The perpetrators were apprehended and after quite an ordeal, finally secured into my back seat. I had been careful of their heads, like I had seen on Cops, to not ram them into the door as I strapped them in. Now barreling down the road, I could see the two of them in my rear view mirror, downcast stares, the acknowledgment that they were busted. The swirl of red and blue lights lit up the contours of their soiled faces as I drove them to the drop spot. Guilt has an odd presence. It seems to seep from pores and stream from exhaled breath. The heaviness of it can engulf you and threaten to extinguish any light it touches. This guilt was no different and as I felt it’s cold familiar strangling sensation, one of the guilty spoke breaking the silence.
“Mommy? Can we unbuckle yet? I dropped my ambulance on the floor!” It was my four year old who spoke first, the seven year old didn’t dare. He was quicker to grasp when I had had enough and that nothing good could come from any further interaction with Mom at this point. And before I could open my mouth to answer, the four year old had wriggled out of his car seat to fetch his plastic ambulance. These toys usually come from the grandparents or other well-meaning relatives who haven’t had kids in their backseats for at least a couple of decades. Who don’t remember that a constant clattering of noise and flashing lights could, one day, in fact, be the catalyst that finally pushes a mother over the brink she has been teetering on into full-fledged insanity. The ambulance’s lights were still on, the siren had a minor tone to it as the batteries were wearing out. As I turned around to shut the toy off, my older son and I briefly made eye contact. I could discern his thoughts as if they were actually written across his face; “Just get me to the front of the carpool lane so I can get out of this car”.
Just then, as if on cue, the door opened and the teachers scooped the children out of the backseat with a gracious smile that relayed they had had a wonderful child-free weekend of adult activity and mornings to sleep in and were thereby energized and delighted to care for my little beasts for the next 6 and a half hours. I gratefully smiled at this strange breed of human who seemed to actually enjoy the constant swirl of chaos that accompanies caring for little children. The door shut and I drove off into my freedom, briefly glancing back to see their gigantic backpacks walking up the sidewalk. One purple, one gray. The only other body parts to be seen behind the enormous school bags were four, little legs popping out beneath, and two uncombed heads bobbing up and down, as if the backpacks, themselves had sprouted little appendages. I made a mental note to myself: when kids start riding school bus next year, get appropriate sized school bags.
Driving away, I now have the space in my mind to replay the insanity that had transpired over the first three waking hours of my Monday morning. It had begun the moment before my eyes pried themselves open. It was a knocking at my bedroom door by my four year-old. We’ll call him Lucifer for the purposes of this article. Little Luci was distraught because he couldn’t seem to find a silver mixing bowl which had accompanied his kitchen set we had donated to charity over a year ago. Apparently, he desperately needed this very bowl for his Zhu Zhu pet to use as a swimming pool, this very instant, at 6:30 am. The facts: Said bowl was last spotted in the hot tub a week ago and Lucifer had been outside on the patio for the last 20 minutes working the childproof clips to open the hot tub death trap and perform the rescue of the bowl. The rescue operation had failed and now he was making it very clear that this bowl fiasco was now my problem.
This information came to me in streams of broken 4 year old commands, demands and complaints, while I was beginning the first signs of the awakening process. I pulled the blanket up around my head and listened as the volume outside increased. The intensity of the bowl situation at my bedroom door was only to be usurped by his older brother’s louder knocks and poundings to gleefully announce that he had finally decided that he wants to have an “Extreme Challenge” birthday party in 5 and a half months when his birthday will finally arrive! Scuffling, punches and wrestling ensued because of seven year old’s infringement on door space and general lack of concern that Momo the Zhu Zhu pet won’t have a morning swim today. At this point, some may be wondering why the children are still outside the bedroom door…I sleep with it locked. Wouldn’t you?
My husband was nowhere in sight, probably downstairs hiding in the office. (They can’t ask you for things if they can’t find you.) Who could blame him? As I tried to formulate a thought that would hopefully transpire into a word, above named son became irate that I was “id-knowing him” (Just sound it out phonetically…ignoring him for those less familiar with the 4 year old speech) So the pitch and tone of his whining began to rise to high f note, I think. I only remember that this could be an F note on the musical scale as I have distinct memories of the lady at church every Christmas Eve shooting for this exact note at the end of Oh Holy Night. Afterward, my sister would comment, “She almost hit that F note this year!”
But the children are gone now, in a happy place with blocks and easels, paints and markers, kind faces and gentle reminders to use “indoor voices”. They are truly in a better place now. Someone else is meeting their needs and caring for their little minds. So I will drink coffee and clean up the breakfast mess. I will fold laundry and catch up on e-mails. My heart rate has slowed, brain patterns will soon return to normal, my own thoughts can re-enter, not crowded out by irrational demands like, “Mommy, can you make it Easter today please?” By lunchtime I will most likely change their names back to the originals and yes, by 3:00 maybe even be excited to see their little smiling faces when I pick them up at school. But for now, I will cherish the mind space that has been freed up to put toward other things like write about, talk about and think about them!
