Some days seem primed for failure from their very outset.
[Author’s Note: It just dawned on me that The Story That Started It All opens with a coarser version of that same sentiment. What can I say? History repeats itself.]
One of these days occurred recently — just before Borealis commenced his second year of pre-K. (Curious why he’s doing two years of pre-K? Reference Dr. Borealis: Class of 2043.)
The day was set to be hot and long — and we had nothing on the calendar. It was the quintessential end-of-summer weekday, which meant that it was just another battle in my war of attrition against Bo and Aza’s youthful stamina.
Most days, they win. This happens in one of two ways: either 1) they’re still wired at bedtime, or 2) they’re exhausted — but I am too.
This day, however, I was determined to strike the perfect balance.
The August morning was [relatively] cool, so after Taylor left for work, I stuck Rhys in a front carrier and hustled my older kids outside.
Our backyard is… well, I think it’s fair to say that it’s in a state of continual improvement. Or, at least, regular improvement, interposed by long periods of neglect.
Our yard has many issues: a broken-down shed, several tangled messes of invasive vines, rapidly-aging elms in various states of being cut down, a smattering of random yard items, and a total absence of any appealing groundcover.
Most of these problems — and especially the final two — stem from one reason, which is this: we may act as though we own this house, but we still don’t. (Reference Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Sewer for a discussion of our landlord-tenant relationship.)
So while we may hand-water the trees we’ve planted in the backyard, we simply are not going to put in semi-permanent irrigation without our landlord’s approval/consent. Thus, most of our yard is an arid wasteland of grizzled weeds.
Anyway, the long and short of it is that our backyard is not a pleasant place in which to spend time — but that doesn’t stop Bo and Aza from asking to do so at every available opportunity. They’ve become even more enamored with the space since Taylor set up the trampoline we inherited from an old neighbor.
This morning, they made a beeline straight for said trampoline. I, of course, refused to join — and Rhys made a great excuse. “Sorry kiddos, I can’t jump when I’m carrying your brother.”
Instead, I halfheartedly pulled thistles and left them to crisp in the coming midday sun. Bo and Aza soon tired of jumping and returned to the patio, where they grabbed some chalk and began to color on everything *except* the concrete. I rolled my eyes as Aza scribbled on the small cast iron table that technically still belongs to our landlord.
Bo, meanwhile, traded his chalk for a length of bamboo that had once supported our Red Sunset Maple. He gave it an experimental flex and found that, like most of our yard items, this one had seen better days.
I glanced down and was delighted to see that Rhys had fallen asleep. “Ok kids, I’m gonna run Rhysi inside for his morning nap,” I called.
(“Rhysi”: because we’re at the point where our kids’ nicknames have nicknames.)
Bo and Aza took no notice of me. Instead, Bo stuck the dilapidated bamboo pole into the central ring of the cast iron table, then pressed down on the end in his hand.
I think we all expected the pole to splinter in two. Instead, I watched in horror as the cast iron table slowly tipped over, narrowly missing Aza’s bare feet. Mere inches from her toes were sharp fragments of metal — the erstwhile edge of the table.
I shrieked in panic and ran over to my daughter. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, oh my goodness!” I knew that she hadn’t been hit, but I nevertheless checked her all over for injuries.
That done, I sat back on my heels, squeezed her against my side, and released a shaky breath. “Oh, thank You, God, thank You, God,” I whimpered. My mind’s eye swam with visions of crushed metatarsal and detached phalanges.
Then, I turned to my son. Catching hold of his wrist, I hissed, “Bo. You must be more careful!”
He looked at me in alarm. “Ow! You’re grabbing my arm so hard!”
I consciously relaxed my grip — a little. “Bo. What did you just do?”
“Tipped over the table.”
“Yes. But who was right next to that table?”
Bo looked down. “My baby.”
[Note: Shortly after the birth of his younger brother, Borealis told me, “Ori is your baby, and Aza is my baby.” He has since stopped using her name altogether, and I’ve unwittingly picked up the habit of sometimes referring to her in similar manner.]
“Exactly. Do you see how the edge of this table broke off? What do you think would have happened if it had landed on her?”
“Umm… it would have hurt her?”
I shuddered. “Yes. It would have hurt her so badly. Like, she probably wouldn’t have been able to walk for a long time. We are so lucky that the table didn’t land on her.”
Borealis shifted uncomfortably. I should have let him go at this point, but I was still vibrating with both relief and fear, so I snapped, “Seriously. You have no idea how different her life might have been if she was standing a foot closer to that table just now.”
Bo mumbled, “Ok,” then pulled his arm out of my grasp.
I let him go and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I know you weren’t trying to hurt her, and I’m sorry that I didn’t foresee the threat, either.”
“It’s ok,” he muttered — which made me feel even guiltier.
I sat back on my heels. “Alright, I have to move the table and chairs out of the backyard now.”
“Nooooo!” wailed Aza.
