Hamburger Helper Hill

"Hey Mom!"

"Yes, sweetie-petey," I got a bazillion nicknames for my little guys.

"Do you wike guns?"

"No, not really."

Pause.

"Do you like pistols?"

"Nope."

"Do you like bazookas?"

"No."

"Do you like grenades?" (Sheesh kid!) "Everybody likes grenades!"

"No. I really don't like things that kill people or animals."

"Rillwee. Hmmm..."

"You don't even wike blowing up fings?"

This was a conversation in the quiet evening hours with my six year old. Really.

It occurred hours after a rather unfortunate shooting incident at the Wal-Mart. Okay, before you check your headlines to see if I was involved in a shooting, it was at the video arcade.

My six year old is actually quite a fantastic driver for video games. These are so high tech and real I was yelling and dodging imaginary obstacles while I watched him play.

As a reward for letting me get a long shopping trip done, I bribed him with the promise of two games at the arcade. Most of the time it's a no to any arcade. He's six and most of the games are definitely to violent or babe-filled for his age.

He wanted to do the safari game. It was a shooter game. We pressed the wrong buttons and he couldn't do it. Being the budget conscious chick I am (now), I didn't want to waste the two quarters by not having the game played. So I began to shoot virtual wildlife on the African savanna. It was gross. It was bloody and I flinched with each shot.

Unfortunately, I am, quite by accident, a good shot. Early in my marriage I shot a finch from over 100 yards from my father in laws porch. I'm a regular Annie Oakley, sorta.

I am all for the second amendment. I don't think the government should prevent someone from owning and properly using a gun. I do think you should have to wait a little to buy one so they can check out if you have a few screws loose. I, as a personal preference only, choose not have guns in the house. I don't like them. I especially don't like them around children.

In a previous life, when I had too much time and too much 'book' knowledge instead of hard earned Mommy-wisdom, decreed we would have a gun-free home. That our little haven would not have fire arms of any sort. Yeah, right.

If they don't have the gun to shoot with they'll find something. Even my littlest guys does. It comes with the territory of birthing and raising boys.

A friend told me a story of a friend of his who absolutely prevented any guns and/or gun references or gun shows from being displayed in his house. They didn't even call them guns, but shooters. One night over dinner, their little darling picked up a floret of his organic broccoli, pointed it at his dad and announced, "Look dad! It's a shooter!"

Maybe the point isn't to make them gun averse. Rather, should I ask him why he likes guns/pistols/bazookas/grenades so much?





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An Open Letter to My Mom

Dear Mom,
I saw you a couple days ago in the aisle of the store. You were motoring by the paper products in one of those scooters. Your oxygen tank was in the basket along with two, green cans of decaf coffee.

I walked up to you and wrapped my arms around your shoulders and held on. They were bonier and sharper than I remember. I cried. You sat there.

You look more tired and sick than over a year ago, when I last saw you. You handled my son's fear of the cart and oxygen tank by explaining what they were for. He said, "I renember when you didn't have dat."

Do you remember when you didn't have dat? It was when we talked. It was when you actually would return phone calls and even, periodically, initiate a call yourself. It's when you remembered who we, your children, were and where we lived. It was before.

Before what, Mom, I cannot figure out. I have worked for the last year to forgive and understand how you exited our lives practically and emotionally. Please forgive me, for whatever sin, whatever slight I have committed.

I don't want to walk down that same aisle and have a stranger walk up to me and offer their condolences. Offer their prayers since you are gone. You would be gone and I wouldn't have known and wouldn't have been there. I want to know. What you are doing, where you are. Not because I want anything from you. For one simple reason, you are my mom.

I hope to see and talk with you again. not by accident, but on purpose.

Please take care,
Your Daughter





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What Happens in Baseball Stays In Baseball

I live in a house full of men. A Pappy, a Daddy, two Hooligans and a male weiner dog named Frank. I am swimming in a sea of testosterone fueled nuttiness. At times I feel as if I am in a scene from the Animal House movie.

Here's the conversation between my Dad and my six year old last night while watching the Pirates baseball game.

"Why do dey do dat?" asks my inquisitive and observant six year old.

"What?" Pap responds, around a mouthful of ice cream sammich (he doesn't know I traded them out for 100 calorie pseudo-healthy ones...shhh...don't tell him).

"Grab der pee pee."

"Oh, grabbing your weiner and spitting are okay in baseball. Everyone does it."

"Weally?"

"Yup. You are almost expected to be a good weiner adjuster and spitter. Look, the pitcher just spit."

"Ewwwww! He spitted a big black fing."

"Yup," munch, munch, munch.

"Wook Pap!" -spitttttt-, "I can spit too!"

It was then I heard him call my name. To get some wipes. For the couch. From the spitting.

Fortunately there was no 'weiner adjusting' going on. At least not from my dad.

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Kid Bits: The Bridges Are Out

In a moment of maternal madness, I decided to take my 6 year old and his 7 year old friend to Idlewild. it's a mecca for clean family fun in our area.

Here's a few kid bits from their conversation from their booster seats in the back. Every effort has been made to transcribe the conversation in its entirety and without exaggeration.

"Dude!" their standard greeting for one another, "I have a whole castle in my basement."

"Dude, I like legos too!"

"Dude, I mean a real castle with a moat and some swords!"

(! points are added to indicate this is all said at the top of their lungs. Apparently at ages 6 and 7 they can't hear unless shouting. A fact which nearly caused me to cry on the way to/from the park. I actually considered pulling over and getting out just for a moment of peace.)

"Dude, when I get big I am going to drive a tractor trailer around the world!"

"Dude, then you better get ready to get wet."

"Why? I'll just drive my ginormous tractor trailer all around the earf."

"Dude, you will get to Hawaii then-SPLASH!"

"Dude, why?"

"Because, dude, the bridges are out."

Indeed.




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Pulled Back From the Finish Line

Things have been crazy. Really crazy. On every front I am economizing. I am cutting back on anything taking my energy that isn't exactly and absolutely necessary. I thought cancelling this blog was one way to make my emotional and creative life more efficient. I was so wrong.

I got a comment on one of my older entries. "Just Five Things" was written early in my defeating PPD. It was written as an homage to wisdom gained from my support group leader that changed my life. In short, there are just five things a new mom has to do to care for herself and her baby. The comment was from a new mom of a 7 month old. She thanked me for sharing the wisdom that helped her get through her own stormy time.

I cried. I cried alot.

I cried because I now know how my support group leader felt when I thanked her for sharing her own version of the Just Five Things. I cried because I know what the woman was going through. It was less than a year ago I was in her shoes.

I cried too because the day before I received the comment, I had decided to quit this blog. I was walking across the finish line without understanding the race is only half over.

I started this blog as a tool to overcome PPD. It became a way to process and share my mothering moments. It became an excuse to merge my two passions-writing and my children. It took on a life of it's own.

I am crying now because I almost allowed life's rollercoaster to take away something that means so much more to me than I ever imagined it could. And maybe, just maybe, it means a little something to someone else.

Thank you Mommy M for pulling me back from the finish line.







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