A Mom For All Seasons

Just when I am wallowing in a good, deep, pit of despair because my baby – the boy child, the 16-year-old going on 60-year-old – doesn't need me anymore, life puts a little hurdle out there that proves Moms can be pretty useful. Even if the boy child doesn't want to admit it.

Ever since his sister left for college (thoughtlessly leaving him as the sole recipient of his parent's attention) The Little Prince has done everything he can to assert his independence. Everything he can, that is, while still living under our roof and enjoying free groceries, laundry, and maid service. As soon as he turned 16 he got a job, so he now supports his musical and automotive ambitions, as well as a steady diet of fast-food and jumbo convenience store sodas. Despite his relative economic autonomy, the occasional gas-money donation is still appreciated, and I have found that I seldom (although not never) get change back when I ask him to run an errand for me. This child-labor service charge is a small price to pay for convenience, I suppose.

Between work and well-timed outings with his friends, his schedule precludes dinner with the 'rents most nights (possibly because his mother insists on using lame, outdated slang like “'rents”). He typically shuns homemade leftovers (a trait inherited from his father), preferring microwaved delicacies such as pizza rolls and frozen chicken wings. Likewise breakfast (Pop Tarts) is spent in silent contemplation (a trait inherited from his mother), scuttling back to his room like a hermit to his hermitage as soon as the toaster pops.

I don't blog much about The Little Prince, precisely because he is so self-sufficient and easily embarrassed. I fear any public recognition (actually, I know from experience that any public recognition) will result in an immediate cessation of his already limited acknowledgment of my existence. Let me tell you, you have never been shunned until you have been shunned by a teenage boy.

But I have learned to live with it. Just like I have learned to not jump out of my skin when he slips silently into my office/hermitage and stands there – silently – nodding and occasionally making eye, until I summon all my Super Mom abilities and read his mind.

“Going out with your buddies?” I ask/say/hypothesize.

“Yup,” he says before silently slipping away. My petition to "have fun, be good, love you" chases him down the hallway.

So it was early Saturday morning, when he materialized at my side as I was finishing my first cup of coffee. He stood quietly, nodding with a bit more agitation than usual.

“Heading to work?” I asked.

“Need a coat,” he said, grimacing.

Now, I could have reminded him that I have nagged him for at least two years about getting a winter coat. I could have reminded him that last year I took him shopping and practically forced him to buy a coat before relenting when I realized it would just hang, unused, in the closet. I could have reminded him that he has lived in Iowa for 16 winters and he knows that it gets cold and he knows that his job requires him to spend at least a little bit of time outdoors. But as the temperature hovered at a balmy 2 degrees (expected to fall) and he needed to get to work, I kept all this to myself.

Instead I left my coffee to cool while I helped him search through closets and totes and drawers for a coat, gloves and boots. Then I realized he had grown at least a foot taller since he had last worn a proper winter coat, gloves or boots (since, apparently, high school students are too cool these things) and he had to borrow said items from his father (who was outside and wearing them at the time, because old folks value warmth over coolness).

You may wonder why he didn't ask his father if he could borrow a coat in the first place, instead of making his mother feel like she had neglected him by not forcing him to get a winter coat. You could also ask yourself why (a month ago) he told his mother – at 6 a.m., during her first cup of coffee – that his arm hurt and he thought he might have broken it. And why he then allowed her to sit nervously in the emergency room with him and allowed her to take him out for breakfast when it turned out it wasn't broken.

You may wonder that, but I would prefer that you wonder that in silence. While you're at it, perhaps you could nod your head and wait – silently – for me to acknowledge your presence.

Because the important thing here is that my little boy still needs his mom (whether he will admit it or not).

And a coat.

The Gifts That Keep On Giving

The further adventures of Randy and Clarice . . . . (Christmas in Stitches, Dec. 25, 2016)

Randy and Clarice sat nestled on the couch, watching the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle. Outside, a picturesque Christmas morning snow was falling – huge, fluffy, marshmallow flakes that swirled crazily in the rosy light of dawn.