I laughed. “Baby, this table almost demolished your feet just now. It’s not safe to have it back here.”
Bo raced over to the offending cast iron and cried, “But I want one more try!”
“I’m sorry, bud,” I said. “It’s too dangerous. We should have removed this stuff before now.”
Still front-carrying a sleeping Rhys, I heaved the furniture out of the backyard. I’d ask Taylor deal with it at some future time.
I returned to the backyard and announced, “Ok, I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if we go elsewhere. How about the Big Goodwill?”
“I don’t like the Big Goodwill,” Aza whined. “I like the Little Goodwill.”
Bo trotted over to his sister and began steering her to the car by her shoulders. “No, you do like the Big Goodwill! There are babies there, remember?”
Aza perked up at the reminder — not that we needed any more baby dolls. But, it was enough to get her to the car, and for that, I was grateful.
Twenty minutes later, we had arrived at the West Arvada Goodwill. This one usually has a better toy selection than does the Golden Goodwill, so it’s a good place to burn time. (Reference Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Sewer, in which Australis and I did just that.)
Rhys, thankfully, had remained asleep, so after parking, I plopped him into a front carrier and quickly let the older kids out of the car. (I mean, as quickly as possible when dealing with three kids under the age of five. I describe my normal process in Back to the Salt Mines.)
We walked into the store, and as I grabbed a cart, someone marveled, “Wow! You’re a pro. I struggle with just this one!”
I looked up to see a middle-aged mother with a baby about Rhys’s age. I bit back an ironic laugh. Listen, lady. You have no idea how much I struggled with my first one, too.
Instead, I opted for an encouraging tone. “You work up to it! It’s not all at once.”
She sighed as she left the cart corral. “I don’t think I could ever work up to it.”
I glanced down at my gaggle and wryly noted, “Nor did I.”
Thankfully, the toy section was well-stocked with a panoply of items that I hate, including the kids’ favorite: brightly-colored, noise-emitting, battery-powered toys. Once again, I was immensely grateful that Borealis and Australis are content with these short stints of VTech and LeapFrog exposure — since, on the whole, they don’t get to play with such toys at home.
Time crawled by. I retrieved toys from the top shelves when asked, then returned them as the kids’ interest flagged. When possible, I instructed Bo and Aza to replace the items on their own. I intermittently perused the children’s clothing racks near the toy section, and I was pleased to find a few Tea Collection tights for Aza and a nice linen shirt for Bo.
Eventually, Rhys woke up, and I sat on the lowest toy shelf to nurse him. After that, I decided that we had lingered at Goodwill for long enough. Time for a quick lap through the store before our departure. I stuck Rhys back in the front carrier and turned to address my older kids.
“Alright, Bo and Aza,” I announced. “Time to get in the cart!”
To my dismay — but not to my surprise — each of my older children had selected a toy to which they still clung. Bo had a Lighting McQueen car; Aza had a Doc McStuffins doll.
I rolled my eyes. “We really don’t need more toys.”
Bo leveled a serious look at me. “I like it. I promise I like it.”
(Clearly, he’s still learning how to effectively employ the power of promises.)
“Yes, I believe that you like it.” I sighed and turned my attention to Aza, who was cuddling her doll as though it were a real baby. Finally, I offered, “Do you want them for Christmas?”
Bo brightened immediately. “Yes! For Christmas!”
His sister mumbled agreement.
“Ok,” I acceded. “We’ll get them for Christmas.”
“But can we keep them in the cart with us right now?” Bo asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, you can have them for now. We’ll hide them when we get home.”
I lifted my older kids into the cart, and we began our usual route through the store. As we passed the fitting rooms, a fellow shopper surveyed Bo and Aza and asked, “Are they twins?”
This question used to surprise me. I mean, my kids are twenty-and-a-half months apart — so, they’re not the same size. Also, they’re very obviously not identical twins. Different eye colors, [slightly] different hair and skin colors, and — most significantly — different genders.
Yet, we still get this question all the time — and, most often, it’s when they’re both sitting in a cart, which masks their size disparity. Apparently, even despite their coloration differences, my two oldest still look so similar that twinhood seems the most obvious explanation.
So, in this case, I gave the same answer I always give: “No, but we hear that a lot! They’re only about a year-and-a-half apart, so not too far off!”
(Although, you know, still kinda far off.)
We continued on to the arts-and-crafts aisle. I surveyed the right shelf and spied a cute set of scrapbook stickers. I considered them for a few seconds, then —
CRASH!
— turned to see that the kids had tipped over the cart. It now rested precariously against the shelf on the left side of the aisle.
“Borealis! Australis!” I snarled. “Not good!”
I quickly righted the cart and deposited my children back inside. To my relief, they were uninjured. Had the cart been further from the left shelf, that likely wouldn’t have been the case. I was grateful that the Goodwill shelving is apparently robust enough to support the weight of a propped cart and two toddlers.
