The day of the funeral for J's grandma started early. Darn early. Strong coffee in the dark early.We packed up the car and carried disoriented, pajama-ed Littles to their car seats and strapped them in. We drove almost four hours, we arrived.
I hauled the disheveled crew into the church bathroom and got them changed and brushed, braided -and warned. This was going to be a quiet time. It was important that we be patient. Respectful. Haven't I mentioned how seriously Catholics take their churching? They needed to be on their very best behavior for the length of the service, and then there would be a reception. With a kids table! They nodded, we went in.
Our family was seated in the first pew. The very front, Peanuts. In a church that was jam packed all the way through the vestibule and to the door. Generations of family, and friends from other families, who have lived in that town and attended that church for not just generations, but hundreds of years.
It started out all right. The Littles were a little tired, a little hungry. But their second cousin came to sit with us, and that helped. At first.
After awhile, though, the boredom began to eat away at their sanity. Missy, in particular. In fairness to Her, She was not exactly misbehaving. She was not cranky, She was not fussing. She was just admiring the flowers, noticing a bird out the window, wondering if it was lunch time. Out loud. She wasn't screaming, or whining either, but in that little chapel in the hush of a funereal crowd, Her sweet little voice was as obtrusive as a locomotive letting off steam. I kept Shhhing Her.
All the kids began to squirm a little. Not to worry! I am a prepared Mama, am I not, Peanuts? I plan ahead, I know what I'm doing here, amiright, Peanuts?! I saw the antsy-pants and headed off the meltdowns with my genius solution- crayons. And coloring books.
This magical combination has served me well in many a pinch. It has even been the key to breezing through entire Catholic masses! So of course, I had great confidence. Except. Constantly turning pages and scribbling hard over a hollow wooden pew turn out to be noisy activities in a certain setting. Not to mention three very sweet children who would not stop sharing -
"Can I have the blue one? Thanks!" During the invocation and "Here! You want this pink and green one?" during a bible reading and "Hey I'll trade you these three for your yellow!"
Who would not stop enjoying themselves- "Hey that's a really great rainbow!" when everyone was tearing up and "MOMMY! Look at my dol-pins they ah jumping ina ocean!" during a moment of silence.
And then, of course, the occasional "PLINK!...Roll....Roll....roll-roll-rollroll-rooooolllll" of a crayon to the back of the church, beneath somber feet.
So the thing is. Despite the fact that Miss wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, per se, She was constantly and with increasing agitation getting SHUSHED. This was annoying. So annoying, that finally, She'd had about enough of it. I mean. Her sister was all engrossed in coloring with the cousin, Her dad was holding Her sleeping brother. Poor Missy had no one to play with but me and I was being an infernal killjoy.
She was telling me all about Her picture, and would. Not. Stop. So I scolded Her as quietly as I could, admonishing Her to PLEASE be quiet. And it was the Sshh that broke the camel's back. The hands, Peanuts. The Missy hands went to the hips. This began a domino reaction.
The hands to the hips, the hips swung to the left, they cocked the head, which swished the pigtail, just over the forehead which furrowed and frowned above the eyes, which glinted and glared, highlighting the grimace on the little mouth, which opened to emit- the holler.
And the holler said, "NO!"
I knew that Missy would repeat this answer as many times as needed until I learned not to interrupt Her. So I picked Her up, and stepped out of the pew box. She knew, in that moment, what was happening. That She'd lost. And so She LOST it. I am talking an all out, kicking legs, screaming at the top of Her lungs, world class, grade A tantrum.
And so I got to carry this thrashing siren. AAaaaalllllllllll the way down the isle of the church. Through the packed vestibule. Out into the parking lot.
Having a small child is like Russian Roulette. Every time you see a child having a tantrum in public you think- it's not me! This time. But then one day. One day, guys. POW! You're That Mom.
And, if you're really lucky, it happens in the front row of a church. During a funeral.
Miss and I had a really, really serious talk in the church parking lot. A come-to-Jesus, if you will.
