Imagination

There’s something about a little boy’s mind that allows him to be anything in the world that he could ever want to be. My 3 year old was one of the most imaginative little people I have ever met. He would be “Cody” so infrequently that he had to announce when he was being himself. His favorite thing to be was a tiger. He would walk around on all fours roaring every few seconds. He also enjoyed being a cougar, lion, wolf, or dragon. The problem with this variety of animal is that they all made similar sounds, (at least in Cody’s mind,) and he would expect me to know at any given second which animal he was. If I didn’t guess right he would get very frustrated and “attack” me with his razor sharp claws and fierce growls. In the morning, I always knew Cody was awake because I would hear howling at the top of the stairs.  

Every once in a while, Cody would be a kitty or a dog, Kung Fu Panda, or a knight in shining armor. I preferred those species because they were easier to distinguish and much less ferocious. Most of the time he pretended to be a “mean animal” but sometimes he would let me know that, “he was a nice tiger now.” And instead of roaring, he would growl quietly and snuggle in between my legs while I was trying to walk.

Isabella loved Cody so much that she always wanted to do exactly what he was doing. So more often than not, I had two tigers, two lions, or two wolfs. After a few months of this, though, she got tired of being fierce so she would often be the baby animal and would want loves and snuggles, while Cody only wanted me to “run for my life” screaming every second of every day.

Many times in his battles with dragons as a brave knight Cody would suddenly fall over and die. It seemed like Cody always chose the most inopportune times to die. It always happened when we were trying to get ready to go somewhere, or when dinner was getting cold on the table. Nothing we did could ever convince Cody that he wasn’t dead anymore. We would try tickling him, pinching him, picking him up to make him stand on his own, etc. etc. A magic kiss woke him up on occasion, but most of the time we just had to wait 10 or 20 minutes until he was sick of being dead. He would then groggily stand up and grab his sword and shield to resume the fight. Isabella got so used to him dying that she would notice him on the floor, and calmly shout, “Mom! Cody’s dead.” Most of the time she would try to kiss him a few times to see if that would wake him, but after a few unsuccessful attempts, she would keep right on walking or resume playing with her dollies.

I loved everything about Cody’s imagination, but there were times that I got sick of talking to a tiger and we made a rule that he at least had to come give me a hug and kiss in the morning before he started growling at me, even if it was a “tiger kiss” or a “cougar hug”.

The Blue Sippy

For a long time Cody had a certain sippy cup that he preferred over all the others… even though the sippy cups were all exactly the same except for color. He always wanted a blue cup with the matching blue lid. Sometimes it was important enough to him that he would throw a major tantrum over it. We would always tell him that he was being so silly and that it doesn’t matter what color the cup was, they are all the same and it wouldn’t make his drink taste any different if his cup was green!

One day after a big brawl over this exact issue I realized that I was that way about a LOT of things! For instance, I never like to wear some shades of brown, but I love to wear other shades. I would never buy a pink lamp shade, even though pink is my favorite color. We got bright yellow towels for our wedding and we refuse to put them in our bathroom. So, I had to ask myself, why do we get so upset when Cody demands a certain color of cup? The truth is, I even prefer certain cups depending on what beverage I am drinking. I despise drinking milk out of a plastic cup, I only like juice out of a smaller skinnier glasses, and I like water for dinner in a big clear glass with no ice, but at night with my snack I would rather have it in a large plastic cup with lots of ice.

Adults so often scoff at the silly whims of children, but the truth is, we all have things that we prefer. As adults we don’t have to announce them and beg for them, we just do it and feel satisfied. But children don’t have that luxury. Once I came to this realization, I tried to give Cody his blue cup whenever I possibly could. Maybe if I had a blue sippy that would be the only thing I would drink out of too.

The Dollar Theater

A few months after Cody turned 3 Kasey and I decided that it was time to take him to his first movie. Isabella was old enough that we thought she might do ok in the movie theater as well. We made the decision to go to a dollar theater because if one of the kids freaked out half way through, we could go home without spending too much money.

Dollar theaters are interesting places. I’ve only been to one or two that could really even be called a “theater”. The one we choose on this particular day was especially bad. The floor was so sticky that you had to practically use both hands to pry your shoe off of it with every step. We changed seats three different times because everywhere we tried had at least one broken seat. Eventually, I ended up sitting on a seat that had a broken spring and it poked me in the butt the entire movie anyway. I made the kids keep their hands in their pockets so they wouldn’t touch anything, and I probably sanitized their hands seven times before the movie even started. Thank heaven for pocket-size Purell.

