You Scream, I Scream

My mother may never serve my children ice cream again. Dessert seemed like a good idea at the time. The day had been relatively stressful (imagine that) and the kids had eaten the better part of their dinner. As my mother and I gathered around the table eating our ice cream, it became apparent that table manners had gone out the window. After much slurping and smacking, I reached my breaking point and asked "Should anyone else be able to hear you eating or drinking?" Asking an open ended question was my first mistake. Rebecca, delight that she is, chimed in with the dreaded "Yeah, you should never . . ." and then proceeded to put on a "When Harry Met Sally" worthy performance of the noises you should never make while eating ice cream. As I watched in a combination of fascination and horror, I quietly said a prayer that those were simply enthusiastic yummy sounds heard on an age appropriate movie / TV show. Sadly, that is not the end of my tale. After putting an end to the show, I looked at my mother and said "The next time you ask if your grandchildren can have dessert, my answer will be no." To which she quickly replied "Don't worry I won't be asking again." Leading up to the wondrous joy that raising a nine year old boy brings. Daniel, being oh so clever, rejoins with "Grandma, you know what you can do with your ice cream . . ." At this point my mother, who is a Donovan and a school teacher and should really know better, loses it. I, who am a Donovan and the mother of these delightful creatures and should really know better, lose it too. By the by, the answer to Daniel's question was actually something that only like minded nine year-old boys find funny "you should burn all of it." By this time the damage was done and much work was needed to maintain bladder control. You know, I keep trying to "train them up in the way they should go" but the Donovan genes (force) are strong in them and may not be able to be overcome.

Consider Their Mothers

 As a child I loved Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books.  As a slightly older child, I delighted in reading about the adventures of Junie B. Jones to my little sister.  I reveled in their spunk and outrageousness.  I laughed out loud at their antics and high jinks.  I cheered on their irrepressible spirit.  I did not consider their mothers.  The mothers of these extroverted young ladies were secondary characters.  They were a necessary foil to the exuberance of youthful mischief.  I did not consider their mothers until I had “one of those” children.  Yes, one of those children who were loud in the stores, were outspoken, and had personality in spades.  Ah, the reason for the gray streaks in my hair and the twitch of my left eye.  The kind of child who causes all who meet her to say, “You really have your hands full with that one.”  I cannot pinpoint the exact hour and moment that I began to consider the mothers of Junie B. and Ramona, but I believe it was somewhere between “Oh cool, a penis!” and “cat restriction.”

These mothers of spirited children do not deserve to be relegated to the forgotten realm of secondary stock characters.  They should be celebrated, revered, or at the very least, developed as dispensers of wisdom to all of us who are mothers of "those children" too.  How do you cope through the kindergarten and now first grade years?  With each new age comes a new onslaught of parental challenges (and I don't even want to touch the teenage years beyond knowing that I want a flask for Rebecca's 13th birthday).  I want practical advice from the front lines!  Instead we end up with an exasperated "Oh Junie B." and an all's wells that ends well attitude.

I think the only real solution is to stay "prayed up."  In everything with prayerful supplication and thanksgiving, I can give these trials over to God.  I may not understand how Rebecca's Lenny routine with the cat or artistic bent with her sister are all going to turn out, but I do know that she is fearfully and wonderfully made and created for a divine purpose.  I do know that God works all things for the good, even when it's hard or exasperating.  So I can choose to be beaten down by the craziness and the chaos that is my household, or I can choose to laugh and share.  Because seriously, What is the alternative?!

P.S. I'm back y'all and am going to try to be better about this whole blog thing!