After which I got to carry Her aaaaaaallllllllll the way back up aisle and into the front row to finish the service.
The talk worked, and the rest of the morning passed without any incident other than Little One beaming a cousin in the back of the head with a snowball. Which I was actually a little impressed by.
But then, there was the lull between the service reception and a family dinner. In the lull, we met J's cousin and Her family at a museum. We got there first. We soon realized that the museum was closed for the season. We realized this because Missy suddenly took on an expression of horror and announced that She wasn't feeling well. I was feeding the baby and J just grabbed the kid and ran.
A little later I looked and saw J's head stooped over some shrubbery. In the garden of the museum courtyard. Not 3 yards from the locked front door.
I grabbed our portable travel potty and ran like I was on fire squeaking "J! J!! You can't- She can't- this is a muSEum!" He looked up at me, exasperated, holding the hem of Missy's skirt. "What was I supposed to do?!" He asked. "It was BAD." Poor Miss. She was very upset. And very much a mess. I had to use plastic bags to attempt to decontaminate the landscaping and to dispose of some clothing. We went through a lot of wet wipes, and I kept looking over my shoulder for security cameras or police, or judgement day. But in the end we got everyone decently sanitary and into extra clothes. We met up with J's cousin's family and set out on the walking trail to take in the scenic lake and historical structures.
Along the way, the kids found a duck. It was one of those decoy things duck-hunters use on the lake, and had been left laying around. The kids loved it. I mean, it looks just like a real duck! I don't know if it worked out for the hunters, but the children certainly thought it was worth flocking to. They played with it, toted it, dragged it on it's rope like they were walking it on a leash. In a few short minutes, it had become a family pet. When we stopped for a break outside the open gift shop, Little One made an announcement.
"Ours duck needs a name! Lets name it!"
The other littles cheered and nodded in agreement.
"Yes! Ok! We will name it a good name- Hey! I know a name! I know a name what rhymes with duck!"
. .
----
Can you guess, guys? Can you guess what name. Rhymed with "duck".
For the second time that morning, a sound emitted from the mouth of one of my children caused all adults within earshot to fall into immediate and total silence.
"Oh! Uh..." -I had to say something Peanuts- "Uh, um, hey. Hey, how about LUCK? That rhymes! How about Luck duck or lucky duck instead!"
Little One was offended. Why did I have to micromanage everything? Why did I have to steal all the thunder?
"No, we already named it. It's F*#@. F*#@ Duck. That's his name."
The adults began to cringe and protest. Little One was so baffled. She didn't know what everyone's problem was, only that it was really annoying. The more we tried to coax Her into choosing another name, the more adamant She became.
"F*#@! FU#@! It's F*#@ F*#@ F*#@ the DUCK! F*#@ DUCK!" At the top of Her frustrated little lungs. At the museum. With J's family.
Finally I managed to pull Her aside and whisper to Her that I knew She didn't understand, and She wasn't in any trouble, but that word had a grown-up meaning, and it wasn't nice. We don't use that word. She was totally miffed. She shrugged me off with an "ok" and was a little sullen and grumpy with me the rest of the walk. Finally we arrived at the lake and the kids all got cooed at by a couple on the beach.
"Oh! How cute! You have a duck! Is that your duck? It IS? Awww! What's it's name?"
The adults in our group froze. We stared. We waited with baited breath. We were all on the verge of stepping in! Little One looked at the decoy. She hesitated a moment. And then, a little reluctantly answered, "It's Lucky. Lucky Duck". The strangers "awww"ed and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief. After a while we headed home.
With the car in sight and our good-byes said, we were ready to go to the family dinner at the restaurant. I was ready, still in my dress clothes from the funeral. Walking to the car I half-joked to J, "Well. At least we made it." At that very moment, Little Mister woke up from His nap, having been peacefully held right up to me in His sling. He looked at me with shining, innocent eyes. He smiled. And then He pooped an epic, gale-force, poo. He had not pooped in three days. Three. Days. He had saved it all. For that moment. The diaper exploded. The sling became a linen goo-pool. Mister and I both were covered. Back in this parking lot of the closed, no bathroom museum.