We got to the movie a little bit early, and Kasey thought it might be best to let the kids walk around a little bit before the movie started so they could get all their wiggles out. I stayed and read my book to save our seats.

A few moments before the movie started Kasey and the kids walked back with a big bowl of popcorn. Kasey sat down and with wide eyes said, “You will never believe what just happened.”  He proceeded to tell me the following story. Kasey made the decision to take the kids into the bathroom with him before they went to get popcorn. Apparently the men’s bathroom was more disgusting than the whole rest of the theater combined and hadn’t been cleaned for days. I can’t imagine how gross a normal men’s bathroom is. You would have to pay me a lot of money to even walk into a “clean” men’s bathroom, let alone one at a nasty dollar theater that hadn’t been cleaned for a week.

Kasey was very insistent that the kids stay away from all the walls and made sure they didn’t touch anything, but as he was peeing, Isabella started walking over to him. Without warning, she ran over, opened her mouth, and latched on to the pee-crusted urinal. By this time in the story I tasted vomit in my mouth and I’m sure my look of absolute horror was priceless. Isabella had never done anything like that in her entire life! She never sucked on things, rarely put anything in her mouth, and had never gone up to something and just put her mouth on it! I was horrified. I still, to this day, do not understand why she would choose that time, that terrible location, and that revolting object to suck on.

The rest of the story was that Kasey immediately picked her up, without even doing up his pants, ran her over to the sink, and started rinsing out her mouth as fast as he possibly could. After several minutes of rinsing, they went and got some popcorn to give him time to gather up as much courage as he could to come and tell me. I could hardly even focus on the movie, because all I could think about was how disgusted I was, and since that day I have vowed to myself that I will never ever ever again let one of my baby girls enter the vile confines of a men’s restroom.

Avalon

Cody, Isabella, and I spent many Tuesday mornings at a care center by our house called Avalon Care Center. The activities director that we began working with wanted us to spend the majority of our time in the Alzheimer’s unit. It was a very interesting experience. We started going because I wanted the kids to gain some exposure to elderly people so that as they grew older, they would feel comfortable around that age group. I think we all have a lot to learn from people who have lived a long time. 

My initial image of what would happen as we visited each week was that we would have an adopted grandma or something that was sweet and happy and full of fun stories for the kids to hear. We would sing her songs and play games and cheer up her day. As we attended the Alzheimer’s unit each week, that image was quickly shattered.

 At first I felt like we were way in over our heads. Even I felt very uncomfortable and the kids almost died of fright the first few times. Many residents hardly spoke, and when they did it was incoherent and made no sense at all. Some would drool, spit, shout out randomly, or try to grab one of the kids’ arms or something. One man would just say whatever came to his mind, and it was often very offensive. I’m not sure why I made the decision to keep going back each week, but I did.

The more we went, the more comfortable we all became. We got to know some of the personalities that were often hidden behind a confused mind. They started responding to us better, and even though they didn’t know they remembered us, I could sense a feeling of recognition. We learned their names and saw their faces light up when we called them by name. We became quite attached to several of the residents there.  I started to understand them a little better and found that several of them actually had a good sense of humor.

One of the funniest things, though, was listening to them talk to each other. They would almost always respond to each other, but it never made any sense!  One of them would say something like, “You’re blanket is dragging.” And the other one would respond, “But I have to check on the dog!!” And the first person would respond to that by saying something like, “Yes, but this one is black and it looks better right here in front of me.”  It was very comical and I couldn’t hold back my laughter most of the time.

One day, one of our favorite ladies seemed very sad and sick. She sat in her wheel chair and slept while the kids and I sang songs to her. I don’t know for sure if she could hear us, but every once in a while I saw a small smile flit across her face. Another time, I went up to Susie and asked her how she was doing. She smiled and took my hand and kissed it. One day we talked to Anna while she rocked a small baby doll and told us little pieces of stories about real babies that I assumed were her own in days long gone. 

