A quiet stream with gurgling water, a spattering of rocks along the bottom. My young child plays nearby, the water just high enough for him to splash in without worrying about him getting hurt. I sit on a rock, my baby nestled in my arms.
I opened my eyes to a prenatal yoga class full of other heavily pregnant women. I struggled to stand up from where I was snuggled into a nest of yoga pillows and blankets.
The word ritual may evoke images of religious ceremonies with waving incense, but right now for my family, it means turning on Disney+ on Saturday mornings.
13
“I saved your life! I should be able to choose for just one day,” my seven year old declared.
He had a point.
“Just let me take care of you!” I yelled at my four year old as I chased him around our beanbag chairs. I was trying to get him to let me put a cold-pack on his forehead, which was rapidly developing quite the goose egg.
“It doesn’t really matter whose fault it actually is, we need to clean it up together,” I said to my kids, talking about some mess or another. I heard those words come out of my mouth as if I actually believed them. But I did really want to believe them.
I am a blame monster. If there’s blame to put on someone – even myself – I am on the case. I used to think that if you could blame someone for a problem, they would learn their lesson and not do it again.
Problem solved, right? Uh, no.
The door to my six-year-old’s room burst open and he bounced into the living room. “What do you want to eat for breakfast?” I asked, sitting on the couch.
“I want to make eggs!” he declared.
“Noooooo,” my older son yelped as we got near the front of the ride, backing away.
My first reaction was annoyance. I thought, “We’ve talked about this for weeks, if not months, and you’re going to back out now?” We were about to get on Space Mountain at Disneyland, my favorite roller coaster in the world. Riding on the one at Magic Kingdom when I was in third grade captured my imagination and sparked an unexpected love of thrill rides. My son – who loves roller coasters – had been desperately looking forward to it. Or at least he had until right then.
This may look like a plate of waffles to you, but it looks like growing up to me.
“Mickey waffles!” my five year old (nicknamed Sprout) declared, holding the box up and spinning around. The waffles responded by flying out of the box and smashing into the floor. There wasn’t a single clean waffle left.
“Goombas don’t have arms,” my three year old’s small voice declared from beside me.
Sitting on the floor next to his bed, I replied, “Hon, please go to sleep.” As fascinating as the anatomy of Mario brothers’ video game characters are, it was not a conversation I wanted to have that moment. I just wanted him to go to sleep.
Honk! the saxophone squawked as I held it just inches from my face. I winced. My five year old blew into the mouthpiece again, but thankfully didn’t produce any sound this time around.
“You made a noise! That’s great!” I cheered.
I flashed back to when I first started playing the saxophone in fifth grade. I was much older than my kids are now, but I’m pretty sure my initial efforts weren’t any better. My mom talked me out of taking up trombone – I understand why now.