Someday when I die, if I go to heaven I will look around. I will find the person who invented wet-wipes. I will kiss them.
Much later, we finally got home and *bathed* and into bed at J's aunt's house. She helped me tuck in the kids and showed me Her fancy "white noise machine" that helps her grandkids sleep. She turned it on so we could enjoy the magic. It worked great! It drowned out all background noise! It worked so well, that late in the night when Little Miss awoke in a dark, strange room and was too scared to get out of bed, I could not hear Her calling for me. I could not hear Her at all. Until finally, I did. And found Her sobbing in the bed. Soaking wet.
I gave Her a bath and dressed Her in Her dad's TShirt. I made Her a little nest on the floor next to me, so I could hear Her. I washed the blankets and the sheets and cleaned the mattress. I fed the baby and climbed into bed around four in the morning.
Some days, I go out with my children. I wear white and come home clean and tidy. I get compliments from strangers on how lovely and well-mannered my children are. Some days I like to pat myself on the back a little. Hey! Doing all right! Some days it seems easy, or at least workable, and it seems like we are on a roll. And then some days. Some days we have this hot mess.
Life is all about balance, isn't it? It's all about ups...and downs. But as bad as that day got, come on. It was kind of funny. And the silver lining? The good thing about all this happening on that particular day, the day of a funeral? It's that no matter how much literal and figurative crap one I go through in this life- it is life. I'm lucky to have it. I'm happy that I get to have these days where my family is all together and if it has to be crap we're going through, at least we go through it together.
J's Grandma, from what I knew, was a lady with a fabulous, ready smile, and quite the sense of humor. I'm still a bit in shock that she's really gone, and I'm sad about it because I liked her a whole lot, and she was very kind to my kids. But it makes me feel a little better thinking that if she was watching, from somewhere, as we tried to pay our respects, I'm pretty sure she got a good laugh out of us.
I hauled the disheveled crew into the church bathroom and got them changed and brushed, braided -and warned. This was going to be a quiet time. It was important that we be patient. Respectful. Haven't I mentioned how seriously Catholics take their churching? They needed to be on their very best behavior for the length of the service, and then there would be a reception. With a kids table! They nodded, we went in.
Our family was seated in the first pew. The very front, Peanuts. In a church that was jam packed all the way through the vestibule and to the door. Generations of family, and friends from other families, who have lived in that town and attended that church for not just generations, but hundreds of years.
It started out all right. The Littles were a little tired, a little hungry. But their second cousin came to sit with us, and that helped. At first.
After awhile, though, the boredom began to eat away at their sanity. Missy, in particular. In fairness to Her, She was not exactly misbehaving. She was not cranky, She was not fussing. She was just admiring the flowers, noticing a bird out the window, wondering if it was lunch time. Out loud. She wasn't screaming, or whining either, but in that little chapel in the hush of a funereal crowd, Her sweet little voice was as obtrusive as a locomotive letting off steam. I kept Shhhing Her.
All the kids began to squirm a little. Not to worry! I am a prepared Mama, am I not, Peanuts? I plan ahead, I know what I'm doing here, amiright, Peanuts?! I saw the antsy-pants and headed off the meltdowns with my genius solution- crayons. And coloring books.
This magical combination has served me well in many a pinch. It has even been the key to breezing through entire Catholic masses! So of course, I had great confidence. Except. Constantly turning pages and scribbling hard over a hollow wooden pew turn out to be noisy activities in a certain setting. Not to mention three very sweet children who would not stop sharing -
"Can I have the blue one? Thanks!" During the invocation and "Here! You want this pink and green one?" during a bible reading and "Hey I'll trade you these three for your yellow!"
Who would not stop enjoying themselves- "Hey that's a really great rainbow!" when everyone was tearing up and "MOMMY! Look at my dol-pins they ah jumping ina ocean!" during a moment of silence.
And then, of course, the occasional "PLINK!...Roll....Roll....roll-roll-rollroll-rooooolllll" of a crayon to the back of the church, beneath somber feet.
