A Chat with Uncle Rueben

We Leathermans went to a friend's daughter's graduation party earlier today.  As one might imagine, there were many people of varying relationships to the graduate; and we were the "friends-of-the-family" variety... all four of us.

Despite initial appearances, the Leatherkids are not shy.  They're very comfortable talking to just about anyone, adults included.  So it was no surprise that Cal had no problem interacting with Uncle Rueben.  Fortunately, Dan was around to witness some of it, the perhaps best of which follows:

Cal <to Rueben, the two of them sitting on the same swing seat>: "So, how old are you?"

Reuben <sensibly>: "I'm not telling you how old I am."

Cal: "You're not a girl."

Rueben: "Well, I know I'm not a girl.  But I'm still not telling you how old I am."

Cal: "How old do you think I am?"

Rueben: "Eight."

Cal: "No, six."

Rueben <foolishly>: "Well, you can add 50 to that, and that's how old I am."

Cal: "You don't look 56."

Rueben <pleasantly surprised>: "Oh, yeah... how old do I look?"

Cal <laughing>: "Uh... 92.  In four years, you'll look 96."

Rueben <joking>: "Well, if you keep it up, you might not see seven."

I don't know if Cal got the hint that he had insulted Uncle Rueben, but shortly after this exchange, he offered to make a trip to the kitchen for some treats for the two of them and returned with a plate full.

Two Moments in the Dells

Last year while in the Dells, I captured daily posts about our four-day, three-night stay. This year, I did not do that, not so much because it would have been the same stories as last year (afterall, we were staying at the same resort) nor because there were just no experiences worthy of sharing -- it wasn't the same and there were plenty of sharable experiences.  I'm in a bit of a lull with my writing, finding it hard to find the time and, when I do, finding it hard to stay on point.  I start with simple stories and find myself wandering into unfinished (and, as a result, unposted) novels.  It's already happening with this one.  Enough!

Anyway, we left the Dells today, three days after we arrived, two days after friends Pam and Joe left and one day after Cal's friend Colin and his dad left.  And from those four days with all of those people, there are two very simple moments I want to share.

Moment 1:
Pam and I were floating down one of the lazy rivers at the resort, keeping Cal in check. This year, he loved spending time in the lazy river not in or on an inflated tube but tubeless, half running and half swimming with the current.  When he was with Colin and Mark (Colin's dad), I was okay floating on a tube alongside Pam and well behind Cal; when Colin and Mark got out and Cal wanted to stay in, I insisted he stay with us and not stray far ahead.  He accepted this condition of his continuing to enjoy the lazy river and actually adhered to it without much reminder from me to do so.

All of this is the lead-in to the shareable moment about which I don't even remember all of the details.  I think Cal may have taken a break from his run-swim and grabbed on to my tube.  He wanted to say or ask me something and started with, "Mama..."

I don't remember what he said after that.  What I do remember is how incredibly special I felt at that moment when that beautiful boy... that miracle of a human being... that eventual independent man... called me "Mama" in his unique Cal voice.  He calls no one else "Mama," just me.  I am this kid's mom!  What a gift I was given!

Clearly this wasn't the first time Cal's called me "Mama."  I don't know what about this particular time struck me any differently than the others.  Perhaps it was his vulnerability and my instinct to protect him.  Perhaps it was because it was in the presence of my childhood friend.  Perhaps the moment was one of no stress, no need to rush out the door and no distractions that enabled me to really hear him.  Whatever it was, it was truly a special moment for me.

Moment 2:
Our days in the Dells started and ended with a visit to the indoor water park.  There were a few water slides in there worthy of some time and to try to enjoy them midday is next to impossible with the crowds.

Two of these slides require an inflated tube, and two do not.  All of them require that you be 48" to ride, else you need to ride with an adult (or not at all).  Yesterday, we finally convinced Ella to give the requiring-a-tube slides a shot.

She's four ("and a half" she now adds), so this was no easy feat for her little self.  Getting to the top of the slide required a long stair climb; and, once at the top, getting down the slide -- the first time an entirely unknown path -- required a lot of faith that her family and the lifeguard weren't leading her somewhere she really wouldn't want to go or be.

For Ella to go down the slide, she had to be positioned on top of me positioned over the rear hole of the figure-eight tube, her little buns situated between my legs and her body lying on my stomach and chest such that her head was snugly tucked into the left side of my neck.  As we were in our bathing suits, there was a lot of skin-to-skin contact.

Immediately after Cal and Ella were each born, the nurse or midwife placed my newborn baby on my bare chest.  They say skin-to-skin contact is a natural way to build and further the bond between a mother and her new baby after birth.  I understand it even has some health benefits for the baby, too.  Good for the baby, yes... good for this mama, absolutely -- it was a wonderful feeling when the kids were born and, evidently, still is.

Riding those water slides with Ella draped on top of me... feeling her skin on mine... feeling the weight of her little body on mine... feeling her trust in me... feeling her fears and knowing I would keep her safe... hearing her, copying me, say "thank you" to the guard as he pushed us down the slide... I could have ridden those water slides with her all day.  We probably did ride them for an hour and a half -- Ella leading us up the stairs, the two of us zipping down the slide and me making sure we didn't tip at the base of the slide or on any part of our navigation with the current to the exit for another round.  It took Ella's need to go potty and my brain kicking in to tell us to experience stuff outside to stop us.

These were two very simple moments in the Dells that pulled on my heartstrings without anyone knowing.  I am one happy, lucky mama to have been given these gifts.

