Yep, that's a "What you should have said was..." moment. And, lest we forget our more overt tendencies, I point out that I, upon occasion and in particular response to disrespect or forceful tongue, quip, "Excuse me? Are you speaking to me?!" Which is a double whammy of "What you should have said was..." and "How you should have said that was..."
This introspection whorled especially in the mind's eye on a particular Wednesday weeks past. Wednesdays (for now) being our most manic evening, I gave specific instructions to the lads and lass to complete homework and prepare themselves for soccer practice (E), running (G), and baggage claim (which is what Judd becomes in the midst of his older siblings' activities on such fine days...poor boy). I even bulleted Elijah's steps for him lest he become distracted (which never happens, no) and find himself horribly late and frazzled (a wild fancy, for sure).
Yet, when I ascended the stairs at 4:30 to round up the wee ones for our 4:45 departure, Elijah scurried from his room wearing superhero undies and shrugging into a soccer jersey (the wrong one).
"Where is your practice jersey, son? And your socks? And your cleats? Well, and your pants, for that matter?"
But no worries for, at that precise moment, Grace emerges from her bedroom calmly running a brush through her locks as if she'd no care in the world.
"Are you in your running clothes? Do you have your water bottle? What do you mean you can't get your hair smooth?" (Are you familiar with the Girl World issue of smooth ponytails?)
And, in the coup de grace of Hump Day Blowup, Judd emerges...no shoes, no socks but plenty of sticky substance about the face.
What did they say? Don't know. It was spoken in a flurry of jibberish amid frenzied finger-pointing to which I could only field-goal my arms in surrender and announce, "Van! NOW!"
With Judd's face scoured and Grace's hair sufficiently smoothed, I thought I'd made it. 4:40 - Not too bad, I congratulate myself.
Yeah. Obligatory back-pat came way too soon, for it was only then that I snagged the back of Elijah's jersey (the right one this time), pointed to his feet and cried, "You're not wearing any shoes!"
"Um, what shoes should I wear?"
Um, are you kidding me?
"Well, how about your brand new cleats?"
"Oh, are those for soccer?"
Breathe.
"Yes. Where are they?"
"I dunno," he says. Calmly. Shrugging his shoulders.
Breathe.
"Well, let's find them and get them on your feet."
Which we did. While we boarded the Silver Bullet, my effort to breathe was fast reaching reaching fever pitch. In. Out. Look at clock.
Okay: 4:47. We can still make it. And I can do this. It's a teaching opportunity. Let's discuss teamwork. Responsibilities. Reading a clock.
And so it was as we merged our way north to the field, and so it continued for a few less-than-blessed miles of lectures on such topics as these. To which the children nodded and "hmmm-mmm"-ed and "uh-huh"-ed, all airs of recalcitrance emptied stretches back. I calmly voiced to Elijah, most pointedly, that we were all adjusting our schedules expressly to allow for his soccer schedule, and would it not be prudent to extend himself a touch more to make said adjustments all the easier?
To which he replied.
Slowly.
Softly.
And with much chagrin.
Now, what he should have said was, "Sure, Mommy. You're totally right. I can do that. I see that time's tight on these days and - You bet! - I can pitch in more by, like, say, having shoes on - or even knowing what shoes those are. No problem!"
But, in an ever-present reminder that parenting is nothing short of God's daily bulletin that we are not in control - not of time or bullet lists or smooth hair or sticky faces or superhero undies or soccer cleats or even the raucous, belly-hollowing bliss of the perfect heart-swelling ride...
what he actually said was, "Um, I'm not wearing any pants."
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