So the thing is. Despite the fact that Miss wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, per se, She was constantly and with increasing agitation getting SHUSHED. This was annoying. So annoying, that finally, She'd had about enough of it. I mean. Her sister was all engrossed in coloring with the cousin, Her dad was holding Her sleeping brother. Poor Missy had no one to play with but me and I was being an infernal killjoy.
She was telling me all about Her picture, and would. Not. Stop. So I scolded Her as quietly as I could, admonishing Her to PLEASE be quiet. And it was the Sshh that broke the camel's back. The hands, Peanuts. The Missy hands went to the hips. This began a domino reaction.
The hands to the hips, the hips swung to the left, they cocked the head, which swished the pigtail, just over the forehead which furrowed and frowned above the eyes, which glinted and glared, highlighting the grimace on the little mouth, which opened to emit- the holler.
And the holler said, "NO!"
I knew that Missy would repeat this answer as many times as needed until I learned not to interrupt Her. So I picked Her up, and stepped out of the pew box. She knew, in that moment, what was happening. That She'd lost. And so She LOST it. I am talking an all out, kicking legs, screaming at the top of Her lungs, world class, grade A tantrum.
And so I got to carry this thrashing siren. AAaaaalllllllllll the way down the isle of the church. Through the packed vestibule. Out into the parking lot.
Having a small child is like Russian Roulette. Every time you see a child having a tantrum in public you think- it's not me! This time. But then one day. One day, guys. POW! You're That Mom.
And, if you're really lucky, it happens in the front row of a church. During a funeral.
Miss and I had a really, really serious talk in the church parking lot. A come-to-Jesus, if you will.
After which I got to carry Her aaaaaaallllllllll the way back up aisle and into the front row to finish the service.
The talk worked, and the rest of the morning passed without any incident other than Little One beaming a cousin in the back of the head with a snowball. Which I was actually a little impressed by.
But then, there was the lull between the service reception and a family dinner. In the lull, we met J's cousin and Her family at a museum. We got there first. We soon realized that the museum was closed for the season. We realized this because Missy suddenly took on an expression of horror and announced that She wasn't feeling well. I was feeding the baby and J just grabbed the kid and ran.
A little later I looked and saw J's head stooped over some shrubbery. In the garden of the museum courtyard. Not 3 yards from the locked front door.
I grabbed our portable travel potty and ran like I was on fire squeaking "J! J!! You can't- She can't- this is a muSEum!" He looked up at me, exasperated, holding the hem of Missy's skirt. "What was I supposed to do?!" He asked. "It was BAD." Poor Miss. She was very upset. And very much a mess. I had to use plastic bags to attempt to decontaminate the landscaping and to dispose of some clothing. We went through a lot of wet wipes, and I kept looking over my shoulder for security cameras or police, or judgement day. But in the end we got everyone decently sanitary and into extra clothes. We met up with J's cousin's family and set out on the walking trail to take in the scenic lake and historical structures.
Along the way, the kids found a duck. It was one of those decoy things duck-hunters use on the lake, and had been left laying around. The kids loved it. I mean, it looks just like a real duck! I don't know if it worked out for the hunters, but the children certainly thought it was worth flocking to. They played with it, toted it, dragged it on it's rope like they were walking it on a leash. In a few short minutes, it had become a family pet. When we stopped for a break outside the open gift shop, Little One made an announcement.
"Ours duck needs a name! Lets name it!"
The other littles cheered and nodded in agreement.
"Yes! Ok! We will name it a good name- Hey! I know a name! I know a name what rhymes with duck!"
. .
----
Can you guess, guys? Can you guess what name. Rhymed with "duck".
For the second time that morning, a sound emitted from the mouth of one of my children caused all adults within earshot to fall into immediate and total silence.
"Oh! Uh..." -I had to say something Peanuts- "Uh, um, hey. Hey, how about LUCK? That rhymes! How about Luck duck or lucky duck instead!"
Little One was offended. Why did I have to micromanage everything? Why did I have to steal all the thunder?