It was obvious, now, that the incident had stemmed from my children’s simultaneous attempts to reach for something on that shelf. I couldn’t immediately identify their object of interest — but all potential candidates, thankfully, remained unbroken.
An elderly man poked his head around the corner. “Is everything ok?”
I smiled over-brightly. “Yep! Everything’s good!”
He disappeared, and I leaned close to hiss, “Look. When you misbehave, it makes me look like a bad mommy.”
Maybe I *am* just a bad mommy, I admitted silently.
Then, aloud, I continued, “Look — you know not to stand in the cart. What do you think your punishment should be for breaking the rules?”
Bo thought for a few seconds. “Maybe… we should just leave?”
I looked down at the clothing in the cart. I was loath to relinquish them — plus, leaving right now was hardly fair to me.
So, I answered, “No, we’re not just going to leave. We got to do the thing that you wanted to do: we played with the toys. But now, it’s time for us to do the thing that I want to do.” I thought for a few seconds, then decided, “Well, since I can’t put you in timeout right now, we’re going to put your toys in timeout.”
“Nooooo!” the kids wailed. I half-expected to see the elderly gentleman again.
I gritted my teeth and steered us back to the toy section.
“I don’t want her to be in timeout!” Aza moaned.
“Sorry babe. You know that it’s against the rules to stand up in the cart, and this is exactly why. It’s not safe.”
And I should have been paying better attention, I chided myself.
“But I like her!” Aza responded.
“And you’ll get her back,” I assured. “After she does her timeout.”
I grabbed the toys, but both children refused to relinquish their holds.
I squatted to their eye level. “Listen. If you give me the toys right now, then you’ll get them back at the end of our walk around the store. But if I have to take them from you, then you’ll never get them back.”
Both children immediately released their toys. I stowed them on the middle toy shelf — upside-down, so they wouldn’t catch the eye of a casual passerby.
“Oh, and you have to remain seated the whole time,” I added as we restarted our loop. “How do you think we can make sure that you obey the rules this time?”
Bo looked off into the distance and chewed his lip. “Um… maybe you can remind me?”
“I do remind you. What else do you think we can do?”
“Well, maybe you can start being a good mommy.”
Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. Bo had hit on my deepest insecurity. I quietly answered, “That really hurts my feelings, Bo.”
My son scrutinized my face. I wanted him to say, I’m sorry, or maybe just, I love you, Mommy.
Instead, he handed me the linen shirt and consoled, “Here. This will cheer you up!”
I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “Thanks, Borealis.” Then I snapped, “Australis — sit down.”
The rest of our circuit proceeded in like manner — periods of attentive obedience, followed by forgetful disobedience. Had it been willful, we would not have returned to retrieve the toys; as things stood, though, I was disinclined to institute such strict judgment. I guess I was still tender from the fear that my poor mothering had almost injured my children — and from the shame that Bo, at least, seemed to harbor the same opinion.
As our loop drew to a close, I noticed a large hand-blown hourglass and plucked it from a high shelf. The sand trickled through the aperture so slowly that I decided the timer must truly be an “hour-glass”.
[Note: Based on its Amazon listing, it was.]
I considered the antiquated timer. Absurdly, it almost seemed like a promise — as though purchasing it was tantamount to buying myself an hour, per se. Sort of like a budget genie-in-a-bottle.
Rationally, I knew that an hourglass wouldn’t give me an extra hour of free time. It would just give me another hour of entertaining my children — while also worrying that they might break my delicate new acquisition. Even so, I mentally justified the four dollars and stowed the hourglass in the bottom of the cart — where the kids couldn’t reach it.
Finally, we returned to the toy section — only to find that Doc McStuffins and Lightning McQueen had vanished.
Oh, well, *of course* they did, I fumed. This will teach me to try to teach my kids a lesson.
Out loud, I brightly encouraged, “Ok, now we just have to find them! They’re hiding.”
Bo instantly read my subtext. “Did someone else take them!?”
“Uhhhh….” I stalled. “Um, I don’t know, buddy. Maybe.”
“But I want Lightning McQueen!”
I grimaced. “I know! And he’s probably still here — somewhere. He’s just not… immediately apparent.”
I silently berated myself for not having paid better attention to where I stowed the kids’ erstwhile Christmas presents. Now, I couldn’t even confirm their absence until I had meticulously searched every shelf — all while Bo and Aza’s exclamations grew increasingly more panicked.
To our collective relief, however, the toys eventually showed up. I had — apparently — placed Doc McStuffins under an upside-down Lightning McQueen — an arrangement whose camouflage powers exceeded belief.
Thankfully, there was only a short line at checkout. In front of us was another mother-of-three — and when she saw me struggling with my children, she offered an understanding smile.
“This is the really hard stage,” she acknowledged. “We were there a few years ago. My kids are three, five, and seven.”
