumed my  “alone-ness” had more to do with location than my mindset.  Living miles out of town required creative transportation, so I blamed my social ineptness on circumstance.  There was no Facebook or cell phone to keep me connected to my friends, and it seemed that every call from Pitts Road was long distance. 

Regardless of the social limitations, I just liked being alone.  I liked my solitary time on the railroad trestle behind our house. It was there I dreamed big dreams of what life would be like if I were beautiful, articulate, and famous once I shed my caterpillar khakis for a butterfly makeover.

If I truly was lost, did growing up in an alcoholic home cause me to go missing or was I born lost? 

Although distressing to my mom, I’ve explained to her that I liked being lost. It sounds especially enticing now as I think of my adult life, in a house two sizes too small, packed to the rafters with my children and their friends.  Getting lost now is nearly impossible.

As for my brother impacting my role as a lost child, I’m not too quick to point any of my fingers.  In my own created family, I can see in all my children traces of a lost child, mascot, hero, scapegoat, and placater.  Family equals dysfunction, and children, for better or for not, are included by default. 

Today, Morgan Street is my grownup train trestle and it’s currently where I dream my big dreams, as well as now the dreams of my children.  Being beautiful or articulate doesn’t much matter anymore; my dreams have become more inclusive.

As for my mom’s regret over my being lost, no worries, I knew where I was all along.  And like a cat, I always came home when I got hungry.

That's Mine!

This morning, as I opened the refrigerator, I saw Mayle’s name in black Sharpie marker scribbled across a container of restaurant green beans.  I seriously doubt that anyone wanted to eat them for breakfast.  Certainly not Stancey—the worst vegetarian EVER; and most certainly not Kenny, because the only vegetables he’ll eat are pickles.

I wonder what was she thinking.  By now she should know if someone wants to eat your stuff, writing your name on it won’t deter them. 

I think outsiders have this misconception that large families are highly skilled in sharing.  In our house, this is not the case.  Aside from colds, stomach viruses and head lice, my kids share very little.   Rather, my kids are delusional.  Each one thinking they are all only children with all the benefits of being the only.

I wonder, have a raised a brood of greedy sponges or have I raised a brood of incompetent mathematicians?

Madison will not share his Coke Zero with anyone.  If he comes home from school and finds an empty soda box, there’s hell to pay. 

Stancey refuses to share her leftover Chinese food, even with me.  Never mind it’s my money she’s used to pay for it. 

And Mayle, as noted before, will not share her leftover shift meals, even though she drinks nearly a gallon of the milk I purchase nearly every day.

In fact, the only kid that is remotely unselfish is Sam.  Maybe’s it’s because he’s been threatened by his older siblings.  Or maybe it’s just that his football and board games hold no appeal to anyone else.  Whatever the reason, he’s at least open to the concept of sharing.

Max, lacking any self-control, wants to share everything . . . everything that doesn’t belong to him, that is.  In particular, he wants to share your toothbrush, your food, essentially your anything. Talk to Kenny, it’s his toys Max wants to share most of all.

Admittedly, I am not above not sharing.  It’s not that I don’t like sharing; it’s just that when my things get used unnaturally, I’d rather just not participate.  I’ve done the magic marker thing myself. It’s not above me to pen, “If you use my shit, put the damn lid back on!” 

The seeds for sharing are sown at home.

As are the seeds for stealing.

At present, there’s a fifty-fifty chance my children will either develop into philanthropists or petty thieves. 

I’ll let you know how that all works out.