"No, we already named it. It's F*#@. F*#@ Duck. That's his name."
The adults began to cringe and protest. Little One was so baffled. She didn't know what everyone's problem was, only that it was really annoying. The more we tried to coax Her into choosing another name, the more adamant She became.
"F*#@! FU#@! It's F*#@ F*#@ F*#@ the DUCK! F*#@ DUCK!" At the top of Her frustrated little lungs. At the museum. With J's family.
Finally I managed to pull Her aside and whisper to Her that I knew She didn't understand, and She wasn't in any trouble, but that word had a grown-up meaning, and it wasn't nice. We don't use that word. She was totally miffed. She shrugged me off with an "ok" and was a little sullen and grumpy with me the rest of the walk. Finally we arrived at the lake and the kids all got cooed at by a couple on the beach.
"Oh! How cute! You have a duck! Is that your duck? It IS? Awww! What's it's name?"
The adults in our group froze. We stared. We waited with baited breath. We were all on the verge of stepping in! Little One looked at the decoy. She hesitated a moment. And then, a little reluctantly answered, "It's Lucky. Lucky Duck". The strangers "awww"ed and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief. After a while we headed home.
With the car in sight and our good-byes said, we were ready to go to the family dinner at the restaurant. I was ready, still in my dress clothes from the funeral. Walking to the car I half-joked to J, "Well. At least we made it." At that very moment, Little Mister woke up from His nap, having been peacefully held right up to me in His sling. He looked at me with shining, innocent eyes. He smiled. And then He pooped an epic, gale-force, poo. He had not pooped in three days. Three. Days. He had saved it all. For that moment. The diaper exploded. The sling became a linen goo-pool. Mister and I both were covered. Back in this parking lot of the closed, no bathroom museum.
Someday when I die, if I go to heaven I will look around. I will find the person who invented wet-wipes. I will kiss them.
Much later, we finally got home and *bathed* and into bed at J's aunt's house. She helped me tuck in the kids and showed me Her fancy "white noise machine" that helps her grandkids sleep. She turned it on so we could enjoy the magic. It worked great! It drowned out all background noise! It worked so well, that late in the night when Little Miss awoke in a dark, strange room and was too scared to get out of bed, I could not hear Her calling for me. I could not hear Her at all. Until finally, I did. And found Her sobbing in the bed. Soaking wet.
I gave Her a bath and dressed Her in Her dad's TShirt. I made Her a little nest on the floor next to me, so I could hear Her. I washed the blankets and the sheets and cleaned the mattress. I fed the baby and climbed into bed around four in the morning.
Some days, I go out with my children. I wear white and come home clean and tidy. I get compliments from strangers on how lovely and well-mannered my children are. Some days I like to pat myself on the back a little. Hey! Doing all right! Some days it seems easy, or at least workable, and it seems like we are on a roll. And then some days. Some days we have this hot mess.
Life is all about balance, isn't it? It's all about ups...and downs. But as bad as that day got, come on. It was kind of funny. And the silver lining? The good thing about all this happening on that particular day, the day of a funeral? It's that no matter how much literal and figurative crap one I go through in this life- it is life. I'm lucky to have it. I'm happy that I get to have these days where my family is all together and if it has to be crap we're going through, at least we go through it together.
J's Grandma, from what I knew, was a lady with a fabulous, ready smile, and quite the sense of humor. I'm still a bit in shock that she's really gone, and I'm sad about it because I liked her a whole lot, and she was very kind to my kids. But it makes me feel a little better thinking that if she was watching, from somewhere, as we tried to pay our respects, I'm pretty sure she got a good laugh out of us.
First off, condolences on your family's loss. Second, this is too much - the duck is what pushed me over the edge into real-life LOL territory. Too funny not to share so if you see random traffic, it's probably from the friends I am emailing this to!
ReplyDeleteand you are officially a mom of three...welcome to the club!
ReplyDeleteFrom now on whenever I see a duck, I will think of Little One and smile.
ReplyDelete