One of the most touching moments we experienced happened one day that we decided to stay for lunch. An older gentleman knocked on the door and I went over to let him in. He walked over to Susie and started gently talking to her. Susie’s Alzheimer’s seemed to be progressed further than many other residents,  and she didn’t respond very well to anything.  I never heard her say much more than yes and no. This kind gentleman, who was obviously her husband, sat down and proceeded to feed her. My heart ached for him and I wondered what it would be like to have a spouse who didn’t even know who I was. I had a hard time holding back my tears as I watched him care for her so tenderly. I thought of my own sweet husband and I knew that if we were that couple in fifty years, he would be doing the exact same for me. That man was a shining example of Christ-like love, patience, and devotion. 

I’ll never forget the time that we spent at the care center and the many lessons I learned each time we visited.  I’ll always look back on those days with fondness. 

Slow Days

I’ve often wondered if everyone has days when they just can’t seem to get anything done. Maybe I’m the only one, but I have had so many of those days that I don’t think I can even count them all. On these days no matter how hard I try to get going, I can’t seem to get my body to move any faster than a sloth. I aimlessly meander around my kitchen looking at all the dirty dishes on the table, counter, sink, and every other nook and cranny, I go into the laundry room to observe the Mount Everest like pile of clothes in the hamper, then attempt to make my way into the kids’ room but quickly turn around because there are so many toys on the floor that the door is barricaded. So I stand in the hall for a second and then go right back downstairs to get a chocolate. The little mini Milky Way or Snickers usually gets me going for a short time, but often, I find myself staring blankly out the window five minutes later. For some reason on these days, my subconscious must tell me that I have all the time in the world and that everything can wait.

One day in particular stands out above all the rest. I spent the morning doing who-knows-what and by two o’clock or so I realized that I should probably start getting ready for the day. The house was a disaster and we had guests coming the following morning. We had a costume party to go to by 4:00 that evening, none of us had any costumes, and I hadn’t even showered. By 3:00 the only thing I had done was decide what costumes we should wear and added a few dishes to the dishwasher. I got the kids shoes on and got ready to go to the store to actually purchase the costumes. The store was a fairly short distance so I had the idea to walk, instead of taking the car, to be a good citizen and save the air. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 3:15 and thought that I might be cutting it close if we walked. Looking back on it several days later I realized that it probably would have taken us until 4 just to walk to the store, let alone find costumes, walk back home, get the kids ready, take a shower, style my hair, and make dinner. By 3:45 we were finishing up at the store and my phone rang. Kasey was calling wondering where we could possibly be. He had made it home from work and was at the house waiting to leave for the party. At that point my brain finally turned back on and I realized how late it was. I grabbed the last few items, shoved the kids in the car, went 20 mph over the speed limit all the way home, ran inside, jumped in the shower, threw my hair in a pony soaking wet, and costumed the kids as fast as I could. While I was running around the house Kasey approached me and gently asked me what the heck I had been doing all day. All I could do was shake my head and say, “I have no idea!” Luckily once my mind started functioning again it only took me a half hour to do all the essential tasks and we were on the road by 4:15. 

The Lady at the Swings

During one summer, the kids and I took a walk to the nearby park three or four times a week. After a few weeks, we began to have somewhat of a ritual. We always went the same route, and we always stopped in all the same places. Cody would always push the walk button to cross the street, and then Isabella would always have a fit until I let her push it too. Then I would push it five or six more times, just for good measure. Pushing the walk button at least twenty times is a bad habit that I got into during my middle school days, and I have never been able to shake it. It can be an embarrassing habit, especially when someone has already pushed it.

When we got to the park, we would go straight to the swings. Next we played in the cement tunnels and, inevitably, I would have to stop one of the kids before they stepped into the tunnel that was always full of muddy water. After the tunnels, we walked over to a separate part of the park where the playground and slides are.

One day we were almost to the swings when I saw another woman walking with her child to the same destination. There were usually plenty of swings, but there was only one baby swing, and Isabella wasn’t quite old enough for the big kid swings. After eying the child I guessed that she was around four or five, and obviously not a competitor for the baby swing, so I relaxed and slightly slowed my pace. We all arrived at almost the exact same time. As Cody and Bell were climbing out of the stroller, the five year old girl walked right up to the baby swing and her mom helped her in. Cody started shouting, “No! That’s Isabella’s swing!” As I helped Cody into the swing next to where the young girl sat I explained to him that it was actually the park’s swing, and I said that I’m sure we can all share and take turns. I gave the woman a smile without receiving one in return.

