A Mild Panic

I woke up this morning in a mild panic.

School ends next week. It is, shall we say, the beginning of the end.

George stopped napping the day Gladys’ preschool ended. That had been my last respite – George napped while Gladys was at school 1½ hours per week, three times a week. He refused to nap in her presence, and who could blame him? Her ability to entertain him goes unmatched by anything the toy companies could hope to invent.

Gladys is home. George no longer naps.

It was the beginning of the end.

And so, I woke up this morning in a mild panic.

Soon enough, Andrew will hop off of his bus for summer break. Except for two weeks of half-day camp for Andrew, my three children will be my uninterrupted chaperones for nearly three months. For five weeks of that time (plus several weekends) we will live out of a 26-foot camper.

I have heard “That which does not kill you makes you strong.”

Few mothers would argue the justification for my panic. They may wonder why it was merely mild.

I considered the two organizations that should demand my attention this summer. I should set some dates, complete some follow-up, call for volunteers, and send some e-mails.

I contemplated the new camper: the projects to complete, the packing to do, the pre-departure housecleaning and mail stoppage and camp forms and teacher gifts and bills to pay.

I was in a mild panic. I called a girlfriend.

“Read your blog. Read it from last summer.”

Read my own blog?

I did. I read this. Then I remembered why I write, why I stay at home, and why my oldest only goes to a few camps that are most important to him.

“Mo-om!!! Gladys has George under a laundry basket and is sitting on the laundry basket and won’t get off!”

And, as much as it tried, the panic didn’t quite come back.

I lost my voice

I have lost my voice. I have been sick since Friday. On Friday, I moved from one place to another in my house, trying to lie down and watch three children. I ordered a pizza for dinner. When my husband returned from work, all four of us were in the master bed watching television.

I have watched enough television in the past 48 hours to notice that my children seem more intellectually gifted than many of the commentators. Of course, I am just as biased as the rest of America, just in my own motherly way.

These are things that my children have said in the past 48 hours:

“Mom, what does ‘among’ mean?”

“If you have a bowl full of jellybeans and just a few M&M’s, then you have M&M’s among your jellybeans,” I squeaked. (On Friday, I could still squeak.)

“What if I ate all the jellybeans?”

“Then you would have some lonely M&M’s.”

“What does ‘robotic’ mean?”

“Like a robot. A robot is generally a machine that does something that a human would typically do.”

“Cool, we have a robot in our house.”

“Where?”

“Our printer is a drawing robot.”

“Do you know why writing is important to America?”

“Why?”

“Because you have to do the right thing.”

He proceeded to spell “right” and “write” just in case I didn’t get the full force of his humor. He went on to explain how there is a silent ‘w’. Hilarious! Then, he noticed that the only other silent ‘w’ word he could think of was ‘wrong.’

“Wow, Mom, ‘write’ and ‘wrong’. That IS funny!! ha ha hoo hoo”

I know. Some part of this is directly from his first grade teacher. They have been discussing symbols of America in class. But, as his mother, I really want him to get it. Writing against wrongs is very much what America is all about. He doesn't quite get that yet, I don't think. I couldn't even squeak out that the pen is mightier than the sword. On another day, I will say that. Today I was glad to see him enjoying the humor of his own discovery.

He kept making jokes.

I smiled, unable to squeak out a comment fast enough.

I listened, as quiet as the silent "w."