Earlier in the day I was staring at pieces of used kleenex, crayon colored paper confettie, pens without caps, broken necklaces, feathers blown randomly by any draft strong enough to lift them, five pairs of Barbie shoes, a pink sock, a white sock, a wad of something wrapped in ribbons, and beads draped around the door knobs: Avery's room. "Avery, child, this room needs to be put back together soon."
"But Maawwwwmmm, it's OK the way it is."
"No...when you are late to a birthday party because you can't find the ring with the ruby as huge as Tenley's head, so I have to dig through piles and piles of pink silk, purple taffeta, and periwinkle lace, only to discover you'd flung it aside with the white sash, then I know: you need to clean your room."
Later as I said good night: "Avery, child, this beautiful picture you drew does not belong on the hall table. I have put it back in your room seven times now."
"Yes mom, you have put it in my room seven times now because I have put it on the hall table seven times."
"It does not belong out there."
"But it does. It is the sign for my bedroom that says, 'No singing in Avery's room.'"
I looked at the sign and did what any good parent would do, I sang the words of the sign as if I was Mariah Callas performing Madam Butterfly. I'm that good.
Tenley is still young enough to be impressed. Avery is not, "No, Mom! No singing!"
"OK, fine, I respect that, but the sign doesn't belong in the hall."
"But Maawwwwmmm, it's OK the way it is."
"No...when you are late to a birthday party because you can't find the ring with the ruby as huge as Tenley's head, so I have to dig through piles and piles of pink silk, purple taffeta, and periwinkle lace, only to discover you'd flung it aside with the white sash, then I know: you need to clean your room."
Later as I said good night: "Avery, child, this beautiful picture you drew does not belong on the hall table. I have put it back in your room seven times now."
"Yes mom, you have put it in my room seven times now because I have put it on the hall table seven times."
"It does not belong out there."
"But it does. It is the sign for my bedroom that says, 'No singing in Avery's room.'"
I looked at the sign and did what any good parent would do, I sang the words of the sign as if I was Mariah Callas performing Madam Butterfly. I'm that good.
Tenley is still young enough to be impressed. Avery is not, "No, Mom! No singing!"
"OK, fine, I respect that, but the sign doesn't belong in the hall."
"Why not?"
"Because the hall is mine, for my things and this very cute room is Avery's, for Avery's things."
"Oh...if it's mine, why do I have to clean it then?"
Tenley spent an hour carefully pushing unbaked beans, one by one, into a ball of Playdough. Tobin smashed it flat and yelled at it. He poked it with the scissors and laughed. He rolled it into a ball then yelled "Arg!!" and bit its head off. The only time he quietly played with the dough is when he shredded it into his lap. Then it occured to him how messy this was. He stood on his tip-toes against the back of the chair and yelled, "Ew, ew!!!!" as he looked down at the teeney fragmented peices of orange littering his chair. He's not a very verbal kid, so I knew immediately from the tone that "Ew!" meant: "Ew! The amoebic orange shreds are attempting to coalese so they can overtake me! Unless someone, like my mother, comes and destroys them, I shall be annihalated! Ew!"
I, the mother, was overcome with heroism and leaned over the chair so I could bravely wipe the villans into my bare palm. As I smeared those orange bits here and there, Tobins little shoes were immoble as they waited for me to finish. "Right now," I thought, "he is looking down at my head and thinking with admiration, 'There but for the bravery of my mother, go I." And then as if to prove me wrong, he reached his little hand out and. . .patted me. He patted me on the head. And I knew immediately from the condecension of the pat, that he meant: "Well done underling. Well done."