I Call A Foul
The daily uniform is blue jeans with a black tee shirt, call me the walking bruise, which is sometimes how I feel when I get caught between the kiddos and their disagreements. I am going to don a black and white stripped shirt, comfortable shoes and go running down court side, because, well, Mama got skills. I am the referee.
Nobody talks about the crazy everyday disturbances in homes across America when siblings flex their will towards each other. Parenting begins with coos and cuddles, and when you're starting a family, no one tells you about your soon to be occupation as Mediator-in-Chief. Yet, once we are there, in the throes of a hissy fit with hormonal teens and in-between, you see the nod from others, as if to confirm, get yourself a whistle and call foul! There are days I truly believe that I am in the middle of a hockey brawl and the penalty box just isn't big enough to hold them all. Gracious! I'd like to be put in the box, or at least go to the bathroom without hearing the urgent call of "MOM!"
When I hear that tone, I don't know if they've cut off a finger, or if one has taken the others socks. It's become indistinguishable. Even my husband can get into the fray, and the odds are stacked against me. I usually go in quietly, discern the facts, and deal out consequences or solutions, but Lordy! Pit a tall, lanky 12 year old against a 21 year old, not quite yet independent, petite, young lady, and all bets are off.
Neither is physical, but the shouting can bring a herd of buffalo to a complete standstill. The latest argument was about five minutes ago, and started as soon as my butt hit the chair to finally sit for the first time all day. I couldn't give a fig as to who is right, or who is wrong. I have no playback and my visual was blocked. I'm exhausted and could care less who wins the mythological prize that they assume comes with having the better hand. I mean geez, I don't care who is breathing whose air, or who ate the cheddar cheese Pringles that were for school lunch tomorrow. I just wanted to sit for a few minutes and make believe peace rules the planet, even when it doesn't always rule my home.
I will tell you this, they could verbally tear each other from here to Warsaw, but let someone else say one bad word about either sibling and Bob's your uncle, 'cause I can guarantee the perpetrator will be flipped over the pond to London in a heartbeat. So it goes. I shared a room with my sister, and I was a sneaky warrior, stealthily booby trapping the room to catch her unawares, and I would give anything to have her "drop kick me whoopsie" onto the carpet now she is gone. My Mama didn't have a whistle, and often told us to handle it or we might be too discombobulated to recognize tomorrow. Somehow, my sisters, brother and I came through to the present, loving and caring for each other. I hope the same for my babies, and that they won't need a referee when they're older, because as far as I know, Nike doesn't make sports walkers, and I'm getting too old to run the field.
Nobody talks about the crazy everyday disturbances in homes across America when siblings flex their will towards each other. Parenting begins with coos and cuddles, and when you're starting a family, no one tells you about your soon to be occupation as Mediator-in-Chief. Yet, once we are there, in the throes of a hissy fit with hormonal teens and in-between, you see the nod from others, as if to confirm, get yourself a whistle and call foul! There are days I truly believe that I am in the middle of a hockey brawl and the penalty box just isn't big enough to hold them all. Gracious! I'd like to be put in the box, or at least go to the bathroom without hearing the urgent call of "MOM!"
When I hear that tone, I don't know if they've cut off a finger, or if one has taken the others socks. It's become indistinguishable. Even my husband can get into the fray, and the odds are stacked against me. I usually go in quietly, discern the facts, and deal out consequences or solutions, but Lordy! Pit a tall, lanky 12 year old against a 21 year old, not quite yet independent, petite, young lady, and all bets are off.
Neither is physical, but the shouting can bring a herd of buffalo to a complete standstill. The latest argument was about five minutes ago, and started as soon as my butt hit the chair to finally sit for the first time all day. I couldn't give a fig as to who is right, or who is wrong. I have no playback and my visual was blocked. I'm exhausted and could care less who wins the mythological prize that they assume comes with having the better hand. I mean geez, I don't care who is breathing whose air, or who ate the cheddar cheese Pringles that were for school lunch tomorrow. I just wanted to sit for a few minutes and make believe peace rules the planet, even when it doesn't always rule my home.
I will tell you this, they could verbally tear each other from here to Warsaw, but let someone else say one bad word about either sibling and Bob's your uncle, 'cause I can guarantee the perpetrator will be flipped over the pond to London in a heartbeat. So it goes. I shared a room with my sister, and I was a sneaky warrior, stealthily booby trapping the room to catch her unawares, and I would give anything to have her "drop kick me whoopsie" onto the carpet now she is gone. My Mama didn't have a whistle, and often told us to handle it or we might be too discombobulated to recognize tomorrow. Somehow, my sisters, brother and I came through to the present, loving and caring for each other. I hope the same for my babies, and that they won't need a referee when they're older, because as far as I know, Nike doesn't make sports walkers, and I'm getting too old to run the field.
Comments
Post a Comment
Thank you so much for visiting, and commenting! We really appreciate it, we really do. We publish comments as soon as we are assured that you are not a robot or a spammer - in other words, low lifes need not apply.