Before I could put the car in park, he was unbuckling his seat belt. We were at Sonic where he is allowed to climb into the front seat with me and eat his burger.   If it’s nice, I open the sunroof and it’s our own version of a picnic.  We’ve been picnicking at Sonic since he was two and it’s kind of our thing that we do together, a time when we talk.

Going to Sonic with Sean is special for me because I went there every Tuesday for lunch when I was pregnant.  I hosted a small Bible study at my house with four older ladies.  Afterward we’d all pile into one car and go to Sonic and have lunch.  They would fuss over me and give me advice.  It was like having four moms which I really needed at the time since my own mother was three states away.  Even at my advanced maternal age, I needed and craved mothering.

Later, when Sean was two and started a mother’s day out program, we’d go to Sonic after I picked him up.  With just the two of us in the car, I’d discreetly reach over and turn on my little voice recorder while he chattered away.  When I go back and listen to those conversations and hear that sweet baby voice it turns me into a big gloppy mess.

As we sat in the car waiting for our burgers, we watched the car hops whiz by on roller skates.  I looked at him standing up on the passenger’s side, peering out the front window.  Tall and skinny, his head almost touches the roof. But in my mind’s eye, I saw a little boy with long blond curly hair who couldn’t see over the dashboard.

I asked Sean if he remembered the time he spilled the blue coconut slush in my car.  He said he did.

“Do you remember that I yelled at you?” I asked, wincing and hoping he didn’t.

“Yeah.  I remember,” he stated as a matter of fact with no trace of lingering ill will.  “I bumped it over on the seat.”

“Well, I know I’ve said it before, but I’m really sorry.  I wish I hadn’t yelled at you.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “You’re getting to be a better mom and I’m getting better at being more careful.”

“Well, just the same, I’m sorry,” I said again, not so much because he needed to hear it but because I needed to say it.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think how I’d like to do it all over again, start over right from the day I found out I was pregnant.  I’d do it better this time. I wouldn’t yell.

After our picnic, I took him to Target to let him pick out a toy for no particular reason other than he’s been a really good and helpful boy lately.  We’ve done some stringent expense cutting at our house since before Christmas and he has not once complained.

When we arrived in the toy department, a bin of rubber snakes caught his eye.  For twenty minutes or more, he went through the entire nest of snakes, examining each one like a jeweler with a loop, looking for the most perfect and flawless of rubber snakes.

‘Which one do you like best?” he asks holding up a baby blue cobra and a lime green rattler.

“I like the green one,” I say.

“Oh,” he says flatly.  He looks from snake to snake and I can see on his face that he can’t make a decision. He wants them both.  But he doesn’t ask.

A minute passes.

“You need to pick one; we can’t get both,” I say sounding like a bonafide grown up.

“I just can’t decide,” he says and sighs heavily to convey that the decision is causing him a great deal of angst and pain.

Even though it’s only a $3 snake, to give in and let him have both would be a mistake. It would be a violation of our family’s new financial philosophy.  And I had already clearly stated that he could only have one.  I had to stick to it. And I hated that.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” I said, “I think I’ll buy the green one for myself.  I’ve been wanting a rubber snake.”

“Really?” he asks, bewildered.

“Yup. Always wanted one.”

I grab the green rattler from him.

“I didn’t know that,” he says narrowing his eyes in disbelief, waiting for the punch line.

We lock eyes. He searches my face to see if I’m yanking his chain. He cracks a little half smile, not quite sure about his wacko mother.

“Let’s go pay for these,” I say.

He reaches for my hand and we turn and head towards the front of the store towards the cashiers, each clutching our very own rubber snake.

“I’m not good at coloring!” he sighs.  A gust of exasperation escapes his lower lip making his copper hair fly straight up off his forehead.  For a second, I get lost in his face and forget that he is frustrated and about to cry.

“I’m never going to be a good colorer!” His eyes become shiny with tears.

I  look at his paper. It looks pretty much like everything else I’ve seen him color lately, which to me, is artistic perfection.

I look back at him, not sure what really is needed here. I consider my responses:

Tough love:  “Snap out of it dude – you’re five. You color just fine.”

Encouragement:  “Sean, persistence is the key to life. You just keep trying and someday, in 44 years, you’ll be able to color as well as me!”

Validation:  “I love it! I think it’s fantastic!”

Commiseration: “Yup. You stink at coloring.”

Advice: “Have you tried holding your crayon properly?”

I say nothing and wait for more information.

“Everyone else at school colors better than me.”

He puts his forehead down on the counter. Silence hangs between us for a full minute.

I decide to go with a multi-pronged approach.

“Yup! You stink at coloring!” I say.

He pops his head up off the counter and stares at me with big eyes.

