Same Difference

Parker walked into the living room, swinging an almost empty bread sack, and asking, "Mom, do you want me to save this or just throw it away?"
"Why would you throw it away?"
"Cause all that's left is the feet." he replied with a totally straight face.
Hillary cracked up. Of course he meant the "heels" but when this was pointed out to him he said, "Feet...heels...same difference."
The night before, we had been working on a crossword puzzle as a group, shouting out clues and twisting the paper this way and that so we could take turns seeing the squares. Parker was making tea in the kitchen. Someone shouted out a clue and Parker guessed "can?"..."No, it ends with an 'e'" was the reply. Parker shrugged and said, "Same difference."
Again, laughter, because obviously, it is NOT the same difference. But to Parker's dyslexic brain, it is. What I love about him is that he seems to enjoy the humor we get out of his verbal snafoos. He doesn't seem to see it as a flaw in himself, but as a funny acceptable part of who he is. As a chronic worrier about my children's feelings, I tend to try to hold it in when he makes funny word mistakes...and then I scrutinize his face for clues that the others are hurting his feelings. But he just smiles and gets this look like, "Yeah, I make people laugh. What can YOU do?"
Dyslexic...genius...Parker...
Same difference to me.

between The Rock and a Smiley Face

I am thankful for affectionate children. They both give me lots of hugs, touches, and full-body-contact attention. They are like two puppies with a favorite chew toy. All it takes for one of them to notice me and suddenly want to be by me, is for the OTHER one to be by me.
Like today, when I was lying in the big chair, trying to be still enough to ward off my womanly "time of the month-ness" and Hillary came to lie beside me - plastered to me from toes to neck (which is as far as I can stretch on her) and lay her head on top of my head. Sure enough, it wasn't two seconds til Parker appeared. Hillary had (wrongly) assumed that since my other side was against the chair arm, she would have me to herself. But, ever the problem-solver, Parker just lay ON TOP OF MY BODY. And when Hillary had to get up to get her calendar so we could have family meeting, Parker quickly slid into her spot...even as she was saying, "Do NOT get my spot, Parker!".
A couple of days ago, the three of us went into the city. Hubby was working, my car was in the shop, and I don't drive a stick shift. So it fell to Hillary (who was forced by Dad to learn to drive on a stick shift) to chauffer me to the car place. And Parker just came along for the ride.
There we sat, literally shoulder to shoulder, on the small bench seat...air conditioning on high (which means the windows were all the way down) and itunes tooting at full volume. Things were fine for at least 5 miles. Then it began.
Parker - Can I find this one song on your ipod?
Hillary - No.
P - I just want to hear one song.
H- What song?
P - You'll see.
H- Why can't you tell me?
P - You'll like it.
H- Then tell me.
P - I promise you'll like it.
H- Why won't you just tell me?
P- Cause I want it to be a surprise.
H- Well, at least wait til this song is over.
Not an argument to draw blood but annoying just the same. Fifty seven similar verbal exchanges later...we were in the city, stopping and going from stoplight to stoplight while Hillary complained about the pain in her leg from holding down the clutch and Parker gave tips on how she should drive. This prompted more exasperated sighs and eye-rolling. And there I was...(sing with me now) "stuck in the middle with two..."
But there's really no place else I'd rather be. I know it won't last, so I'll enjoy the touch while I can. And someday, I may be living between them as they start their own testy, touchy families on opposite coasts. And I'll remember waking up in the middle of the night with Parker breathing into my left ear and Hillary snuggled into my right, and I'll just smile...and stretch...in all my empty space.

Community Service

When the youth pastor at church recently announced that he was coordinating a "missions week" in our own town (using the church as a home base for service projects), I thought, "What a good idea. I'll bet Hillary will want to help."
It never occured to me that Parker would be interested. He has always been most comfortable at home...especially at bedtime! Through the years, his friends have tried valiantly to get him to spend the night at their houses. And he did give it an honest shot...making it until midnight or so before showing up on our doorstep, pillow in hand.
So I was surprised when Parker said, "Mom, when does that mission trip start? I want to do it."
He packed a few things and off he went.
And he was a natural...cutting trees and stacking brush, helping to build a well-house, and mowing an older person's yard. Things he loves to do.
But by Wednesday, sleeping on the gym floor was getting old, and when I saw him at church he said, "I'm coming home with you."
Later I asked him what he liked best about being part of the missions week. He said, "I just liked helping the people. One lady called and said how much it meant to her for us to help her out. And I just liked doing those things."
When did that scared little boy become a servant young man?
Then, later that night, I woke to find him lying between his dad and me. I guess we have a few years yet!