After these few events, I was a little annoyed, but I decided to just hold Isabella for a minute while I pushed Cody. Surely the mother would understand the situation and let my smaller child take a turn. Isabella tolerated being in my arms for a few minutes, but soon became anxious and begged, “swing mommy, please?” My arm was getting tired any way so I put her in the swing on the other side of Cody, told her to hold on as tight as she could with both hands, and gave her a small push. She held on tight and I was relieved that she would be happy in the big swing for the moment. I watched her for a second then turned around to push Cody. I turned back around just in time to see Isabella let go, fly out of her seat, and land face first on the hard ground. I picked her up, and with tears in her eyes and a whole mouth full of wood chips she bravely said, “I ok, mommy.”

While all of this was going on, the woman and the five year old were playing happily on the baby swing without even a glance our way. The mother’s friend came over and put her own five year old boy in the swing that I had just taken Isabella out of. The two women began chatting over my head while I resumed holding my 18 month old and pushing my three year old. My resentment started to grow. The mature thing to do would have been to walk away and go to the tunnels. I have never been one to give up easily, and my stubbornness got the best of me. I was determined to give Isabella a turn to swing. Besides, I thought, how long can a five year old really want to sit in a baby swing?

Nearly twenty minutes passed and Cody was getting sick of swinging. I was almost ready to give in when the woman stopped the swing and asked the girl if she would like some yogurt. “Finally!” I thought. I was preparing to put my patient Isabella in the swing when the lady walked over to her bag, got a yogurt container out, opened it up, and began feeding the five year old in the swing. I’m sure my jaw dropped all the way to the floor, but of course, neither of the ladies who had happily resumed their conversation over my head, even glanced my way. Furious, I stormed over to my stroller, put my crying children in, and stomped over to the tunnels.

If I get to the other side and I don’t get through those pearly gates, it might just be because of all the nasty thoughts that went through my head that day about the stupid lady at the swings.

The Flies

After the ants were mostly gone, I started to relax, and I finally stopped sleeping with the Windex bottle. I thought we were finished from annoying bugs once and for all, but I was wrong. One morning I woke up and came downstairs for breakfast to find 6 or 7 flies swarming around the kitchen and living room. We had been married for 4 years, and had still never purchased a fly swatter. I’d seen Kasey kill the flies with a towel before, so I attempted to do the same. It turned out to be a lot harder than it looked. I spent close to a half hour chasing one fly around. Finally I saw it land on the cupboard and I moved in for the attack. Before that fly knew what hit him, he was on the counter, dead… well almost. The humane thing would have been to just kill the poor guy, but I didn’t want to smash him with toilet paper because then I could feel it squish between my fingers and I hate that feeling. So I did what any sensible girl would have done, and covered it with a glass. I’m pretty sure it died a few seconds later, but then I still had the problem of a dead fly on my counter, and I would still have to pick it up with some toilet paper or something. So after several minutes of contemplating the dead fly under the glass, I made the decision to leave it there until Kasey arrived home from work.

The next few weeks were spent fighting the flies. Our battle strategy consisted of following the flies around with our eyes until they landed, then smacking them as hard as we could with a wet rag. The kids became just as obsessed with it as Kasey and I. Cody would run around the house with a rag screaming, “Where is it Mom?! Where is it?!” Then he would pretend to find the fly, fling the rag into the air, and bend down to pick up the phantom bug. Throughout the day, Isabella would randomly point in the air and yell, “Right there! Right there!” About this same time, Cody had two incidences where he was stung right on the face by bees. Surprisingly, he still wasn’t terrified of flying insects, but they definitely made him very uncomfortable. Now every time he saw a fly, he would freak out and shout, “There’s a bee!!”

The laundry was starting to be filled up with fly rags so fast that I couldn’t keep up with it all. We would go through seven or eight in one afternoon. I had a fly swatter on my grocery list every single week, but I would somehow forget to grab one every time I went to the store. So one Saturday night we spent our date time searching for a fly swatter, combing the entire Walmart, and asking every sales associate we could find. Each helpful Walmart employee had another suggestion of where we could look, but we were continually disappointed at every new department. Our search was in vain, so we continued to fight our war with nothing but rags.