The Interrogator trots past me. I glance up from the chocolate chip pancakes that aren’t quite ready to be flipped. He’s bare chested, and his shorts are on backwards. I smile.
They’re the same shorts he wore to bed last night. The same pair he had on yesterday.
I flip the pancakes. I hear footsteps descending the stairs. It’s the Kenyan. I smell him before I see him.
Me: “Good morning, Kenyan! Please turn yourself around and march back up those stairs for a shower. It’s been…how many days since you’ve showered?”
He touches his fingers while his lips silently mouth the days of the week. His eyes glaze over as he does the mental math.
Kenyan: “6 days, Mom. I had a shower 6 days ago.”
Me: “That’s kinda gross, buddy.”
Kenyan: “Ooooh! Are those chocolate chip pancakes?”
I nod and point my spatula toward the stairs…which lead to the shower…which is long overdue.
Kenyan: “Oooh, Mom, are we going to the pool today?”
Kenyan: “No need for a shower. You say it all the time. Swimming in the pool counts as bathing.”
He has me there.
Me: “Fair enough.”
I check the pancakes. Almost done. As I walk the syrup to the table, I see the Verb in the corner. His back is to me. He thinks I can’t see him.
Me: “What do you have over there, Verb?”
He gasps…baffled that I’ve discovered him. I hear the crinkling of a plastic bag. He turns around to face me. His mouth is outlined in dark chocolate. He grasps a bag of semi-sweet morsels between his 3 year old hands, also covered in dark chocolate.
Verb: Placing the bag behind his back, “I’m not holding anything behind mine back, Mom,” he tells me with a smile in a sing-song voice.
What age do they start lying? I forget. Is this developmentally appropriate?
He runs past me into the kitchen to return the chocolate chips to their rightful place in the pantry.
Me: “Where’s Waldorf?”
Interrogator: “He’s asleep, Mom. Waldorf’s asleep. I know because I went into his room to get some Legos. And he didn’t yell at me because he was asleep.”
I glance at the clock. 8:47AM.
The Interrogator is wearing yesterday’s clothes. The Kenyan hasn’t bathed in 6 solid days. The Verb is eating chocolate before breakfast. Waldorf is sacked out in his bed. I’m making breakfast that requires more of me than pushing buttons on the microwave.
Summer is here. 4 kids. All of them home. No extracurricular activities.
Camp Mom is in session.
How was week one?
It was an adjustment. Here are some high points…and some not so high points…
I gave birth to 4 kids. Somehow, I manage to accumulate more kids on Tuesday. And it rains. And I am hell bent on going to Costco. I have 5 kids with me at the time. But I time it perfectly so that we zip through that puppy during lunch time. Turns out all of the kids love chicken cutlets. Bonus. I grant them permission to stand next to the sample cart and eat as many free samples of that bird as they can stomach. Yes, I remind them to chew with their mouths closed. I’m not raising cavemen. I hold up the bag, catch the eye of the lady doling out samples, give her a smile, an emphatic nod, a thumbs up, and make sure she watches me place it in my cart…while I abandon 3 kids next to her sample cart housing her bite size pieces. It works out perfectly. (Good news)
By the time we arrive home, I round up 2 more kids. 7 boys.
Stupidity factor increases exponentially. Common sense at a dangerous low. We live in a split level house. The Legos are all the way upstairs, the costumes are one level upstairs, the Wii is downstairs. The boys are up the stairs, they are down the stairs. Up, down, up, down, up, down. While I unpack the products I purchased in bulk, I dodge boys rounding the corner down the steps into the kitchen. I sidestep boys rounding the corner up the steps out of the kitchen.
Me: “Guys, no running in the house please.”
Giggle, giggle, dodge, sidestep. Repeat. Giggle, giggle, dodge, sidestep. Repeat.
Me: Louder, “Guys, no running in the house please.”
Giggle, giggle, dodge, sidestep. Repeat. Giggle, giggle, dodge, sidestep. Repeat.
Me: Sigh. “GUYS, NO RUN..”
My 3rd warning is cut off as I am pinned against the piano. By a small child? Negative. By a large bear. Launched from the top of the steps.
As I’m pinned under the bear, the guilty party flees the scene. A hit and run in my own home. The guilty party’s identity remains a mystery. (Bad news)
After crawling out from under the bear, I give all 7 boys
a come to Jesus a choice:
“Legos upstairs or movie downstairs.”
