Every mom has her thing.
You know…the thing that worries her, the thing that she’s
maybe, just a wee bit, overly anxious about.
It’s different for all mothers. For some?
Maybe it’s germs. For
others? Perhaps it’s contact sports.
Ie: In A Christmas
Story, Ralphie’s mother’s “thing” would be that Ralphie will shoot his eye out.
A little odd, but who are we to judge?
My own mother has always been, perhaps, a little hyper when
it comes to travel of any sort.
The prelude to my driving ten minutes across town was met
with all manners of urgency:
“Call me the moment you get there! Do you hear me? The very minute you arrive!”
I’d rolled my eyes.
I’d thought, good grief, this woman is a complete, walking nightmare.
“If I ever behave like that,” I may have muttered to a
friend or two, “smack me.”
And, then I had children of my own, and guess what?
I developed a stupid, irrational, irritating, god forsaken,
bleeping bleepidy bleep, bleep thing!
Completely unbidden, my “thing” arrived one morning over a
highchair tray full of bite sized pieces of toast. My husband had prepared the toddler gourmet
delicacy of buttered toast, cut it into bite sized pieces, added a sippy cup of
juice, and walked outside to get the mail.
I entered the kitchen, found my darling first born happily chomping,
completely unattended, and my “thing” descended like a guillotine in 18th
century France.
Chris entered the room,
“How could you have left him alone?” I’d nearly shouted.
“He was belted in. I
just ran to get the mail.”
“He could have choked to death!”
“I was gone less than thirty seconds. I literally ran out to the mailbox and right
back in. I was probably gone 15
seconds.”
“Choked! To DEATH,
Chris! What were you thinking?!?”
And, my darling husband’s face adopted an expression of grim
resignation. The expression a person
adopts when they know that no amount of logical reasoning is going to bring
about any semblance of sanity in their life partner.
And, I knew.
I KNEW I was over reacting and that my level of anxiety was
a little over-the-top. But, what can I
say?
Choking is my thing.
Sure, this could be linked to the fact that, as a
babysitting teen, I’d had to give a girl I was watching the Heimlich.
But, no matter how logical this anxiety may seem at times—15
years after the bite-sized-buttered-toast incident of 1995, as I stood in my
kitchen, forcing the friends with whom I was to be lunching to wait, because I
didn’t want to leave until my teenager had finished eating his cheese sandwich
(for fear I’d leave him alone and he’d immediate choke to death)--I knew full
well; I’m a little nuts.
Just as my mom is a little nuts.
Motherhood can do that to a girl.
So, knowing this, you can imagine my distress when, one
morning at 2am, I awoke to find my second son, then 3, sitting on our living
room sofa, in the dark, happily eating a banana.
“What are you doing?
You can’t get a banana all by yourself!”
“I looooove bananas!” He’d squealed, completely indifferent
to my maternally stern tone.
I carried him back up the stairs, put him to bed, and waited
until he fell asleep, all the while thinking how particularly dangerous a
choking hazard the cylindrical fruit posed.
The next night, as I was putting him to bed at bedtime, I
said,
“Now remember, if you wake up in the middle of the night,
wake Mommy up. No getting yourself a
snack.”
“Otay, mommy," he said sweetly (adhering to his current habit of turning all "k" sounds in to t's)
At 2:30am, this time, I awoke again to the sound of lip
smacking and coos of,
“I love you my banana!
You are my very favowite!”
Again, I was stern.
“No, Holden! No. Remember?
I said that you MUST wake me up and I would help you if you wanted a
banana.”
He responded by clapping his hands and shouting,
“Banana-fanaaaaaaa!”
(I get no respect)
The next night, I had a plan:
Give him a snack right before bed, so that his tummy would
be nice and full.
Put the child gate up at the bottom of the stairs, so I’d
hear him before he could get himself a banana and choke to death (melodramatic? Maybe.
But, I told you…it’s my thing…I was very freaked out about this).
I told him, if he woke up, to call to me from the gate on the
stairs and I’d come help him.
This time, at 2am, I heard him as he clumsily climbed over
the gate.
It was all I could do not to shout: AHA!
Gotcha!
“What did I say, Holden?
Why didn’t you call for me?”
“How you hear me, Mommy?”
“I heard your feet hit the ground.”
And, back up the stairs we went.
The next night, feeling I had solved the middle of the night
snacking problem, I went to bed feeling very pleased with myself.
Uuuntil, I awoke to,
“Mmmmmmmmhmmmm!”
Again, he was on the sofa, eating a banana. Actually, he was eating his second banana.
(At this point, it was suggested by Chris that we simply
discontinue buying bananas for the time being.