“Really?” he asks in disbelief.

“No.”

“Dude, you’re only five. You’ll get better and better at coloring the more you do it, and some day, if you’re lucky? You’ll be as good as me!”

This makes him roll his eyes. His mother is so lame.

“Besides! I love it!” I enthuse. I do. I love his artistic expressions, the way he draws people with no necks and big crooked smiles.

And then, because I couldn’t stop myself:   “Have you tried holding your crayon properly?”

On the few occasions when Sean and I have gone to McDonald’s for lunch, I can’t help but to notice the tables of young moms happily chatting and visiting while their children are off playing.

Everyone at the table is leaning in and engaged in a lively conversation. While their children are off playing.  How do they do it? How?

I have been invited to a handful of these kinds of play dates in my short tenure as a mother, and I have to be honest with you — I do not enjoy it. I find it to be very stressful.

In order to be a play date pro, you have to be able to carry on a conversation and remain oblivious to the fact that small children may or may not be setting the place on fire.

You know who would do great at play dates?  Those guys in the pits on Wall Street, the “yellers”. Those guys would be fabulous, because to me that is the equivalent of a play date – a maelstrom of noise and activity and incomplete conversations and littering.

I was told that after I became a mother, I would learn to filter out the noise.  Still waiting.

And it’s not really the noise so much, it’s that I’m fully aware that where two or more children are gathered, one of them will dream up something ridiculous to try. And at least one grown up should be paying attention.  And if I’m involved in an in-depth conversation about Capri pants, I can’t know if/when some kid decides to see how far a soda straw will go in someone’s ear.

So what usually happens at the play date is I try in earnest to focus on and participate in the conversation with the other moms.  I do.  But out of the corner of my eye or ear, I’m painfully aware that my child, or someone’s child, is running with scissors. Towards a busy street.  With an open prescription bottle. And some matches. And that I should probably try to stop them as opposed to listening to a fascinating story about the Capri pants that are on sale at Target.

And the urge to turn around and find out what is sending a signal to my momtennae is unbearable.  So I end up cutting the conversation off awkwardly and abruptly to tend to unattended children.

Of course, when you are in the habit of turning on your heel and running away in the middle of an adult conversation, you don’t get a lot of invitations.

Awhile back our church had a food drive of some sort and there were rows of filled grocery sacks lined up in the lobby.  As we walked past,  Sean noticed  that one of the sacks had a big bag of marshmallows on top.  “Oh Mom!” he exclaimed, “Do you think we could get some marshmallows some day?”  I told him I thought we might be able to swing that.

* * *

For his recent birthday,  he said he wanted a headset that had a mouthpiece so he could be an air traffic controller.  No problem.  I dug out an old telephone headset from the obsolete electronics box, wrapped it up and called it a birthday.  And he was thrilled.  Since then, many an airplane has been safely landed in my den.

* * *

And this! This is what he said he wants for Christmas. It just so happens that his teacher at school has one.

A trip to the teacher store this morning and $3.99 and my Christmas shopping is done.  Oh I’ll get him something else too — what kind of mom do you think I am?   I’ll probably spring for a nice orange or maybe even a new pair of underwear.

* * *

These days when I can make his every wish come true are golden, especially given that I can grant any wish for for $5 or less.  When his desires move beyond a bag of marshmallow or a roll of scotch tape, I could be in trouble.

Last Saturday, Sean had his first ever birthday party beyond the standard cake and ice cream at home with family and friends.

Last school year, we attended approximately 187 birthday parties thus making him fully aware that he was being rooked out of a party and that his mother was somewhat of a slacker in this regard.  So this year, we agreed to a class party.

Earlier in the year, Sean attended a birthday party at a nearby gymnastics place and it worked out well, so I totally copied and rented the same facility.  Why re-invent the party wheel? I see no reason.

So then this past week I spent my spare time trying to pull together the details for said party.  I really had no idea where to start.  Although I’ve attended kidlet birthday parties, I guess I wasn’t paying attention. There were midget barbarians and cake and that’s all I remember. I self-medicated with icing and the rest is a blur. 

So I set off to Party City looking to get a clue and buy a party. 

When I got there I trolled up and down the aisles looking for shindig supplies and hoping what I needed would become apparent and jump in my basket.  I settled in a row that seemed to have boy party stuff.  I stood looking at a wall of party hats and party favors and party napkins and all manner of party crap supplies wondering what in the heck I was doing.  Another mom was in the aisle filling her basket like one of Santa’s elves.  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I said more or less to myself. 

“What’s your theme?” she asked helpfully. 

“Theme?” 

She nodded expectantly. “Batman? Spiderman?” 

“Well, I really haven’t decided on a theme just yet,” I lied. 

