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Posts Tagged ‘van’

We’d hardly left preschool, when on the straight-stretch a mostly-white beater caught up with us and matched us rpm for rpm.

Only, c’mon…this thing had nothin’ on our van.

At the red light, when the driver of the two-door beater shifted from first to second and backfired, I scrambled for anything to jam in my ear.  My son…

my son perked up to the same racket, and with a finger that stretched across his sister’s face, he shouted, “COOL CAR!”

By which time I glanced back out the window to confirm that there indeed was nothing cool about this car.  Especially its non-muffler.  But as the beater shifted six more times and accelerated an inch ahead of our van in the lane beside ours, my son couldn’t stand it any longer and he yelped,  “Mommy, catch that fast car!”

Only I slowed to turn.  And my son…

my son ogled after the noise (BRMM–RUMMM–RUMM–RUMMM) he found innately beautiful.

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It didn’t help that my mind carried to bed every burden in the world and could solve none of it or that I bumped into my son in the hallway at two-forty a.m. on his way to our room.  Or that seven o clock came before it should have, and with it the same small boy from the middle of the night.

No…none of that helped.

Because before I could squeeze the non-sleep from my eyes, the day was off like a freight train.  One that apparently had no stops to make.

That it is twelve and a half hours later and I am sitting down–alone–is directly proportional…proportional?  Uh…that can’t be right…anyway…it’s directly something…to the moment my husband put his hand on the door knob and I released all mental, emotional and physical responsibility of my son.

Without regret.

Only now with my eyeballs ready to seal themselves shut and the rest of my body twittering like an old car with one final sputter after the engine’s off, I’d rather flop over and wait for someone to cover me with a blanket than attempt, well…anything. 

Here’s the brief account.

Somewhere between the moment I handed my son his honey lemon drink and the moment I turned around to do who-knows-what, my son splashed half his drink on the floor.  Which is nothing to shout about…when it’s water.  That I stuck to the floor 33 times in the same fifteen minutes and could only find the sticky spot by leaning sideways and watching for it to reflect in the light while I paced the kitchen seemed unmerciful.  But I had no idea.

My son would later fling sour cream off of his nachos and onto his sister’s forehead.  He would unwind the rest of our toilet paper and chuck it in the trash.  Then flush the cardboard piece that held all the toilet paper and with it, all our dental floss.  Only they wouldn’t flush and would need retrieval.  On our way to the store he would drag his cleaned coat along the unwashed van.  While I pushed the grocery cart on a wheel and a half, he tottered on the front end, whisked his arm over all he could reach and then dove off when he felt the whim.  When I reached for eggs, he reached for a couple of coupons dispensing on the milk door.  I was touched when he offered to help pay for everything with the penny he found in the parking lot.  Only he reneged and took to wrapping his penny in his coupon.

While I took a phone call in the car, he dismantled the glove compartment, shoved a bobby pin down the window and offered a tampon to the people in the parking spot beside us. 

I’d hardly inhaled at home when he ran by with a hammer and the van keys.  When I’d insisted he stop a moment and listen, he’d rebutted that he couldn’t hear me because he was busy.  Busy with that hammer, my car keys and a wet strip of toilet paper.

Only before I blew my final gasket, my son clung to my leg and said what he’d been demonstrating all day…”I just need some bu’ttention.” 

One hour and twenty-six minutes later, my husband got home…

And did what I could no longer do.  He gave that kid some bu-ttention. 

Hallelujah.  Amen.

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Thou Shalt Not Steal…Siding

That there are four pieces of old siding parked against the seat of our van is hardly signigicant.  Yawn-worthy, really.

Only they’re not our siding pieces.  And, well, they shouldn’t be there.

It’s just that my son detoured from the unwritten but understood Munson Law.  The one that means, “don’t touch a thing on the way to the car,” even if I’ve only said, “get in the car, please.”  And so as I chatted with a friend just outside her front door, my daughter crawled into the back of the van and simply waited.  And my son…

My son started dragging all the old boards he could find near the walkway of their home to our van.

He was in the middle of shoving a piece of siding back to his sister when we saw him.  Only how you apologize for something like that while stifling the biggest guffaw, I’m still not sure. 

And so we, uh, left.

Without the siding.

It seemed the right thing to do.

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Van Church

I don’t know what prompted the Sunday school lesson in the backseat of  the van today.  Or if it really was one.  But we were hardly on Meridian St. heading south from the Y, when my six year old held her brother’s hand and spoke in this calm teacher-like voice. “You’re perfect, bud.  Your skin is perfect.  Your body is perfect.  And,” she breathed,  “you’re perfect because you’re a child of God.”

Only he was quick to blurt his offense. “I’m not a child, ” he said.  But she aptly answered, “Yes, you are.”  And then continued, “we’re both children.  We’re children of God.”

“I’m not a child,” he insisted again, clearly missing the finer points of the sermon.

And so she asked,”then what are you?” 

And he answered as one putting the matter to rest, “I’m an ice cream cone.”

“Then are you made of ice cream,” she asked?

“No,” he said, as he laughed at her ridiculous question.  “I’m made of people.”

By which time she bust a gut.  And I pulled into our driveway.  Completely enlightened.

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