I had refused. My explanation for
my refusal included a dire prediction about a sure descent into anarchy, a
warning against letting the children gain control of the house, and some sort
of vague analogy that included The Lord of the Flies, A Clockwork Orange, and
Animal Farm. At which, point, Chris
rolled his eyes and walked away. Hey…I
was a little sleep deprived at the time!)
How had I not heard him climbing the gate? The answer was on the floor. He’d brought down his pillow, and placed it over
the gate and onto the floor prior to climbing over,
“So, you not hear my tootsies hit the floor,” he explained
as I picked up the pillow.
I held the pillow to my face and screamed into it.
“Mommy's crazy!” he laughed
“Yes. Mommy is out of
her mind. Mommy is COMPLETELY losing
it.”
He responded with wide eyes.
(better)
The next morning, I awoke with the fierce resolve and
determination of Rocky. Yes, Rocky. I was a mother with the heart of a prize
fighter. With, Eye of the Tiger, playing
in my head, I went to the store in search of a motion alarm I’d found
online. You set it on the floor and when
someone walks by it? It emits an ear
piercing alarm.
That night, I followed the usual bedtime routine of big
snack, lecture on no middle of the night eating without Mom, and then I set the
trap…
Ahem…I mean, I took the necessary precautions to assure the
safety of my toddler.
At 1:45am, I awoke to all hell breaking lose. The alarm was going off, the dogs were
barking, Holden was standing on the stairs, covering his ears and screaming,
Chris was swearing, and Grant (12 years old, at the time) was running down the stairs yelling “Fire!”
Me?
I sauntered over, turned off the alarm and with a satisfied
smile, put Holden back to bed (and yes, calmed everyone else down in the
process).
“I guess you won’t do that again,” I said as I tucked him in
bed.
He responded by angrily crossing his arms over his chest and
sticking out his bottom lip.
I responded with a victorious lift of my left brow, a half
grin, and an expression that was meant to say, “You can try to beat mommy with your banana games, little boy. But,
Mommy will win. Mommy will
aaaaalllllways win.”
Chris took one look at the two of us, staring at each other,
shook his head, and walked out of the room.
The next night, I slept blissfully. No alarm awoke me. The light of dawn streamed in my windows and
I thought:
Finally, a full night’s sleep…Victory is mine.
I walked out into the kitchen, sat at the bar, and looked
into the living room. And, there was Holden, asleep on the sofa, surrounded by banana peels.
What the WHAT?!?!?
After ensuring that he was breathing (he was), I raced over
to the stairs and moved past the alarm to check that it was functioning.
The alarm sprang to life, screaming in response to my
movement.
How had he done it? HOW in the name of all that was good and decent had he DONE
it?!?!
He awoke and no explanation was forthcoming, other than the
words,
“No loud noises last night,” a smile, and a shifty little
shrug.
The next night, I camped out in the hallway wrapped in a
blanket. The alarm was set and so I just
sat and waited to see how he’d done it.
Chris awoke to find me peering from behind the wall and staring at the
stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Shhhhh! He just got
up. I heard him. Hide!” I pulled him behind the wall with me.
Holden footsteps came slowly and quietly down the stairs. But
then, unexpectedly, he stopped halfway down. He then
carefully climbed over the banister so that his toes were on the outer edge of
the stairs as he clung to the railing.
He then jumped backwards (!!) off the stairs, landing perfectly on the pillowy love seat below. He’d bypassed the gate
AND the alarm. He grabbed himself a
banana and set to peeling.
I stood in the hall, clutching Chris’ arm, completely
frozen.
“You okay, hun?” came Chris’ voice.
“He…he’s…he’s barely 3.”
“Yes.”
“And he's outwitting me.”
*sigh* “Well…yes.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Let him finish the banana, put him to bed, and go to bed
ourselves.”
“No. I mean, WHAT ARE
WE GOING TO DO?!”
“Relax. Take it one
day at a time.”
“I think I’m in charge but I’m not, am I? Not even a little bit…”
“Well…No…He’s run you around for an entire week now.”
That is when I knew:
I will spend the next 15 years desperately attempting to stay one step
ahead of this child and, let’s face it, more often than not?
Failing.
And, then, my friends, I began to pray. I mean, I've always prayed, but I began to
REALLY pray.
Beg, even.
And, it’s been like that ever since.
The spirits of all the mothers who have gone before have
been evoked and pleaded with for prayers as well. Celestial bargains have been struck—heavenly deals
made.
I can’t give you all the details, but suffice it to say, my wiggle
room for even the tiniest of sins is getting smaller by the moment. Promises have been made and more often than
not? I’m going to have to…
I hate to even say it…
Be….
...…
…GOOD.
Blech.
The next day, I cleared the house of bananas.
