THAT Old?!

We were visiting with some friends when my husband used a phrase I had never heard of.

“Where do you come up with these things?” I asked.

My friend looked up from the game board and said, “That phrase has been around forever.”

“Ok,” I replied, “but I’ve never heard him use it. Sheesh! I’ve been with him for over half my life. You’d think I’d have heard all the phrases he knows by now.”

“You are that old?!” Daryl asked.

“What?”

“You are old enough to have been married to Daddy for half your life?”

“Well, I said ‘been with him’ but we’ve actually been married for over half our lives too.”

“But what about your childhood?!”

“My childhood was a lot shorter than adulthood has been at this point.”

“Besides,” my husband said, “We were 18 when we got married. We were kids.”

Daryl had another hysterically funny-yet-insulting-to-his-mother line after that, but by the time we got home, I had forgotten it. Guess I am getting old.

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Remembering Grandma’s Grandpa’s House

We joined hands in a large circle around the island in my mother’s kitchen. There were 18 of us in all. My uncle said grace and we prepared to eat our Thanksgiving meal.

“Kids! Come over here and go through the line,” someone said shortly after the amen.

I grumbled to the person next to me, as I do every year, “Kids didn’t get to go through the line first when I was a kid. We always had to go through last.”

The person to whom I grumbled happened to be my 89 year-old grandmother. She laughed and attempted to remember how things had been handled when she was a child. She began to describe her grandparents’ house.

“Grandpa had a chair in the corner of the room,” she said. “His radio stand was right next to it. The dining table was over there.” She motioned with her hand. Her hands and words painted the picture of a cozy Thanksgiving gathering.

“The kids would run around playing,” she continued. “And eventually we’d get too loud and Grandpa couldn’t hear the radio anymore. So he’d start yelling in German.”

At this point, she startled me by uttering some words in German. I knew her parents had both been first generation American-born citizens of German descent. I had never considered that that likely meant German had been spoken around her as she grew up. I had never considered that she might know any German herself.

She cut off the German abruptly and chuckled at the memory.

“They didn’t have screens in their windows,” she said. “And I remember some of my cousins diving headfirst out the windows. They weren’t very far off the ground. But when he started yelling, you got out of the way!”

She smiled as we walked over to pick up our plates. “I don’t remember though whether we got our food first or last. I don’t remember what we ate or how we did it.”

I don’t know about you, but if she couldn’t remember it all, I’m glad she retained the radio, the German, and the cousins flying out the windows rather than who went through the line first and what they piled on their plate.

Just Another Mystery of Motherhood… Solved

I do the laundry every weekend. This weekend, my husband helped out by running a couple of loads through on Friday. I fold the laundry in our bedroom, making neat little piles for the boys to take to their rooms or for me and my husband to put away in our closet. But something was missing from the piles this past weekend.

Several somethings, actually. I began to wonder if maybe my husband was inept at collecting the laundry, but the hampers were empty. I would have expected approximately 14 of these somethings and instead there was only one. One pair of little boy underwear. Just one. I stared at the piles in disbelief as I finished folding the last load. One pair of underwear – Hal’s.

So let me get this straight, I thought to myself. Hal only changed his underwear once this week. And Daryl… Daryl never changed them at all. He’s still wearing the same underwear he wore a week ago? But he’s showered! Surely he didn’t put stinky, crusty underwear back on day after day?

Daryl, of course, insisted that he had changed his underwear. He couldn’t explain the lack of any clean pairs in the laundry. “Maybe someone took them out of the hamper,” he suggested.

Riiiight.

The mystery went unsolved until last night. Jane declared the bathroom floor a mess. I concurred and instructed Hal to pick up all the towels that were on the floor and take them to the hamper. So he picked up the five towels that littered the floor and this is what remained:

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We found the underwear. Eight pairs – four each exactly. So four showers. Four pairs of underwear. That’s about right since they fight taking showers so much, I only require showers every other day (unless they’ve gotten sweaty and/or dirty). Of course, they are still supposed to change their underwear…

But I guess I’ll take two-day underwear wearing over seven-day. Small comforts.

Relative Importance

This morning, my boys were having a discussion about the relative importance of things.

Daryl, the puberty-entering near-twelve year old, was sitting at the dining room table, eating his cereal and milk. Hal, the learning-to-read-efficiently near-seven year old, was sitting in the living room, reading a book.

“Hal,” Daryl called out. “You need to come eat your breakfast.”

“I’m reading!”

“So? You need to eat breakfast.”

“Reading is important.”

“Not as important as eating breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You need it to fuel your body for the rest of the day.”

“Well, reading is more important than eating!”

“No it’s not! You have to eat or you’ll die. You can read after you eat breakfast.”