“This reminds me of last year,” Randy said quietly, nuzzling his wife's hair. “Remember how we sat in the car outside your folks' house on Christmas Day? Remember how long it took you to get up the courage to go in? I thought I'd loose at least one finger to frostbite.” He chuckled lightly and squirmed. He enjoyed cuddling this way, his arm around Clarice, her head on his shoulder, but they had been sitting that way for nearly 20 minutes, and lack of circulation was making his fingers numb in an uncomfortably familiar way.

Clarice sighed and straightened, attuned to her husband's discomfort. Besides, she was getting a crick in her neck. “You had finally proposed, and I was afraid my crazy family would scare you off.”

“I love you, and your crazy family,” Randy said, kissing the tip of her nose. “You don't regret eloping to Vegas, do you?”

“I'm not sure that qualified as eloping, since both our families showed up to surprise us.”

“I learned my lesson. Never leave unopened mail around where your brother can find it when he jimmies the lock and invites himself in to our house for a beer while we're gone. And always pay cash for airline tickets. Cuts down on the paper trail.”

“Thank you for not abandoning me at the altar with the Elvis impersonators after Aunt Ethel kidnapped the minister. I'm fairly certain her ordination is legit.” Clarice said.

“And thank you for bailing me out of jail after that incident with my uncles at Treasure Island.”

“I'm sure they weren't the first drunken tourist to battle the pirates.”

“No, but they were probably the first to win,” Randy said.

“Besides, I was already at the station waiting to pick up Gramma.”

Randy snickered. “Glad she got those solicitation charges dropped.”

“Entrapment is more like it,” Clarice grumbled. “Why else would they put a handsome bicycle cop right outside a Chippendale's show? Who knew real cops wore spandex uniforms?”

“Good thing she only put a dollar in his shorts.”

“Yeah, he was just going to give her a warning until she tried to make change.”

They went back to quietly contemplating the Christmas tree, and the concentric arcs of gifts radiating out from under it.

“Do you suppose any of those gifts are for us?” Randy asked.

“Don't be silly. Your gift is upstairs in bed,” Clarice said, looking up at him coyly.

“Delivered by Santa himself. Ho, ho, ho!”

Clarice shook her head in amazement. “I'll never forget the look on Santa's face when I went into labor. Thank goodness his pants were water-repellent.”

“Thank goodness Santa was an off-duty paramedic! Leave it to the Donner-Dasher progeny to make a grand entrance. Or exit, as the case may be.”

“I'm going to guess there weren't a lot of requests for baby dolls after that. It was nice of the mall to give us the twins' first photo with Santa for free.”

“Speaking of Santa, did you hear any noises on the roof last night?” Randy asked.

“No, I'm pretty sure all these presents were delivered the old fashioned way – by the postman, the UPS man, and the FedEx man,” Clarice said. “I read that shipping services have been swamped since the older generation downsized to smart cars.”

“True. I don't think a Barbie Dream House would fit in Aunt Lucy's Fiat. But that's beside the point. I could swear I heard reindeer earlier. That's why I was up so early. Do you have any idea the kind of damage hooves could do to a steel roof?”

“I thought you got up early to put together those trikes,” Clarice laughed. “For heaven's sake, the twins won't be able to use them until spring – two years from now.”

Randy shrugged and stood up. “Nothing like a little motivation,” he said as he picked his way carefully along a crooked path through the gifts towards the kitchen. “Besides, they're our kids. I sure they're, ahem, gifted.”

“Your grandfather sure seems to think so. He sent early admission forms to Harvard yesterday, via courier.”

“Do you suppose a Harvard acceptance letter will get them short-listed at Peter Pan Preschool?” Randy said as he poured two cups of coffee, adding a generous splash of Baileys to his.

“Before you know it they'll be walking, and talking, leaving for college . . . .” Clarice's voice trailed off. Randy returned to find her sobbing quietly, tears streaming down her face.