Each of her children tentatively peered up at me. I gave them a small finger-wave and hoped that they somehow didn’t notice my kids shrieking in the cart behind me.
“Yeah… four, two, and zero,” I answered the mother.
“It gets easier,” she promised.
“Thank you. I sure hope so!!”
When it was our turn, Bo and Aza thrust their toys at the cashier — who, thankfully, was no stranger to my children. She scanned the items and then immediately handed them back. I, at least, was less aggressive about placing the pile of clothes on the counter.
“Can I do the card?” Bo asked.
“Can I do the card?” Aza echoed.
I removed two credit cards. “Bo’s going to do the card today. But here, Aza Girl — here’s one for you to hold, too.”
With a confidence developed through years of practice, Bo inserted the card, removed it when prompted, and assented to the amount. When it came time for the signature, he asked, “Can I sign for you?”
I rarely agree to this request — but suddenly, I was in the mood to ignore rules. (After all, my kids were already ignoring rules. Why should they have all the fun?)
So, I shrugged and allowed, “Sure.” I quickly added, “Sign your name — but just ‘Bo’. ‘Borealis’ won’t fit.”
I smiled winningly at the cashier as my oldest *didn’t* forge my signature. Then, before I could forget, I retrieved both credit cards and returned them to my purse.
“Nice save,” the cashier smirked.
“Yeah, I’m awesome,” I responded sardonically.
I slid the shopping bag onto my wrist, removed my older kids from the cart, and returned the cart to the corral — at which point, I noticed the hourglass, still on the bottom rack.
So much for buying myself an extra hour.
When we reached our car, I asked Australis, “Do you want to go in through your side, or through the trunk?”
“I want to go in through the trunk,” she answered.
I opened the lift-gate and helped the twins inside.
[Note: I do actually call them “the twins”. I guess all those strangers have worn me down over the years. Plus, it’s so much simpler than saying “Bo and Aza” every time.]
Bo scrambled toward his seat, but Aza lingered in the trunk, looking up at me.
I gave her a soft smile. “Ok, baby. Time to get in your own seat.”
“Ok, I will,” she responded, turning in that direction.
“Can I keep Lightning McQueen while we drive?” Bo called over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said. “But you need to get yourself buckled in.”
I surveyed the trunk. Both kids were moving toward their seats, so I shut the trunk lift-gate.
Only, suddenly Aza *wasn’t* moving toward her seat.
In a movement that stopped my heart, my daughter lurched back toward me. I instinctively sought to halt the lift-gate — but its momentum was too great, and it slammed closed nonetheless.
The good news was, Australis was still feet away. Her “lurch” had been little more than a gentle sway. Even as I watched, she scrambled out of the trunk and into her carseat.
The bad news was, *I* had not been so lucky. My left thumb caught the brunt of the closure.
“Oh my gosh,” I groaned. “Australis — Australis, I — oh my gosh. Ow, ow, ow.”
Oh yes. I am a poet in my pain.
I examined my thumb. A deep groove cut right across the knuckle, but I could still bend the joint — barely. I was surprised that the skin hadn’t broken — nor, as far as I could tell, had the bones. So, while mind-bendingly painful, the injury would seemingly have a simple recovery.
Part of my brain acknowledged, Wow — I’m super lucky that wasn’t worse. Our guardian angels are working overtime today. Thank You, God!
The other part screamed, My kids hate me and want me to be miserable!
And, unfortunately, that second part kinda won out.
I stormed around to Aza’s door. When I opened it, I found her still head-down in her carseat — a position that is typical of her journey out of the trunk. I roughly pulled her into a sitting position, then buckled her in — avoiding use of my left hand as much as possible.
All the time, I berated, “Australis, when you are in the car, and I’m closing the door, you have to stay in the car. Just now, when you started to get back out, it made me get a boo-boo.”
I held up my thumb for inspection. She blinked big blue eyes and peeped, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
I softened — a little. “It’s not your fault,” I admitted. “I wasn’t being careful. I should have been paying better attention.”
“Were you being reckless?” Bo called from the back.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I was being reckless.” I love when they use my vocabulary against me.
I finished the task at hand by pulling the line to cinch down Aza’s carseat straps.
“It’s too tight!” she complained as I closed the door.
“No, it’s not,” I responded automatically.
Finally, it was time to place Rhys into his carseat. For having been awake through all of these preceding shenanigans, he nevertheless remained remarkably calm. I pulled the baby out of the front carrier and placed him carefully into his carseat.
His almond-shaped eyes — so very like Taylor’s — immediately narrowed with a look of betrayal. I gave him a quick kiss, which did little to mollify his frustration. He released a few heart-rending whimpers, then tried to get his right thumb into his mouth.
“Cut that out,” I snapped, swatting his hand away. “Don’t be like your brother.”
Bo peered over the seat separating him from Rhys. “Don’t be like me?”
“Yes, Ori’s trying to suck his thumb.”