They spend the remainder of the afternoon quietly playing. I spend it cooking. (Good news) Our indoor cat has a mad crush on me, so he keeps his eyes trained on me as he frolics around in the dining room. When I say frolics, I mean he really frolics. Dancing, prancing, up on his hind legs…I see him out of the corner of my eye while I cook. I assume he, like I, is jammin’ to Adam Levine.
Me: To the cat, “Fawkes, you got the moves like Jagger?”
I finally turn my full attention to him.
He does NOT have the moves like Jagger. He has a petrified chipmunk. On my dining room rug.
He’s been batting that nasty ass vermin around for a full hour while I, none the wiser, have been putting on my own Katy Perry concert in my kitchen. (Bad news)
I immediately perform the running man…double time. Very high knees.
Me: “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, WALDORF!”
Waldorf arrives at my rescue within seconds, “WHAT? WHAT’S THE MATTER?!”
He follows my line of sight. Discovers the dead chipmunk. Looks at me. Looks back at the cat.
Waldorf: Smiling, “Yes! Way to go, Fawkes!” to me, “I’ll be right back.”
I continue my high step running man. My chant changes to, “Ew, ew, ew, ew, disease, disease, DISEASE!”
Waldorf returns less than a minute later with all 3 of his brothers. And a camera.
Verb, “Oh, he’s so cutey, cute!”
Interrogator: “Mom, can we keep him, Mom? Can he sleep in my bed, Mom? I can feed him. I’ll feed him. Can we please, please, pretty please keep him? Can I pet him, Mom?”
He reaches out to pet the dead chipmunk.
“NO!!!!” comes the chorus from Waldorf, the Kenyan, and me.
Waldorf: “Interrogator, don’t touch him! You’ll ruin my picture!”
Kenyan: “Interrogator, don’t touch him! Fawkes will scratch you!”
Me: “Interrogator, don’t touch him! You’ll get a disease!!”
The four of them turn to look at me. I can’t remember a time when 4 faces looked at me so blankly. Wait that’s not true…I see that look on their faces almost daily.
Me: “Everybody head downstairs please. Daddy will take care of this.”
I text B&B:
“Will you be home soon? There is a dead fucking chipmunk on the dining room floor, and I just vomited in my mouth.”
“Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
I text him:
“I didn’t catch your ETA…”
I dry heave, shiver, and back into the kitchen. Shake my head. Shiver some more.
So, that was Tuesday.
Wednesday afternoon I have 6 boys again. And I get a long overdue haircut and color in my very own home while they
do who the hell knows what sit quietly in the family room. The color is lighter than I usually go.
Me: “Kenyan, tell me the truth. What do you think of my hair?”
Kenyan: “The truth? I think it is the exact color of old person’s hair.” (Bad news)
Don’t ask a question unless you’re prepared to hear the answer.
But, week one of Camp Mom ends on a high note.
On Saturday, we take the kids to a local farm to pick fruit. My guys would eat their weight in fruit if I allowed them to…and the Verb does exactly that in the raspberry fields. It is a gorgeous day…sunny skies, low humidity…and I’m fairly sure the entire tri-state area is at the shore. So we have the place to ourselves.
We return home in a fruit coma. I’m the only one who suffers sunburn. (Good news)
Sunday is Father’s Day, my Dad’s 75th birthday, and the first time we see Little Sister, Flyboy, and their 3 kids since Thanksgiving. They bring their Arizona noise to the East Coast for most of the summer to avoid the 100+ degree heat of the desert. The grandkids serenade my Dad with You Are My Sunshine, When I’m 64, and You’ve Got a Friend in Me. Absolutely adorable. (Good news)
Monday is kinda cool. I receive an email from The Huffington Post saying they published my Father’s Day piece. (Very good news) Ari Gold from Entourage right here…“BOOM!” I am beyond excited that my piece makes the cut. Humbled, flattered, thrilled, stoked. Not to mention, it secures my position as the #1 child in Dad’s eyes (the best of the good news)…and, yes, I mention that to The Huffington Post when I email them to thank them for the opportunity. Oh, I most certainly do.
I spend Monday night with family at the Neil Diamond concert. 71 years old. Still performing. Voice sounds better than it has in a decade. And putting on the show of his life. Really, does it get any better?!
In the span of a week, I am violated by a stuffed animal, unknowingly host a dead chipmunk for cocktail hour, and am called a blue haired old lady by my son.
In the span of that same week, I spend a perfect day outdoors with B&B and the boys, am reunited with Little Sister, am serenaded by Neil Diamond, and am published in The Huffington Post.
Maybe a little better than Even Steven.
Kinda kick ass all around.
Stay tuned for next week’s installment…