The Sounds of Mother's Day

My Mother's Day began with a whimper and ended with a bang.

The whimper was from my husband, as 2 of our children awakened at 6:14 a.m. on Sunday morning. The sigh came from me, rolling over and burrowing deeper into the covers. (Hey, it was Mother's Day, I got to sleep in.)

The slam was from our bedroom door as my husband firmly informed our 6 year old Mommy was not to be disturbed. The whine and sniffle from the other side of the door was from said 6 year old as he went to have breakfast. The jiggle at the door was from our 18 month old, who apparently didn't understand or chose not to obey Daddy's edict.

The slap was the sound of aforementioned 18 month old's pudgy hand connecting with my cheek as he clambered up into bed with me. (Why do they always come to my side?) The whoosh was when Daddy retrieved our youngest son to redirect his considerable energy into something non mommy oriented: breakfast. (Since he hasn't been nursing for quite some time now, this wasn't as difficult as it once was.)

As I snuggled deeper into the covers, a sigh escaped as the muted sounds of breakfast dishes clanking drifted to my ears. No, wait, that wasn't clinking from the kitchen. It was our middle son, with his ever present Lego train (Toby). Our 3 1/2 year old had taken advantage of Daddy's momentary distraction and traversed the length of the hallway between his room and ours with stealth worthy of a trained sniper.

The thump was his foot hitting the wooden chest at the foot of our bed as he vaulted onto the small of my back. (I have to admit, the kid's coordinated.) The groan came from me as I accepted the inevitable and swung my legs onto the floor. As I escorted our son into the kitchen to join his brothers for a celebratory Mother's Day breakfast (Fruit Loops) I was greated with yet another wonderful sound.

The sizzle was the sound of my Mother's Day pancakes being cooked to perfection by my husband. He decided to spare me our 6 year old's recipe for pancakes, as dictated to and faithfully recorded by his Kindergarten teacher:

My Favorite Recipe

by

Matthew

Pancakes

Mix a lot of things like milk, water, and

strawberries in a bowl. Pour the dough in a

pan on the stove. Cook for 20 minutes. Take

a spatula and put it under the pancake. You

flip it over. When they are flipped over and done,

you put them on my plate.

The splash was the sound of the vase containing my Mother's Day flowers being overturned as our 3 1/2 year old hurried to get his share of the Fruit Loops breakast aperatif. Teh creak was from my knews as I got out the rags and towels required to wipe up the spilled water which made a melodic drip onto the floor.

Moving on to the afternoon....

There was blessed silence as our two younger sons settled down for naps and our oldest enjoyed a book. The peace was abruptly shattered by the announcement from our doorbell that there were visitors at our door. "I'LL GET IT" came from my oldest as he pounded to the front door. A debate ensued between 3 males between the ages of 6 and 8 as to precisely what activity the trio should engage in. A decision reached, my shout in the vicinity of my departing son's ears informing him when to return home echoed through the house as he raced off on his bike.

The thump was from the baby, who woke up and requested immediate evacuation from his crib by his usual method: tossing all the contents of his crib onto the floor. This didn't used to be a problem, as the items were all soft, cuddly, light stuffed animals. But when he figured out how to detch the toys we had attached to his crib in the vain hope of keeping him occupied until a decent hour of the morning (like, say, 5:30 a.m.) the thumps got significantly louder.

The giggling was from said 18 month old as I gave him zerberts during his upholstering (diaper change). The pitter patter of little feet came from our middle child as he woke up and went in search of an other upright members of his clan. He started giggling when I got a "surprise" from the baby during his diaper change. (What is it with little boys and peeing during the 1 1/2 seconds they're not covered on the changing table?)

The general chaos which precedes all five of us getting to leave the house involved the usual shouts, scuffling, and thumps as 2 adults located socks, shoes, and other paraphernalia required when actually transporting 3 children outside of their den. We picked up the oldest and his bike on our way to our hike at a nature preserve 4 minutes from our house (I love our house). Our hike was uneventful, just the usual squish as our children located and thoroughly explored every mud puddle along the path.

The splashing started from the baths that were necessary the moment we got home. I didn't even mind mopping up the bathroom floor from that, as it was accompanied by heartfelt declarations of "Happy Mother's Day" by my adoring fans. My husband's voice reading their bedtime stories was one of the sweetest I'd ever heard, as I was stretched out on the couch. (It even beat out the sounds of him cooking, serving, and cleaning up after dinner.

But the best sound of my Mother's Day had to be the sound of three little boys breathing deeply in their sleep after a busy day of making my day happy.

As I got into bed that night, ready to drift into oblivion, the final sound of the day was a crash from the kitchen. I got up to investigate, and found that one of the pots drying in the dishrack had succumbed to gravity. The perfect end to a perfect day.

The Picky Eater

Before I had kids, I promised myself I would have children that ate what was put in front of them. By golly, I was going to prove to the world that I was a Good Parent and I had Good Children that were properly grateful for the food that was set on the table.

Well. Our first child was relatively easy. All we had to do was remind him that his dessert was dependent on his eating his green beans, and viola! The green beans disappeared with truly astonishing speed into it's assigned place (the kid's mouth). He naturally came to expect the consequences of his actions, namely, a piece of brownie, two scoops of ice cream, or some other such delicacy.

Our second child was reared, foodwise at any rate, exactly like our first. The first year of his life went smoothly, if you just ignored the pureed sweet potatoe stains on the wall opposite his high chair. But when he turned two we began to experience some difficulty. After two days of untouched meals on his plate with the resulting "no dessert" clause in the parent-child contract, we began to wonder if our parenting skills need a little brush up. A return to school, if you will.

This kid will not eat vegetables, period. He hasn't had anything remotely resembling dessert for over four months, and we still can't get him to eat anything besides bread, pancakes, or Quaker Oats Squares. And did I mention that he's lactose intolerant? So he's drinking rice milk (too much soy goes through his system like ---- through a goose) which has no protein whatsoever. I've deep fried squash which I sliced to look like french fries in an effort to get this kid to eat something that remotely possesses nutritional value. To no avail. Bread (whole wheat) and maybe french toast if I catch him when the planets are aligned correctly.

He also doesn't eat fruit or even drink juice. I've watched him turn up his nose when he found the tiniest miniscule piece of fruit I (thought) cleverly concealed in pancakes and go to bed hungry. And don't talk to me about it's a discipline problem. He didn't eat for two days once when my husband and I decided to stand our ground and just continue reheating his plate from dinner. He grew listless, yet still refused to eat spaghetti!

My husband, who is an avid runner, in desperation purchased some chocolate flavored protein power mix in a last ditch effort to get at least some muscle building nutrients into the kid. The kid actually likes it, thank goodness, but it disturbs me to think that the only way we can get any kind of nutrients into his little body is through elaborate subterfuge camouflaged by chocolate.

I took him for his well baby appointment and related our concerns to our pediatrician. (Now, in all fairness, this was a new guy, as we had just moved to the area.) He looked me dead in the eye and said, "you need to be more creative as a mother".

I didn't even slug him. I just gave him a tight little smile and asked how many children he had. He admitted he and his wife didn't have any children just yet.

If anything, my smile grew tighter and wider as I bid him good day and wrestled my children out of the examining room. On the way home, I called my mother, who reminded me of my own extended dinner table hours faced with three green beans while the rest of the family enjoyed their dessert. Revenge, she said, is best savored cold. Especially with a bowl of ice cream.