[Note: With regard to Orientalis’s nicknames… Bo and I have worn each other down. I occasionally say “Ori”, and he sometimes uses “Rhys” or one of its derivatives.]
“I don’t suck my thumb anymore!” Bo bristled.
I finger-brushed his hair to the side. “No, you don’t. You did a great job of stopping sucking your thumb.”
And that was true. Once we got his “elbow guards”, Bo quickly dropped the thumb-sucking habit. I just fervently wish that we had never let him begin in the first place.
So, I concluded with, “I’m just hoping that Rhysi won’t need orthotropic work as much as you do.”
By this point, though, Bo had totally stopped thinking about his future of braces and palate expanders. Instead, he had leaned into the other side of the car and was driving Lightning McQueen up and down the seat.
I sighed dramatically. “What a shame. I had hoped that you would wear your seatbelt for this ride, but I guess you won’t!”
Bo’s attention snapped back to me. “NOOOOO!!”
I shrugged again. “I gave you lots of time, but you weren’t paying attention. It’s clear that you just don’t want to wear a seatbelt.”
“NOOOOOOO!!”
I closed the door and walked around to my side of the car.
I was playing a dangerous game. With Aza, this leverage simply wouldn’t work: she would be euphoric to remain unbuckled during a car ride. Bo, on the other hand….
I slid into my seat and heard what I expected: my son’s continued protestations.
“No! I want to wear my seatbelt!”
Then Aza added her opinions to the mix. “Nooooooo! Let Bo wear his seatbelt!”
And, of course, Rhys chose that moment to commence his typical, car-ride-induced screaming.
I quickly prayed, Lord Jesus, come swiftly to my side. Please help me be the mother that these children need.
Taking a deep breath, I yelled, “Well, you should probably work fast, Bo! We’re leaving now!”
I put the car in drive and tortoise-crawled forward. Bo’s shrieks grew even louder, until they resolved into a new complaint: “I can’t get it tightened!”
Here, at least, was an area for compromise. I was willing to meet him halfway — now that he had showed at least cursory obedience.
I returned the car to park — still mostly within our original spot — and jogged around to Bo’s door. I reached inside and pulled the line to tighten his straps.
“Why couldn’t you do it?” I asked. “You normally buckle and tighten yourself.”
Bo fixed me with a wild look and didn’t answer. I attempted to smother a laugh.
“Borealis. Do you know why we started driving before you were buckled in?”
“Because I didn’t buckle myself in.”
“Exactly. Were you paying attention?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do next time?”
“Pay attention and put my seatbelt on.”
“Good boy.” I finger-brushed his hair again. “I love you.”
I returned to my seat, hoping that this would qualify as a “good” lesson: just enough emotion to make it stick, but not enough to traumatize him. My thumb throbbed with the reminder that I had recently received just such a lesson.
I glanced at the clock. It was approaching lunchtime, and my children were still far from being worn out.
“Ok, kids,” I sighed. “How about Chick-Fil-A?”
We have a special relationship with Chick-fil-A — more so than do most people. When Taylor and I were engaged, we established a tradition of meeting weekly at the restaurant for lunch. After I graduated, our tradition shifted to Monday nights, instead. Over the years, our dinners grew to include Borealis, and then Australis, too.
This family rhythm — and many others — screeched to halt in March 2020. We still ate Chick-Fil-A on a weekly basis — mostly on Mondays — but we were no longer permitted inside.
Finally, in summer 2021, our Chick-fil-A reopened its dining area — but not, incidentally, the adjoining play area. The sign on the door explained, Play Area Temporarily Closed for Cleaning. The boxes piled within, however, suggested that this statement was misleading.
Every time we visited the restaurant, we were hopeful that the sign — and the boxes — would be gone. For months, though, this prospect seemed futile — until, one day, the play area was magically reopened, and we could once again banish our children into its relative safety and fun.
The only problem is that my kids prefer that I be banished *with* them.
Well, not actually “my kids”: it’s really just Bo. Aza is generally fine playing alone, especially if she can see me through the play area’s glass enclosure.
I’ve been trying to wean them from my supervising presence; after all, they’re fully capable of playing without me. Plus, chaperoning my kids at an indoor playground is tantamount to shouting, Heyo, I’m a helicopter parent! Make sure your kid’s on his best behavior, because I’ve got my lawyer on speed-dial!
[Note: Unless that misbehaving kid infringes on my intellectual property, my lawyer will have little interest in our kerfuffle.]
And so, on this day, I tried once again to cultivate the twins’ independent play skills. I sent them into the glass enclosure and started compiling our mobile order — intermittently glancing up to watch them complete the stairs-tunnels-slide circuit ad nauseum.
I was pretty pleased with this set-up. Borealis, unfortunately, was not. After only a few minutes, he poked his head out of the play area and… well, for lack of a better world, bellowed.
“MOMMY, HAVE YOU ORDERED YET?”
