Alligator Wrestling

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Emma's Creative Juices, Pickle Juices That Is

We had BLTs for dinner and Emma, not being fond of the L or the T, asked if she could try a variation. We let her create her own sandwich, with the strict understanding that if she made it she had to eat it. Well, this is what she came up with. She calls it the PBPB...Peanut Butter, Pickle and Bacon...sandwich. We all had a bite and then she finished it off. I will admit that it wasn't half bad. I asked her if she would ever make it again and she replied..."Would I have to eat it?"

The Cover Up

As my big boys grow and mature their antics have decreased...or maybe a more accurate discription...their antics have changed. Gone are the turtle stealing, rock throwing, sink peeing little boys. They are now young men. They are more rational, thoughtful and mature...most of the time. Now they shoot each other with air rifles, jump off cliffs and kiss girls. They are still my block-head boys...just grown and (unfortunately for me) with more free will. The effect on my heart, however, whether they are young or older, is the same. I cherish them in all of their horrid "block-head boy" ways, and am constantly looking for new ways to protect them from the skinned knees, cactus spines and heart breaks of this crazy life.

Well, last Sunday Jasen treated me to a glimpse of his old "block-head boy" days. For a moment, rationality escaped him.

Saturday was a busy day. My youngest brother got married. The wedding was grand and the reception was grand and the whole, super long day was...well...just grand. We all had such a marvelous time together.

That night, as we rolled into our driveway around midnight I reminded the boys to lay out the clothes they wore to the wedding so that the next morning they could slip right into them for church. I figured they might be a little stinky and possibly even be sporting a little punch or cupcake damage, but nothing a wet wash cloth couldn't handle.

The next morning went exceptionally smooth. The kids all came down dressed in their wedding best, ready for church. I surveyed my lovely crew and sure enough noticed a few spots of wedding bliss that needed to be scrubbed out of the boys' shirts. I got a wash cloth, scrubbed a little chocolate mousse off of Spencer's collar, a little cousin goo-gaa off of Michael's shoulder and then went in search of Jasen. He was no where to be found. Sure to get him before we walked out the door I set about doing hair and filling bellies.

As we were herding our crew out the door I remembered Jasen's flawed white shirt and grabbed my trusty wash cloth. He stood still as I began scrubbing out what I thought was white frosting. It didn't budge. I scrubbed harder. Still no success. Odd. I moved on to the next patch of white frosting. It was as if someone had painted it on. WAIT A MINUTE!!!

"Jasen, did you put paint on your shirt?"
"No."
"Well, what is this? I can't scrub it off. Are you sure this isn't paint? DID YOU SERIOUSLY PUT PAINT ON YOUR SHIRT?"
-5 second pause-
"Yes I did. I thought it would work. There were a few small stains and I was just trying to cover them up and you were busy and...I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath and smiled. After all, it couldn't be fixed, it wasn't malicious, it didn't hurt anyone...and we were going to be late for church.

As we climbed into the van I whispered into his ear.
"Wouldn't it have been easier to just wash out the stain? I was there to help you."
"It would have. I see that now, it's just...I thought it would work. I really am sorry."

A bit of my heart ached for his babyhood. I was there to help him out of a bind. Standing ready to clean up his mess. He chose to fix things on his own, my young man, growing up. He went about things his own way. While it may not have been my solution to the problem, or even the best solution, it was very apparent to me that he doesn't need me as much anymore.

That is until next Sunday when he will be wanting a new shirt!