On the fourth of July, we head over to our friend Cathee’s house for a barbecue.
Jack and Jane are wild with excitement about the coming fireworks and run laps around the backyard. When they tire of this, they give each other piggyback rides, and when they tire of that, they start wrestling, all the while shrieking and laughing.
When dinner is served, in true barbecue style – everyone for herself – Doug gets each of the kids a plate of food while I feed the babies applesauce and little bits of hot dog.
A few minutes later, a little voice in my ear says, “Mama.” I turn to look at Jane. Her eyes are wide, her lip trembling. “I spilled ketchup on my dress.” I raise an eyebrow. She hasn’t had this dress three days. Then I see the large globs of red goo seeping into the pink blanket Cathee had spread on the grass, and more ketchup on baby Sarah’s brand new board book.
I leave Doug to finish feeding the babies and hustle Jane and the book inside. While we’re cleaning the book, Jack troops into the bathroom to see if he can help.
The ketchup has stained the bottom of some of the pages, and a couple more pages buckle when we scrub them too vigorously with a wet cloth. “Jane, honey, I’m afraid you’re going to have to buy baby Sarah a new book.”
“It was my fault, too, Mama,” Jack says. “I was wrestling her.”
“Wrestling? With hot dogs in your hands?”
He looks at the floor. “I’ll help Jane pay for it.”
I exhale loudly and turn my attention to Jane’s dress. I don’t think this ketchup is going to come off. “It’s too bad, Jane,” I say. “Your dad just bought this for you.” I clean her dress as best I can, then march the two of them outside to apologize to Cathee for ruining Sarah’s brand new book and the blanket.
Cathee smiles and tells Jack and Jane that the blanket is an old one of her parents’ that they use for moving. Then she admires how well they cleaned the book.
Jack shakes his head. “You can still see the ketchup right there.” He points. “We’ll buy you a new one.” (And they do. The next day. With their own money.)
Jack and Jane wipe the ketchup globs off the blanket and then finish eating while I go off to forage for food at the grill. I sit on the ground next to Luke and Ben and set my cup of punch on the chair beside me. While I’m chatting with Cathee, Ben pulls himself onto the chair and knocks the cup over. Punch spills all over the chair seat and the pink blanket.
I look at Cathee. “Good thing this isn’t a family heirloom,” I say, “because my kids and I have just managed to destroy it.”
She grins and shrugs. I clean up the punch.
Half an hour later, I’m sitting in a different chair and eating dessert. Jack stands beside me. “Mama!” he cries. I turn and look. He’s spilled his cherry cheesecake all down the back of my camp chair. Actually, it’s not my camp chair. It’s Cathee’s. I just happen to be sitting in it. I also happen to be wearing Cathee’s fleece jacket, which she kindly lent me because I was cold and which now has cherry cheesecake all down the back.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I close my eyes and shake my head.
I look at Cathee. She’s laughing.
I wish I could say I am laughing, too. I’m not. I’m embarrassed. I’m afraid I am becoming the woman whose friends don’t want her to come over because her kids leave a trail of destruction in their wake.
The women from the Seven Oaks Country Club tsk tsk behind their hands while I scrub cherries off the camp chair.
Jack hovers beside me, what’s left of his cheesecake still in his hand. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Jack,” I shrill, “take your cheesecake away from here.”
From across the yard, Doug says, “I think Jack should clean that up.”
“I agree,” I snap, “he should clean it up. But I don’t want him anywhere near a piece of fabric until he’s finished that cheesecake!” I point at a wooden chair on the other side of the yard. “Go!” I say to Jack.
He goes. As I stand there wiping off yet another chair, I want to cry. Or scream. Or both. But mostly I want to rewind time so that I can respond to these mishaps differently. I wish I had laughed. I wish I had seen this whole thing as a joke. I wish I hadn’t barked at my husband and son and made everyone else uncomfortable.
I shake my head and blink back tears of frustration and regret. Of the four upsets this fourth of July, it wasn’t my kids who made the most mess.
It was me.
I am a reader (I feel about books the way some people feel about chocolate: yum), a writer (I've written a book, even: The Circle of Seasons: Meeting God in the Church Year), and a mother (of four). So that's what I blog about: reading, writing, and raising my kids.
Alas, Kimberlee, my memory of the evening isn’t you losing your temper with Jack, it’s seeing your kids having so much fun playing together, and eating good food with so many of my friends, and the way Jack said, “Mama, it fell,” and then realizing what he was talking about (which still makes me chuckle, and think that I’m glad I loaned you my black fleece rather than a white sweater). It was a fun day with a few hiccups, and the hiccups only made the day more story-worthy. Don’t be too hard on yourself, my friend.
Incidentally, did you read the replacement board book before giving it to me? It’s about a lonely hippo who invites a couple of hippo friends over, and more and more hippos show up until his house is full of hippos, partying all night and going berserk and trashing the place. In the morning he finally gets rid of them all and has the house to himself, only to realize that he feels lonely again. Moral of the story, both mine and the hippo’s: it’s much better to have a house full of people, having fun (and, alas, sometimes spilling ketchup, punch, and cherry cheesecake) than to be a sterile recluse. Your kids will be welcome at our house anytime, although we might put down a tarp first.
But it could have been my children! And they don’t have any money of their own to get a new book! And there’s only 2 of them! Still, darling, it’s just kids being kids, truly. Life is messy.
Hippo’s Go Berserk!! We got that at Half Price Books and it’s one of our first grandchild’s favorite books. I’m hoping the second one will like it just as much. Speaking of grandchildren, I find myself getting very annoyed at the fact that Every Single Thing has to become a big mess! And then I get annoyed at myself. You aren’t alone.
I reread your post, “Eleven.”
You weren’t as screwed up as you think you are. And you still aren’t.
xo
To Kimberlee and Cathee –
As I sat here reading this post on a Saturday morning, after struggling with a 22 month and 4 month old every night, I can SOOOO identify with the feeling of frustration and shame when my oldest messes everything up – even just in my own house – and how poorly I react to it. I was in tears when I read Kimberlee’s post and then uncontrollable tears when I read Cathee’s. Thank you both for the feeling of being amongst friends, even as I sit here alone.
And, I think I need to go buy the “hippo book”….
Time passes. We don’t remember any of this stuff when our kids grow up, even our own failings. All I remember is how sweet it was to hold them when they are so small, their soft yummy-smelling skin (most of the time) and how tender the I Love You’s are coming from a little one. Precious precious precious are the years of raising kids. One day can seem to last 100 years for all the problems kids can bring, but it is only 18 years and then, they go. Forever grown, never to be little again.
Beautiful post, beautiful comments! I first read this post a few days ago while visiting my cousins in New Jersey. After the reading I went downstairs for dinner and promptly spilt red wine on the embroidered white tablecloth my cousins got in Peru. I told them about your blog post that I had JUST read. We all laughed and my cousin sprayed the tablecloth with some stain remover. I guarantee you if I had been six or seven sitting at the same table with my parents and a glass of grape juice, laughter would not have been the response! Some of my worst days as a teacher have been not about what children did or said but about the anger I’ve felt toward myself at my response to the situation. So Kimberlee, I also thank you for your honest writing. It helps to know that not only am I not alone, but I’m in good company.