I cringed. “Please, Borealis, level two voice. I can hear you fine. You don’t have to shout.”
He modulated his volume by one or two decibels, then bellowed, “HAVE YOU ORDERED MY CHICKEN?”
The man sitting outside the play area attempted to smother a smile. He was clearly eavesdropping — but, then again, he really had no choice.
“Borealis, please be quieter. I’m in the process of ordering right now.”
My son narrowed his eyes. I could almost see the gears turning. Hmm, Mommy brought up my volume again, but she *didn’t* say what she’s ordering. I think probably she’s forgotten what she needs to get.
So, ever the gentleman, Borealis decided to assist with my memory lapse. He stuck his head further out of the play area, then bellowed, “REMEMBER TO GET MY BABY AND ME CHICKEN, AND MAC ’N’ CHEESE, AND YOU CAN MAKE THE DRINK A LEMONADE.”
The eavesdropping man snorted into his meal. He flicked a glance up at me, then just as quickly returned to feigned nonchalance.
I closed my eyes and groaned quietly — something Bo could never do. I temporarily gave up on the volume issue and assented, “Yeah, Bo. I’ll be sure to get those.”
My son flashed me a genuine grin and added, “AND YOU CAN GET A SMALL CUP OF WATER FOR YOU, TOO. YOU’RE ALLOWED TO DO THAT.”
This time, the eavesdropping man didn’t affect disinterest. Instead, he looked right at me and laughed — like, a big, open-mouthed guffaw. I was sort of gratified to have afforded someone such joy — even if it was at my own expense.
I raised an eyebrow and marveled, “Are you hearing this!?”
[Note: Literally everyone in that Chick-Fil-A would have answered in the affirmative.]
The man shrugged. “At least you have permission!”
“At least,” I agreed. Turning back to Bo, I said, “Ok, go back into the play area. I’m going to order, and then our food will come soon, and then you and Aza will come and eat.”
Bo cocked his head to the side. “YOU MEAN ME AND SNOWDROP?”
I cringed again. “Uh… yeah. You and Snowdrop.”
To my utter relief, Borealis returned to his sister and let the play area door swing closed.
“Her name’s not ‘Snowdrop’,” I mumbled impotently.
But, no one was listening anymore — which was probably for the better, anyway.
When our food came, Bo and Aza dutifully exited the play area and came to eat.
Remarkably, the meal proceeded largely without incident — although, I had to remind them at least a dozen times that they were not to stand on the chairs.
While they enjoyed their delicious fried chicken, I contented myself with a lame chicken wrap — every bite of which caused Rhys to wail in fury.
[Note: In the intervening weeks, we’ve caved to his extremely obvious desire to try solids.]
As our meal drew to a close, Borealis looked at the table next to us and observed, “She has ice cream!”
I cringed once again. To my relief, Bo had stopped bellowing, but he was still less-than-subtle. One day, hopefully, we’ll succeed in teaching him social niceties — you know, like refraining from talking about people as though they’re not there. Or, at least, refraining from talking about them so loudly.
I lowered my voice in demonstration. “Yes, she does have ice cream — but we’re not going to have any.”
“But I want ice cream!” Aza retorted.
I briefly pictured the mess guaranteed by such a treat, then immediately doubled down. “I’m sorry, baby. We’re not getting any ice cream today.”
Aza collapsed into a little toddler puddle. “But I waaaaaaant it!”
I was nearing the end of my patience, so I snapped, “Aza, it’s a bummer that you don’t want to go into the play area today!”
She looked up in confusion. “But I do!”
I blinked innocently. “Um, not if you behave like that, baby. The playground is just for obedient children.”
“I will be obedient!” she shrieked. “I wiiiiiiiill!”
This was not desirable behavior, so I took her hand and caught her attention. “Hey. I need you to calm down. If you calm down, then we can still go into the play place, ok?”
Aza appeared to modulate her breathing somewhat. “Oh… kay.”
I forced a smile. “We’ll get ice cream some other day, ok?”
Aza rubbed her eyes and mumbled, “I need snuggles.”
I reached over the table and squeezed her shoulder. “For sure, baby. Let’s wipe off hands and face, and then we can go into the play area and I can give you some snuggles.”
We cleaned up from our lunch, and after a quick trip to the potty, we were back in the play area — myself included, this time.
There was just one problem: this time, our family wasn’t alone.
Who was this dread interloper? A petite pixie whose age I placed somewhere between Bo’s and Aza’s. She offered a tentative smile to my children and peeped, “Hi!”
“Mommy!” Bo stage-whisper-bellowed. “There’s someone else in here, and she’s talking to me!”
I barely refrained from face-palming. At least the toddler girl seemed unaffected by my son’s antisocial greeting. She still stood a few feet away, gazing hopefully at my children.
“Borealis,” I chided through gritted teeth. “It would be more polite to ask her name!”