A look of horror came over her face.  She seemed shocked and appalled by this bit of information. 

“Well, once you decide on a theme, you can decide on a center piece,” she chirped.  

“Oh,” I said and nodded knowingly as liars often do.  It had not occured to me that five-year-olds would give a flip about a center piece. 

I stood there for another 30 minutes scratching my head and looking at “themes” from Batman to Sponge Bob.  Nothing seemed right.  By design, Sean has no idea who any of those characters are.  I finally decided the theme was Birthday and the center piece would be Cake. And for a creative and unexpected touch I would have balloons.  

I ordered 15 theme-less balloons and left the store. 

Fun and cake was had by all the midget barbarians in spite of the lack of theme. 

However it is highly likely that I will not be put in charge of class parties any time soon. 

See? There is an upside to being incompetent.

Here’s one more thing I don’t get about parenting:  snacks.

Apparently, if children are gathered, there must be snacks.  I had no idea about the snacks. The nurse didn’t mention this at the hospital when they handed Sean over.

We are in our second season of baseball and last year I learned the hard way about the snacks when one of the moms asked who was bringing the snacks.

“Snacks?” I blurted. “What do we need snacks for?”

And everyone looked at me like I was Joan Crawford weilding a coat hanger.

I just didn’t get it. It was an 8am game. I had just fed Sean breakfast. We would be home at 9:30.  I thought I was a pretty good mom because I had remembered to bring him a bottle of water. Why the snacks? Why? I really do not need another thing at which to fail.

So that I would not have to endure the wrath and contempt of the baseball moms who intuitively understand about snacks, I signed up for snacks. And then I went home and wrote SNACKS! on sticky notes and put them all over the house so that I wouldn’t forget and get stoned by an angry mob of snack demanding moms and 4-year-olds.

We are in our second season of baseball and I am now in the know.   I know about the snacks, oh yes I do. I found the snack coordinator and signed up right off the bat.  (Oh how I crack myself up.)

Sean’s games are on Saturday morning, but due to Hurricane Ike a few Saturday’s ago, we had a makeup game on a Monday evening. And no one brought snacks (cue audience gasp).

The next Saturday, I was sitting in the stands behind some baseball moms and I overheard one of the moms telling the others in a hushed tone about the Monday night “snack mishap”.

The phrase ”snack mishap” cracked me up. I laughed out loud — which if you were sitting two rows in front of me would appear to be for no apparent reason.

So then, now I’m the weird anti-snack mom who also laughs inappropriately.

I’m hoping Sean will take up golf. I hear there are no snacks in golf.

One day, when Sean was somewhere beyond a year old but not yet two, I was walking by the oven and unexpectedly, he reached out and grabbed the handle to the oven door. He grabbed so tightly that it yanked me backwards and backed me up a few steps. And he wouldn’t let go.

So being an irresponsible but fun-loving parent who often uses her child solely for her own amusement, I set his teeny tiny feet on the door of the lower oven and removed my hands from him (about an inch). He let out a squeal of joy that was heard in the heavens.

Thereafter, anytime I would walk past the oven, he would grab onto it and I would let him stand on it removing my hands from him a little further each time. Eventually it got to the point where he would crawl in front of the oven, pull himself up and point upwards and grunt. I know. The weirdness, it is genetic and it comes from my side of the family, my mother’s people. He is also an amazingly strong, sure-footed little fella, a trait that also comes from my side of the family.

All that to say, in the picture in yesterday’s post, Sean is actually standing on the oven and I am barely out of the frame spotting him. So I may have overstated the creativity of the cropping. It wasn’t all that creative. However, In the 45,000 times he stood on the oven, he never once came close to falling.

Here’s a picture of him post-oven standing so you can see the joy and why I was unable to say “No my child, you may not stand on the oven.”

Photo Temporarily Unavailable

This picture was not taken in 2002. However it was taken before we figured out how to change the date on the camera. I guess I could have Photoshopped that out.

I thought I’d show y’all this picture of Sean when he was about a year old so that you might realize that letting him ride his bike on the front lawn without a helmet is not even close to the most questionable of my parenting practices.

And now you can say, “Well at least I never let my baby hang off the front of the oven!” and go away feeling better about your own parenting. I am here to serve. My gift to you.

* * * * *

Note: Creative cropping people, creative cropping. And, the oven is not ON because, Hello!? Safety first.

One of the many many delicious things about having a four-year-old about the house is that you can really get away with yankin’ their little chain, because, you know, they are only four and they’ll believe almost anything you tell them.

I know. I know. It really says something about you when you can trick a four-year-old.