When I related the conversation to my husband, Hal clarified his reasoning. Turning to his brother, he said, “Well, what if you ate poison, huh? If you ate poison, you’d die! And what if that poison had a sign on it that said ‘poison’? If you read it, then you wouldn’t die. But only if you can read!”

Who can refute such logic? Certainly not an older, thinks-he’s-so-wise brother.

The Great Lizard Race

The lizard skitters along the road, no cares in the world. Sure, there are people here but they mostly leave him alone. Besides, they can’t catch him. A few of the little ones have tried.

A boy appears along the road. The boy sees the lizard. The boy remembers the conversation over dinner the night before. Specifically, the part about the lizards. His family had commented on how fast the lizards were. I bet I’m faster, he thinks to himself. And then, on the kind of whim that only young boys seem to have, he decides to prove it. He takes off running.

The lizard doesn’t know he’s been challenged to a race. He only knows one of the not-so-little-but-not-full-sized people is running roughly toward him. He picks up speed accordingly.

The boy steps it up a notch. He is faster than the lizard. He knows he is. He runs alongside the lizard, gaining ground. He’s winning! He’s winning! He knew he was faster!

Suddenly, the lizard leaves the boy in his dust. The boy doesn’t know what happened. He was winning. And then he was on his back, dazed and confused. He rolls over and struggles to his knees. He sees a rock nearby. He crawls over to it before attempting to stand.

Once on his feet, he sees a concerned woman nearby. “That was quite a crash. Are you OK?” she asks.

He stares back at her blankly. She asks again. He mumbles his response before heading off to find his mother.

At least, that’s how we think it happened. We have to fill in the blanks because my son Daryl, the great and mighty lizard racer, doesn’t remember anything between winning the race and the second time the woman queried him.

When he walked away from the woman, she assumed he was embarrassed and trying to act tough. He entered the room where his sister and I were working on our stained glass projects. He was sweaty and agitated. I could tell something was wrong but was unsure whether he was in physical or emotional pain.

“Mommy,” he started shakily. He looked back behind him and then turned back. His words came out in a rush. “I was racing a lizard and I ran into that white thing out there and… and… and… my head really hurts! It hurts so bad!!”

He grabbed his forehead and burst into tears.

Jane hurried to get some medicine out of her backpack while I gently moved his hand to check his forehead. There was nothing there. No bump or bruise or abrasion. I found a nasty line of bruising on his right forearm, but nothing even remotely tender on his forehead.

“You said you hit your head?”

“Yes. It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!”

This was not like him and I was confused. I glanced out the window. “What did you hit your head on?”

“That white thing out there.” He motioned vaguely out the window. I didn’t see a white thing that he could have hit his head on. I gently pulled him outside and asked him to show me.

He pointed to a white barrier, about three feet off the ground, that was essentially permanently across the road between the buildings at the camp and conference facility we were staying at.

“Honey,” I said patiently. “There’s no way you could have hit your head on that. Especially not at the same time you hit your arm.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t hit my head then. But it really hurts!”

“Maybe you didn’t? Did you or didn’t you hit your head?”

“I don’t know!”

I was confused and a little concerned. I sent him back to our room to tell his Daddy and then went back into the stained glass room to gather my things for my basketry class that was starting in a few minutes.

When I came out of the room, my husband and son were standing nearby and my husband was trying to get a handle on what happened.

“So you were chasing the lizard and then…?”

“I was racing the lizard.”

“Ok. And then what happened?”

“I don’t know. I think I hit my head.”

We exchanged glances. I ran my fingers through Daryl’s hair. He winced. I checked the back of his head, where I could see that a portion of his scalp was red.

“Did you hit the back of your head?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you have for lunch today?” my husband asked, after checking the abrasion on the back of our son’s head.

“I don’t know.”

“Daryl,” I said sharply, getting worried but hoping he was just playing it up for some sort of perceived benefit. “This isn’t funny. It’s very serious. Don’t think that it’s better to act like you don’t know what’s going on. You won’t like where this is headed if you can’t answer our questions. So please don’t play it up. What did you have for lunch?”

“I don’t know.” Lunch had been less than two hours earlier. Each ‘I don’t know’ statement was delivered the same. He wasn’t getting irritated or defensive. He was just calmly and a little distractedly answering. This didn’t feel right.

“What did you have for breakfast?” my husband tried.

“I don’t know.”

“What day is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Shoot, honey!” I said. “Jane couldn’t tell you what day it is. It’s summertime! Daryl, what did we do yesterday while Daddy was at his meeting?”

“We waited.”

“Yes, we waited at first. But then we went and did something. What did we go do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You and Sissy and Hal and I. We all put on our swimsuits. What did we go do?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at my husband. We were at least a half hour from the nearest hospital.

“I’ll take him back to the room and keep an eye on him,” he said.