Bo surveyed the waif again and loudly announced, “But I don’t like talking to people!”
“I like talking to people!” Aza declared.
I directed my rictus grin at her, instead. “Then maybe you can ask her name!”
Immediately, my self-proclaimed social butterfly became a shrinking violet once more. She buried her face in my shirt and muttered, “Wuz your name.”
Apparently, this salvo was sufficiently friendly, because the nymph chirped back, “I’m Claire!”
“Ok, now you have to say hi to Claire,” I instructed.
“Hi Claire,” Aza whispered.
Hi Claire, Bo mouthed.
I rolled my eyes. “Out loud. You know, like how you’ve been talking the whole time we’ve been here!”
“Hi Claire,” Bo mumbled.
Good enough.
“Do you want to play?” Claire asked.
I gave my son a nudge. He looked back at me, then faced Claire and… spit in her face.
Ok, so, more accurately, he “blew a raspberry” in her face — but the effect was nearly the same.
“BOREALIS!” I bellowed.
(Oh. That’s where he gets it.)
I then added the obvious. “We do not spit at people!”
Bo shot me a guilty glance, which made me feel guilty in turn. Clearly, I wasn’t doing a great job of socializing my oldest.
Once again, though, Claire ignored my son’s faux pas. “Let’s play Monster!”
This, finally, was familiar footing for Bo. In a shocking about-face, he whirled around and yelled, “Ah! A monster!”
Claire grinned. “Let’s tickle the monster!”
“Ok!”
I saw where this was going. Claire did not. I tried not to laugh at her startled expression when Bo confidently walked over and tickled her.
“No, stop! I’m not the monster!” she spluttered.
“It’s a pretend monster,” I clarified.
This explanation, thankfully, had an immediate effect. Bo stopped tickling Claire, and together, they tickled the air between them.
Aza, in contrast, remained glued to my side. That is, until Claire proposed, “Let’s play Tickle Crabs!”
At that suggestion, both my children cheered, “Yay, Tickle Crabs!”
Ah, the shared cultural icons of childhood. For me, it was Power Rangers; for my kids, it’s Bluey.
The three children went on like that for a while. I was heartened by their cooperative play — even if Bo still refused to speak directly to Claire.
Eventually, the younger girl’s father joined us — which delighted Claire but terrified Bo and Aza. Despite my protestations, they immediately retreated to the [perceived] safety of my side. Somewhat inconveniently, I was in the middle of nursing Rhys, which seriously impeded my ability to snuggle them and/or avoid flashing Claire’s dad.
So, instead, I sought to engage my children in conversation. (I may or may not have been motivated by our captive audience.)
Pointing to an alphabet decal, I asked Aza, “What’s this letter?” — quickly adding, “No, Bo, don’t answer — I know you know it.”
Bo sat back, disgruntled — but, thankfully, compliant.
“A for Australis!” she answered triumphantly. She always gets that one, at least.
“And this letter?”
She thought for a few seconds, then remembered, “B for Borealis!”
“Yes, good job!” I enthused. And, since it was on my mind, I added, “B is also for Bluey, and Bingo, and Bandit!”
“But sometimes they call Bandit ‘Dad’,” Bo interjected.
“Well, that’s because kids don’t call parents by their first names,” I explained. “Like, what do you call your father?”
“Dad.”
“Exactly. But what’s his first name?”
“…Dad.”
“Well, that’s what you call him, but what do other people call him?” I asked. “They don’t call him ‘Dad’; they call him…?”
“Bandit.”
I snorted. “No, you goof! What is your dad‘s name?” Bo didn’t immediately answer, so I hinted, “It starts with a T.”
“Taylor!” Bo remembered.
“Yes! Good job. Everyone has a first name, and that’s Daddy’s first name.” I paused, then asked, “What’s your first name?”
“Borealis.”
“Exactly. But when you have kids, they’ll call you…?”
“…Bandit.”
“No!” I giggled.
“Borealis.”
“Not that either!”
“Taylor?”
At this point, I was laughing so hard that Claire’s dad was pretending not to stare. “No! They’ll call you ‘Dad’ — because you’ll be their… dad! They won’t call you by your first name. And they won’t call you ‘Bandit’, either.”
Bo gave me an incredulous look. Aza repeated, “Borealis, Borealis, Borealis,” in an infantile sing-song.
I decided to recalibrate. “Ok, so what do you call me?”
Bo yawned. “Mom.”
I poked his belly. “You’re tired, you silly boy! Maybe you’ll take a nap today.”
“No, I won’t!”
“Yeah, I know you won’t,” I agreed. “Anyway, do you remember what my name is?”
“Mom?”
I had sort of seen that coming, so I responded, “In Bluey, they call their mom ‘Mum’, but her first name is ‘Chilli’. So, in the same way, you call me ‘Mom’, but my first name is…?”
Bo narrowed his eyes, then pronounced, “Bandit.”