On the other hand, I once convinced my Cousin Cheryl that I had won a trip to Zimbabwe in a random drawing when I purchased some luggage at Foley’s. None of it was true – no luggage, no drawing, no trip to Zimbabwe. I don’t even know why I brought it up. At that moment, it just seemed like fun to yank Cheryl around a little and luggage came to mind. It almost made me sad when I had to tell her the truth a day or so later. She used to live in Africa and I think she was trying to figure out how she was going to go with me.

It’s kind of thrilling to see if you can come up with just the right detail and insert it in just the right spot with just the right amount of nonchalance to convince the victim and then gauge their expression to see if they are buying into it.

I also once convinced AD for more than a week that Rhode Island was named after my mother’s ancestors who came to America in the 1700s. My mother’s ancestors did come to America in the 1700s but so far as we know, no one named a state after them, even a small one. (He just reminded me that he recently convinced me the remote control was voice activated. For a full five minutes I was talking into the TV remote saying, “Volume up! Volume up!”  So you see, it works both ways.)

Be that as it may – story telling or chain-yankin’ as the case may be is one of my many non-income producing talents and makes me very popular and well-loved among family and friends as you might well imagine.

And now I have a four-year-old to mess with (rubbing hands gleefully).

This morning, Sean slept in a little later than usual and so I took the opportunity to make some muffins. When he finally got up and followed his nose to the kitchen they were done and sitting on the stove cooling.

“Oh mommy, did you make muffins?” he asked.

And I could not stop myself.

“These? No I didn’t make these.”

“Well, who did?”

“Well, funny you should ask,” I said with just the right degree of nonchalance.

“I was here in the kitchen working on my computer at my desk, when I heard a little bell in the distance. Sounded just like an ice cream truck and I thought, ‘That’s weird, an ice cream truck this time of day?’ but I didn’t think anything more about it and I went right back to my computer.

Well, the next thing you know, I heard a little tap tap tap at the kitchen window and I looked up and there was a little round man wearing a white hat standing in the shrubs and motioning me to the window. I raised the window just a bit and oh my goodness, the sweet smell of something filled the air, like cake or cookies or something. ‘Yes?’ I asked him, ‘Are you here to check the meter?’ ‘No ma’am’ he said ‘I’m the muffin man and I was wondering if you’d like some muffins.’ ‘Why yes!’ I told him, ‘My little boy loves muffins! What kind do you have?’ He said he had blueberry and bran and so I said we would take six of each.

Well, he walked down the driveway to his little white truck and when he opened up the two little doors in the back – oh my! The aroma of fresh baked muffins filled the entire neighborhood! The smell was so captivating that the birds fell right off the telephone lines. He had a little bitty bakery right in the back of his truck! Can you imagine such a thing?! Well, he came back with the muffins and I handed him some money through the window. I turned to set them down and when I looked up to thank him he was gone but for the sound of a little bell in the distance.”

Sean cocked his head and squinched one eye shut. “Are you teasin’ me?” he asked skeptically.

“Sean,” I said, “I would not tease about something as serious as muffins.”

“I think you’re teasing,” he said.

Then he got up and looked out the front window.

Saturday morning, after breakfast, I scooped Sean out of the barstool he was sitting in at the breakfast bar and spirited him off to the kitchen counter to wipe blueberry goo from his face and hands and legs before he ran off to spread blueberry goo throughout the kingdom. 

As I carried him around the breakfast bar, he clasped his sticky blue hands behind my neck and wrapped his long legs around my waist and tried to plant  bluberry kisses on my nose which I pretended to rebuff. 

I looked into his blueberry blue eyes and thought about how I used to sit him on the counter in a blue feeding chair and sing silly made-up songs to him to get him to eat.  He would laugh a toothless laugh and then open his mouth wide like a hungry baby bird.  My spirit would float up to the ceiling as light as a feather to think that I had made him laugh.

Now he feeds himself and my made-up silly songs annoy him more than amuse him. 

At that moment I was hit by that invisible chest crushing blow that I sometimes get when I realize that I am no longer a new mom and he is no longer a new boy.  That season of our lives is over.

I plopped him down on the counter and began rubbing blue residue off his hands and face and legs with a wet washcloth.

“Oh Sean,” I sighed, “I’d like to put you back in my tummy and do it all over again.  Only this time I’d do it better,” I said.  “I know what I’m doing now.”  I allowed myself to retreat to a quiet place in my mind as I scrubbed and imagine the joy of doing it all again and the mistakes I wouldn’t make.

Just then the air was pierced with a jarring yelp.

“Ow!” he screamed. “Stop rubbin’ Mom! That’s not blueberries!  That’s my boo boo!”

I had rubbed a little scab off his ankle and it was bleeding.

Huh. Whadya know. Looked like blueberry goo to me.

Or then again, maybe I still don’t know what I’m doing.