So I went with Jane into our basketry class, where I sat down next to a woman who turned to me and asked, “Is your son OK?”

I glanced up sharply. “Did you see what happened?!”

“No, but I heard it. I thought he was on a skateboard or something – it made so much racket.”

“No, he was just running. Racing a lizard. What happened? Where was he?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I guess he ran into that road barrier. He didn’t get up right away. He crawled over to a rock first.” She would later decide that she was pretty sure he had been on the far side of the barrier, crawling under it to get to the large rock. This led us to believe that he had likely run into the barrier, flipped over it, and landed on his back, hitting the back of his head.

With a pediatrician and two nurses attending the conference with us, not to mention my husband’s own past emergency medical training, we decided that we did not (yet) need to take him to an emergency room. In fact, he seemed to be doing better that afternoon and soon returned to his own sketching class, with Dad in tow to keep an eye out for further symptoms.

For the rest of the week, he’d complain of headaches if he was too active. He felt a little nauseous the first day. We nixed his participation in the high-ropes course on the last full day and grew irritated with him when he reported a new headache after spinning on the tire swing “really, really fast”.

It’s hard to get kids to take brain injuries seriously.

But he rested as much as could be expected and limited his screen time and tried to take it easy. It’s been three weeks since the concussive conclusion of his lizard race. He’s doing much better.

And he’s learned to grin sheepishly when folks ask him if he’s seen any lizards lately.

The Great Elevator Chase

We finished breakfast our last day in Knoxville after the Destination Imagination Global Finals closing ceremony. Hal was eager to return to the room – actually, he was probably just eager to return to the elevator buttons. It must have been heaven to be the only child at the hotel all week (the other two being at the dorms with their teams) and having no contest on who got to hit the buttons.

Jane was now with us, preferring to ride home in our company rather than on the bus. The three of us full-size folks headed down the hallway to the elevators. Someone was getting out so we stepped in. But Hal was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Hal?” I asked, suddenly unsure whether I’d seen him run off specifically down this hall or maybe some other direction.

“He’s on the third floor,” my husband responded confidently. This didn’t sit well with me but it seemed reasonably likely that Hal had decided to make the journey to our room on his own. I entered the elevator and rode to the third floor. Once there, I stayed in the elevator while my husband checked the hallway. No Hal.

“Ok, I’m going back down to the first floor,” I said, pressing the button. Just as my door was closing, I heard the other elevator door open and saw Hal dart out of it. I stopped my door from closing just in time and, probably not in a happy or relieved voice, asked, “Hal! Where were you?!”

I was confused on how he could have gotten in an elevator before us and arrived after. Or if he hadn’t been ahead of us, how he could have caught up that quickly. And I was annoyed at how close I had been to searching the bottom floor fruitlessly until (presumably) being called back to our room.

Hal was equally flustered. He was obviously upset with us, and my apparent unhappiness with him was simply too much. He didn’t quite cry but it was obvious he needed a hug. So I hugged him, assured him it was all ok, and eventually extracted the rest of the story from him.

He had, indeed, headed to the elevators ahead of us. And he had, indeed, secured an elevator and entered it. He attempted to hold if for his slowpoke family but the door began to close against his wishes. He then tried to push the button that would open the door, but he pushed the wrong button and the door completely closed.

That’s when we walked up and the other elevator happened to open and deposit a family onto the first floor. They walked away and we entered the elevator, discussing the possible whereabouts of Hal. As our door began to close, Hal had managed to get his elevator to return to the first floor (if it ever actually left, I wasn’t quite clear) and to open its door.

It opened in enough time for him to hear us getting on the other elevator. He didn’t have time to catch our attention nor join us, although he apparently tried. Fortunately, he’s a bright and resourceful young man, who quickly returned to his elevator and arrived at the third floor right behind us.

It was a comical moment. One that Hal and I were both able to enjoy immensely after the stress of unplanned separation was overcome.

There’s A Story Here

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There’s a story here.

I’m not sure what the story is, but this is definitely not some random collection of dropped toys. Someone very deliberately arranged them exactly how he wanted them.

What story is he trying to tell, I wonder?

Is the circle of vehicles friendly or hostile?

Is the fireman in trouble or leading the group?

If leading, are they up to no good or about to save the world?

Is it significant that the fireman’s fire extinguisher is a foot away, well out of his reach?

Why is he lying down?

Maybe that indicates he’s in trouble. But I could have sworn the Autobots were the good guys. Maybe they found him collapsed and are now asking if he’s ok.

When did they assemble?

And why weren’t they put away when their creator went to bed?

And did I really need to use the flash, thereby exposing to the world how desperately we need to vacuum?

I’ll just ask that you pretend that’s the only part of the carpet that looks like that. And I’ll have to ask the boy to tell me the story. I know he’s got one.