The Right Sort

Since it is my motherly responsibility to prepare my children for success in the real world, I recently tore Parker away from the cartoon reruns he'd been wasting his morning on, and informed him that this was "his" summer. He's thirteen now and it's time he start learning some life lessons. We start with laundry.
I dumped it all out in the kitchen floor and started to show him how to put loads together, noting the weight and color of each item to decide where it went. He caught on right away.
Then I noticed something.
He was using his hands...and not complaining a bit.
When Hillary got this same lesson several years ago, she comandeered my kitchen tongs so she wouldn't have to touch anyone's underwear. Parker was just sorting willy nilly with not a thought to butt germs.
So I asked him about it.
"You don't mind touching other people's underwear?"
He just gave me a look and said, "It's just our family. And you can wash your hands."
Of course you can.
He may have his own little quirks, but when it comes to laundry...he's the right sort!

What's That Smell?

A couple of mornings ago Hillary pulled me down the hall toward Parker's room.
"Mom, something smells horrible in there. You've got to come smell."
I stuck my head in the door, but all I could smell was the Oust she had apparently bathed the room in. I said, "I smell Oust."
"Yeah, Oust mixed with a horrible other smell," she insisted.
I investigated for dog poop or a buried banana, but found nothing. There was nothing to be done except let the Oust settle and see if the smell returned.
So this morning, she grabs me again.
"Do you smell that now?"
I smelled nothing out of the ordinary.
"That horrible....boy smell?"
Oh! That explains it. Once you've birthed one of the horrible boys, nature mercifully makes you immune to that smell. Perhaps so you don't kill your offspring.
Then she said, "Isn't there anything we can do about it?"
Short of rubbing Vicks salve under her nose, which she did not see as a valid option, there was not.
She will just have to hold her breath when she goes in there to wake him up in the mornings. And eventually his horrible boy smell will go away...and be replaced with a horrible man smell.

Growing Pains

My husband was grouchy today. But I guess that's what a stubbornly stopped up toilet will do for you. When my sister's dog pooped in the floor, Hillary, wanting to be helpful - and save the dog from my wrath - cleaned it up. All well and good except she dumped the dog poop AND the 42 paper towels she had used to pick it up into the downstairs toilet.
Dad plunged.
And plunged again with the brand new plunger specially designed to fit our narrow sloping hole.
And poured Drano in and let it sit.
And tried to flush.
And bored into the clog with the brand new snake, purchased for this special occasion.
And can I just say it's a good thing we have two other bathrooms, cause this one is just going to have to sit for a while. I tried pointing out that it will eventually disolve on it's own, but he just grunted and laid back in his big chair with his eyes closed, which is what he does when he's trying to not be mad, and groused about how spoiled the kids are.
This is not Hillary's first go-round with troublesome toilets. A couple of years ago, she flushed the upstairs toilet when it was clogged...and the chain got looped on itself, keeping the tank from filling up and creating a waterfall over the sides of the bowl. She let it go for a minute or two, while trying to stop the deluge with a few scraps of toilet paper before she finally yelled for me. Seconds later Parker yelled from downstairs, "Dad! It's raining poop water down here!" This little faux pas caused us to have to replace all of the ceiling tiles and repaint the downstairs bathroom. And did we take it out of her allowance? No, Hubby pointed out, We did not. And was she the one getting her feet wet and wearing her arm out twisting the plumbing snake? No, She was not. I reminded him that everyone makes mistakes sometimes, and that she never complains when she has to take her brother places, and she does laundry and dishes without being asked, and when she goes out with her friends she uses her own money from her allowance or babysitting job. He didn't respond, just headed toward the Xbox to work out his frustration in virtuality. Perhaps they should create a game where you get points for blowing up toilets.
Anyway, a little while later Hillary came down and said, "Mom, I've decided I'm not going to church camp this year." I was shocked. She had been very excited about it. But due to being chosen for a special trip to Washington DC, and also being chosen to participate in Girls State, she was already going to be gone two weeks out of the month of June. Church camp was the third week she would be asking off from her brand new job with a local photographer. "Yeah, I really need to work. My boss needs me and I'm going to need the money." I asked her if she was sure. She said yes, but her mouth had that tightness around it I know means she's trying not to cry. I said, "Well, I know that's a hard decision, but it is a mature one and I'm proud of you."
And then I read aloud to her in the big comfy chair for a while.
And she let me.
And that's how it is to grow up. It loops in and around and onto itself with good and bad decisions and consequences of our own actions. Or maybe it swirls. Like an overflowing toilet.

Long Live the Short-lived Pet

Since our painful loss of Lady, I have put the nix on new pets for a while. But that didn't stop Hillary from "rescuing" a turtle on one of her runs. She brought the little guy in, promising me that a turtle would be fine because she could keep it in her room and I wouldn't have to mess with it. I just rolled my eyes, which she took for an "OK".
She rummaged through the storage room for a small plastic dishpan, filled it with a few leaves and a rock, and plopped Speedy into his new home.
Later that night she got online to research the proper care and feeding of turtles.
The next morning the dishpan was empty.
"Where's Speedy?" I asked.
"Oh, that just sounded like WAY too much work! Do you know they have to soak in warm water for 30 min EVERY DAY? I let him go last night."
Run, Speedy....run!