Do Sherpas Eat Skippy?

A really good way to know you are a Mom is if you find yourself with a tube of toothpaste stashed in your back pocket. Or pill bug exoskeletons in your dryer lint trap. Or you carry everything from spare bobby pins and tubes of Neosporin, to “D” batteries and bite-sized pieces of doggy biscuit in your purse. My sister-in-law, mother of three, became legendary for the strange things she often carried upon her person, but it’s hard to top the time she was carrying an entire package of Hormel Black Label bacon in her purse. Her family had just dropped by one Saturday morning, and as we discussed breakfast plans, she announced that she happened to have some bacon and pulled it right out of the little bag she was carrying over her shoulder!  I’m not sure how or when this happens, but as children grow, they came to view their mothers as an odd combination of sherpa and garbage disposal. “Hey! Where did this crust of peanut butter and jelly sandwich come from?!? I don’t want this on my plate! Oh, wait….Is that extra crunchy peanut butter? Mmmm….”

I have also found children to be marvelously ironic: You can’t get them to go to sleep at 9:30 p.m., but they can’t stay awake at 3:30 in the afternoon to do homework. How about the child who comes up with every excuse under the sun to NOT get in the shower, then subsequently drains a 70 gallon water heater? Furthermore, we have found that it is far easier--and safer--to bathe an angry cat than to get a dropperful of Amoxicillin down the throat of a feverish and, until moments previously, completely lethargic toddler. The  older children, meanwhile, stand around saying helpful things such as “She gets the pink medicine? Lucky!...I think my ear hurts, too.” And how about trying to argue with a tween? “If you’d only be reasonable, you’d see that I’m right.”

Speaking of irony, someone once asked my three oldest children, at the time ages 10, 8, and 6 to think of something their parents had taught them. Within nanoseconds, I had taken a whirlwind tour of the past 10 years, remembering lessons such as how to ride bikes and roller skates; how to tie up shoes and zip up jackets; how to read, to count, or for fun, to write with a crayon between your toes; how to brush their hair or their teeth, or even how to use a toilet; or how to interact with other humans in something vaguely resembling a civilized manner. (I readily admit however that by this point in their lives, one still did not grasp the basics of the use or purpose of napkins, and one could not wrap his brain around nose-blowing--”Why? It will just fill up again.”) Anyway, my sentimental eyes welled with tears as I imagined their little hearts rapturously filling with gratitude for all our loving teaching. And now they were speechless, too choked with emotion to voice just one, if they must limit themselves to one, of the myriad life skills and lessons freely shared and lovingly taught by their sainted parents. However, as I dabbed at my tears and my vision began to clear, I took in their various expressions--from distracted to vacant to baffled--and realized that they had each drawn a complete, absolute, and utter blank. “Um, I can’t think of anything….” They were pretty sure they were born into this world shooting lay-ups, reciting multiplication tables, and singing “Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg….” (Okay, I admit to one or two parenting mistakes over the years.) That being said, I am also reasonably confident that at least one of my children doubted the tale of mundane mortal birth into our ordinary family, preferring the idea of gracing us with his presence in a spontaneous and glorious appearance--complete with shimmering shafts of light and an ethereal soundtrack.

Lest there be any misunderstanding, the fact that I still sing Sesame Streets songs in the shower, wear gum-ball machine earrings, and carry Sponge Bob bandaids in my purse (my youngest child is 13) is NOT a matter of irony. I’m just warming up for grandmotherhood. And just as well, too. The final irony of parenthood is the fact that I spent so much of my discretionary time (read: the hours between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m.) planning my next Mommy’s Getaway, and now that my nest is nearly empty, I wander nostalgically around the grocery store, going out of my way to walk past the Snyder’s Cheddar Cheese Pretzel Nuggets (one of Megan’s favorites), growing misty-eyed when I pass Frank’s Red Hot Sauce (Spencer’s), and feeling my heart grow all soft and mushy when I remember Jordan’s delight the year he discovered Dunkaroos in his Christmas stocking. Bring on the grandkids; my dryer lint is boring and my pockets are empty.