I roared with laughter. “Oh my goodness, get out of here, you silly billy!”
My son grinned wickedly, then dashed back to the stairs — only to discover that his sister wasn’t with him.
“SNOWDROP!” he bellowed. “I NEED YOU, SNOWDROP!”
Aza, however, was snuggled securely against my side.
“Do you want to go play with your brother?” I asked.
“No,” she mumbled. “I want to snuggle with you.”
“BUT SNOWDROP, I NEEEEEEED YOU!”
Aza burrowed further under my arm, which complicated my attempts to return Rhys to his front carrier. My aching thumb didn’t help. Bo, meanwhile, sought to pull his sister off of the bench and back into the play structure.
I cast about for a solution that would please all parties — at which point, I noticed that Claire had successfully convinced her father to join her in a game of Monster. He slowly “chased” her around the play area until she “got caught” — which, from my perspective, appeared awfully intentional.
That gave me an idea. In a ploy to redirect Bo’s attention, I exclaimed, “Look, Bo — Claire got caught by the monster! She needs to be rescued!”
My tactic worked… sort of. Bo looked over at Claire, and his masculine soul immediately rose to the occasion. “I will rescue her!”
But, then he turned back to Aza and bellowed, “SNOWDROP! COME WITH ME! CLAIRE NEEDS US!”
From an outsider’s perspective, it was probably a hilarious scene. I sat on the shoe bench, Rhys still halfway out of his front carrier; Aza clung to my arm, leg outstretched; and Bo held a deep straddle: one hand on Aza’s foot, the other extended imploringly toward Claire.
From my perspective, though, it wasn’t hilarious: it was sheer pandemonium.
Australis screamed, “Bo! Let go of me!”
Borealis bellowed, “SNOWDROP! COME WITH ME!”
I alternated between shouting, “Aza! Just accommodate your brother!” and “Borealis! Let go of your sister!”
And Claire? Well, she looked sort of uncertain about the prospect of being rescued.
Eventually, Claire’s dad resolved our impasse. He shuffled close enough that his “prisoner” was just within Bo’s reach. My son took hold of Claire’s hand and yanked her out of her father’s grasp. I was thankful that no one was hurt — and that Claire’s dad had been willing to play along.
And then, the game of Monster started over again.
“Alright, time for us to leave,” I announced.
In the time it took to hustle my kids out the door, Bo “rescued” Claire another three times. Each time, she further resisted his efforts, until he was on the verge of hanging from her legs.
“Borealis!” I barked. “Cut that out! It’s time to go.” Then, to Claire’s dad, I mouthed, I’m sorry!
“It’s all good,” he answered.
Claire blinked a sleepy and overwhelmed farewell, obviously content to be in her monster’s embrace.
As I guided my kids from the play area, Bo bellowed, “BUT I NEED TO RESCUE HER!”
I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, babe. I don’t think she wants you to rescue her right now.”
Just outside the play area door, a gray-haired mother snorted into her meal. After recovering, she marveled, “The things you never think you’ll have to say as a parent.”
“Yup,” I agreed — because it’s true. I say those things all the time.
Outside, I decided to go for max efficiency in reaching the car.
“Ok, so I’m wearing Rhysi in the front carrier, and I have the diaper bag on my back, and I’ll carry Aza on my shoulders, and I’ll hold Bo’s hand while we’re in the parking lot. How does that sound?”
Aza held up her hand. “Look, Mama! I found a rock.”
“You found a rock!” I agreed automatically.
“No, it’s a jewel,” she decided.
I rolled my eyes. “Ok, you found a jewel. Are you ready to go?”
She nodded, so I lifted her up onto my shoulders — at which point, she dropped the rock.
“My jewel!” she shrieked hysterically.
The fastest way to resolve this calamity was to retrieve the rock — so that’s what I did. I squatted down, plucked it up, and handed it back to my daughter. She was elated.
As I slowly completed my toddler-barbell squat, I noticed that I had an audience: two young men who immediately struck me as Mines wrestlers. I felt an instant kinship with them — because, once upon a time, I had loved one of their number.
Their windows were rolled down, so as I took Bo’s hand and began walking, I called, “Never skip leg day.”
The passenger nodded slowly, then sagely repeated, “Never skip leg day.”
We reached our car without incident — which was a relief, because I was utterly exhausted. Once again, my children’s youthful vigor had prevailed against me.
I set Australis down between our car and the neighboring 2021 Subaru Outback, then hefted Borealis into the trunk. Making sure he was clear, I closed the lift-gate, then turned to see that —
“AUSTRALIS!”
— my daughter had used her jewel to vandalize that shiny new Subaru.
Cars come and go,
And insurance premiums rise.
But in the midst of everything,
At least I kept my kids alive.
Oh my, I laughed so hard reading the part at Chick-fil-A that I got a spasm in my side 😂. Well done sister 😀
Haha! I bet you can picture the chaos!