“That won't happen for a long, long time, sweetheart.” Randy carefully arranged the two steaming mugs of coffee on opposite sides of a gargantuan bow, on top of a Power Wheels Jeep-sized box, which had replaced the coffee table. “There will be plenty of dirty diapers, skinned knees, broken bones, doctor bills, orthodontist bills, prom tickets, . . . .” Randy's voice trailed off.

Clarice wiped a tear from his cheek. “That won't happen for a long, long time, sweetheart.” Randy managed a weak smile. “At least not until they open all these presents!”

“These presents are taking over! I'm sure the dog's bed was in that corner yesterday. Now there's a . . . does that look like a pogo stick to you? Have you even seen the dog lately?”

“I shut Frosty in our room. He was whimpering at the door to the babies' room – I checked and they were sleeping – I didn't want him to wake them.”

“Did that box just meow?”

“You're imagining things. I'm glad we're hosting Christmas here this year.” Clarice tucked her feet up under her, carefully straightening a tower of noisy boxes – Legos she guessed – at the edge of the couch. She didn't remember them being there when she sat down. “This gives us a chance to start our own Christmas traditions.”

“I love your optimism, but my mom has been trying to weasel out of holiday hosting since my oldest brother got a place of his own. Nothing says Christmas quite like 12 Donners dining in a dorm room meant for one.”

“Well, we have plenty of room to host everyone. Or we had plenty of room. Tell me there aren't more boxes in the kitchen.”

“Not yet. Thank goodness our moms organized a pot luck meal.”

“Iowa beef roast meets Minnesota hot-dish with a side of Kosher.”

“And an un-healthy dollup of Paula Deen, balanced out with vegan . . . vegi . . . ovo . . . . What did your niece bring to the last supper, anyway?” Randy asked.

“I believe it was organic, non-GMO tree bark and pine needles, eco-consciously harvested from the ground. At least that's what it tasted like.”

“Happy Chris-Hanuk-Za-Stice. Did you stock up on Tums?”

“And toilet paper.” Clarice sighed. “How soon will the invasion start?”

Randy pointed to a timer perched on top of a huge box which had replaced the television. Around the outside edge of the timer was written “Doomsday Clock.”

“Two hours!” Clarice shout-whispered. “It's still dark outside. I thought we told them noon!”

“We did. But you know my mom is going to want some extra grandchild time, so she'll be here an hour early. And your mom wants extra grandchild time, and she knows my mom will be an hour early, so your mom will be here two hours early. And how long has that pile of gifts been in the doorway? I swear it wasn't there when I got coffee.”

“Honey, it's not like the presents are breeding. At least, I don't think they are.”

“You're right. I'm just nervous. What were we thinking? Both families here at the same time? We'd better enjoy this peace while we can. It will probably be the last quiet Christmas morning we'll have for several years.”

Clarice sighed and snuggled closer to Randy. “And I wouldn't have it any other way.”

As if to prove Randy's point, the baby monitor crackled to life. A voice, quiet as a mouse, spoke: “Good morning, Mother.”

Then another: “Good morning, Father.”

Clarice and Randy sat up straight and looked at each other in surprise.

“Did you hear . . . . ?”

“Did they just . . . . ?”

“Merry Christmas, losers!” A much louder, not at all mouse-like voice bellowed from the monitor. The living room was flooded with lights shining in through the window, and a recording of 'The Little Drummer Boy' began blaring. Randy and Clarice's looks of amazement turned to horror as they realized only one group of people could create an exterior illumination display of this magnitude.

“The cousins!” they both groaned.

“They have a bucket truck! I told you to fix the latch on the children's bedroom window!” Clarice shouted over the music.

“But that means . . . .” Randy and Clarice turned to see both their mothers joyously descending the stairs, holding little Francine and Victor Donner-Dasher aloft. Behind them followed a rowdy profusion of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins from both families.

“Look on the bright side,” Clarice said to Randy. “This won't happen again for 324 days.”

“That soon?”