Mommy, the Heel

There’s something about leaving my kids in the care of others for 11+ hours a day, sometimes longer when there are train issues (exhibit A: yesterday) that makes me feel like a heel of a mother on nearly a daily basis.  That’s a long day for my 6- and 4-year-olds that starts and ends with mad, terribly stressful rushes through our limited family time together, making it even worse.

Sure, I squeeze “I love you’s” in for the ears and hearts of both kids in the morning; but I’m sure their hearing it is muddied by the demanding “get your shoes on” and the snotty “if you had gotten dressed faster, you’d have time for some animal crackers” and my not-so-gentle brushing the knots out of Ella’s slept-on long hair as we race out the door.  The best is when I say “I hope you get blisters” when Ella chooses to wear her Crocs (sockless) over her comfortable New Balance running shoes despite my repeated pleas for her to choose the latter.  Nice mom.

At the end of the day, it’s not much better.  On a good day, we’re getting the kids from school just after 6pm.  They’re generally not the last kids to be picked up, so I’ve got that going for me.  Our greetings aren’t filled with excitement and hugs, having reunited after several hours apart.  Half the time, they’re smiley and cooperative; the other half, someone’s upset, be it me for having to beg them to stop what they’re doing so we can… just… go… home… or be it they for having their play or drawing time cut short so they can go home and be constantly parented by Dan and/or me.  And none of us actually say anything about it, but I'm sure we’re all dreading the hour and a half that’s ahead of us.

After deflecting Ella’s broken-record requests that we “go to a restaurant” virtually the entire time it takes us to get out the door of school and through the door of our house, the madness begins.  Chicken breasts aren’t thawed?  Nuts.  Think of an alternative, throw it together (sometimes with Ella’s (non)help) and call it a meal.  Reconsider buying canned or boxed meals –- they’d be so much easier but just so processed.  Announce, “dinner’s ready, wash hands” five times, get little to no reaction and either start yelling or just sit down to eat by myself.  Eat dinner -- Cal’s half sitting on his chair, constantly dropping food from his mouth and wiping his food-dirtied face with his shirt; Ella’s up and down, on her chair and off her chair, for one reason or another throughout dinner.  Fall into a negotiation about exactly how much dinner needs to be eaten in order to get a treat… and wonder, “one stinkin’ cookie is worth all of this?”  Give kids a cookie each.  Finish eating while Dan starts clearing the table and rinsing the dishes and watch him not put them in the dishwasher.  Put dishes in dishwasher while Dan and the kids head upstairs for showers.  Listen to battle of who gets to shower first… and then the battle to just get the kids to get their jammies, get undressed and meet in the bathroom for said shower.  Head upstairs to be the official dryer (or dryer helper if I'm in an encouraging-independence mood).  Sternly insist showers are taking too long, time to speed it up or “no books.”  Dry first kid off, tell her to get her jammies on and to brush her teeth (yes, Ella is typically first).  Do same for second kid.  Head to Ella’s room with Dan to perform the routine -– Ella picks books, Dan reads one, I read one, turn “Frozen” soundtrack on, cover Ella with crazy small “Blue Blankie” and nothing else, Dan leans over and gives Ella his good-night spiel, I do mine, start “Frozen” soundtrack over, blow kisses to Ella from the doorway, tell her “I love you” and acknowledge her “I love you, Mommy!”  Head to Cal’s room.  Pick non-fiction book to read to him.  Watch Cal rub Dan’s rough feet and call them both “weirdos” (and secretly wish he’d rub my tired feet).  Read book to him and try to retain facts myself.  Turn on the White Sox game on the radio.  Watch Dan give Cal goodnight spiel.  Give Cal goodnight spiel myself.

Take a breath.

My train was delayed just outside of the train station yesterday after work.  It was the infamous “switch problems” excuse.  When they announced that we were delayed 14 minutes (and still not moving), I realized I was screwed –- there was no way I’d get the kids before school closed at 6:30pm.  I arranged for a friend to get them and stay with them outside the school until I got there.  When I called to inform the school of this, I found myself on the receiving end of short responses and a judgmental tone that, in not so many words, suggested that I didn’t have my priorities right.  My poor kids.

What were my poor kids doing when I finally got to school?  Enjoying time with my friend. Taking a little hike around the school.  Playing red light, green light.  Telling my friend that we would be going to B-Dubs for dinner (really?).  Not stressed.  Happy and seemingly unaffected by my lateness.

So what did this heel of a mom do?  I took them to B-Dubs for dinner, of course, temporarily lifting my heel-of-a-mom label, which I quickly earned back by laying into them about taking way too long to leave school this afternoon.

Take a breath indeed.

Too Sweaty

I had probably given myself 10 minutes to cool down after my excellent run on Thursday morning before heading up the stairs to get showered and dressed for work when I ran into Ella who declared, "Mommy, I'm supposed to wear my camp shirt today."

On top of things as I always am (fer sure), I knew this and told her I had put it out on her dresser for her last night.  She ran to get it and quickly returned with it in her hand.  She told me that she didn't want to wear it to school, which was fine as long as she put it on for the field trip she'd be taking with her classmates later that morning.

I extended my hand to her and asked her, "Do you want me to put it in your backpack?" My head and shirt were still wet (the sweaty kind) from my run, and I'm sure a few beads of sweat were still visible on my forehead.

She pensively looked at me for a bit, concerned but considering my offer.  "Yes," she said, tentatively handing it to me.  "But don't get it too sweaty because I'll have to say, 'Teacher, my camp shirt is TOO SWEATY!'"

As careful as I was with it, I'm sure her shirt didn't make it into her backpack unscathed. I'm also sure it dried before Ella had to reveal any grodiness about it, put there by her sweaty mother.