Using Crayons to Paint a Tile Floor

Editor's Note: Somehow this story, which occured mid-August during cousin's camp, got buried in editing mode. I had to post it late because it demonstrates a very rare* instance of me keeping my cool.

This is the ensemble cast that is cousins and brothers, who are in a bedroom this week, ostensibly getting along well while I get ready to take them to Chuck E Cheese.

The players. In order by age.

1. Oldest male cousin (very analytic; sees the world in black and white.)
2. Oldest brother at home this week (a comedien to be. Very concerned about keeping the peace. Loves his female cousin**.)
3. Only female cousin (sweet on the outside, cunning on the inside. My kind of gal.)
4. Youngest brother at casa (Knows he can pretty much get away with anything if he feigns being hurt or looks cute. Prone to potty mouth.)

Every one of these kids grew up in or within spitting distance of East Texas towns. They, therefore, are versed in "ya'll, ya know, and fixin'". They all talk at once and never stop. When they get riled up, it just gets louder and louder until some one taller than 5 foot has to scream above the din.

To set the stage, remember that I am getting ready: washing my hair and face, drying my hair and putting on make-up. Total time: 10-15 minutes, tops.

Upon exiting the bathroom, towel on head, I hear a noise eminating from the bedroom that sounds like "Kaboom, thud". LAUGHING. "Kaboom, thud". LAUGHING.

Also remember that we've been in remodel mode for slightly longer than it takes to incubate a human baby. So, I spring into action, trying to avoid the big hole in the wall I'm afraid the "Kaboom, thud" routine has created.

When I open the door, the source of the disturbing racket becomes apparent: the washer/dryer box fort has been turned into a slide by turning the box on it's side. Access to the "top" of the slide is had by a strategically placed chair, from which the lucky contestant launches him/her self and "slides" down to the other side, which has been squished to the ground by the weight of the participants. A ground which is made of hard, potentially skull-cracking, tile.

It's like watching an episode of "World's Stupidest, Most Dangerous Tricks" and my son is leading the charge.

To add insult to injury, every one of the crayons and stickers used to color/decorate the forts yesterday is "in" the slide***.

Until I pick up the "slide" and look, I don't realize the jumping and sliding has created shards of crayon that are marking up the floor. A tile floor which now has grout in shades of crayon yellow, red and blue.

I'm not sure where the restraint on this one comes from. I look at every one of them and state: "This will be cleaned up in 15 minutes or we will not be going to Chuck E Cheese."

That's when it starts: "So and so hit me and I'm so injured I cain't (not CAN'T, cain't) help", "He's the one who put all the crayons on the floor", "I didn't do ANYTHING."

I give a good long stink-eye**** to the complainers, then exit the room, turn on the timer, and leave them to figure it out on their own.

There is a frenzy of work going on: brooms, plastic bags, plastic boxes, wipeys. The brother caught in the act is orchestrating the entire clean-up.

Surprisingly, the room is clean and ready to go in 15. I only have to add the encouragement that you have to put a LOT of elbow grease into a wipey to get crayon off a tile flour and out of the grout.

Chuck E Cheese is, as usual, a kid's paradise and a parent's worst nightmare. The kids have a blast, I drink too much Cherry Coke, and the sickly smell of vomit doesn't leave my nostrils until much later in the evening.

But, the slide incident doesn't lead to the ER*****, I regain my status as "cool" Mom and Aunt, and everyone is worn out and goes to bed on-time.

I have to give credit to the cousins and brothers. Nice reuse of the box that became a fort that became a slide. When I think of it that way, I realize this is the old "ashes to a Phoenix" story; it is ugly to watch but turns out pretty well. And it only took fifteen minutes!

Chuck E Cheese? Now THAT felt like 1,000 years.


PS: Just this week I was cleaning the "slide room" and noticed something green on the floor. You guessed it, crayon stain. Cripes.


*Think Hope Diamond rare.

**Whom he CAN'T marry, even if they are super-in-love and would die a thousand deaths if their parents repeatedly said "No. Not just no. HECK no."

***Approximately 5000 of them.

****At least five seconds. Which, in stink-eye, is FOREVER.

*****A MIRACLE in the Nowell house, as almost anything that even remotely looks dangerous ends up hurting SOMEONE to the tune of a $1,000 medical bill.

Cousin's Camp

Yesterday morning, we welcomed the arrival of two of the kid's cousins to the Nowell abode. Previously, over Spring Break, my sister-in-law very graciously took our kids for several days after recognizing we couldn't even unpack a pair of underwear with a week of nothing but 24/7 Nowell boys*.

So, with my saintly sister-in-law in mind, I planned this week as a "thank you" repayment for her.

In a trade worthy of the major leagues, we gained the cousins and, simultaneously, Mike's parents took one of our kids for the week. The only thing that could have made this better would have been a generous, sign-on bonus.

Net result: up one non-Nowell kid, down one of our own. That took a lot of whiny out of the conversation.

With all the particulars in place, cousin's camp began.

For the first 20 hours, everyone was on their best behavior. There was plenty of "please", "thank you" and general excitement to be had. In a word: copacetic.

Then, this morning hit.

You must keep in mind that the kids have been messing around with a newly created "fort", made from the washer and dryer boxes of previous posts**.

At first, it was kid nirvana. Then it became "us" against "them". Then it became "You are ___", where each child was assigned a role by the other kids.

After this occurred, the only girl in the entire pack started crying. These weren't little, sweet, roll down your face slowly tears. These were big, falling off your cheeks, crocodile tears.

I did what any Mom who is raising boys and hasn't a clue about raising girls would do: I instantly figured the boys were at fault and asked them how they had hurt her feelings. Seemed logical to me.

They all shrugged their shoulders. From what I was gathering, they really didn't know.

I wanted to pat them all on the back and give them the "BASICS OF YOUR FUTURE WIFE AND ANY DAUGHTERS LECTURE" that goes something like this: "Buck up, guys. This is what life with the female set is going be like later in your life. The quicker you get used to the fact that there is GOING to be crying, the better." But, I still had crying going on in real time and I had to get to the bottom of the situation.

I tried my sweetest voice. I tried pleaded with the brothers and the boy cousin. Nothing was working. My Mommy bag was entirely empty.

I couldn't get anything out of her. And now she was crying so hard and had her head buried so far into the air bed that I couldn't understand a word she was saying.

Eventually*** she tried to calm herself down enough to communicate. The first two passes sounded something like "They, they, they...." (crying jag) and "I, I, I don't want..." (best ostrich imitation, head hitting Aerobed**** at speeds previously reserved for cheetahs.)

After about five minutes of this little game of Mommy torture*****, I finally learned the source of this consternation. She confessed, as the only sub-tween girl in the house, that she had been dealt the role of "Mommy" in the fort game.

And, she said, so pitifully, "I don't WANT to be the Mommy."

Oh, girlfriend. It took everything in my power not to laugh out loud at your sad, sad statement. It rang SO true because there are just some days your Aunt doesn't want to be the Mommy either, honey!

Now I was in completely unchartered territory. Crying, with Nowell sons, is cured by ice packs and brief hugs. Then it's over. On this one I REALLY had to use brain power.

And, apparently I found the right formula! Tears subsiding, after a little bit of well executed negotiation, she earned the coveted title of "sister", avoiding continuation of the dreaded "Mommy" moniker after a brief turn in its torturous grips. WOW! Maybe I could have raised a girl after all?!

I couldn't help but think of queens of centuries past who produced female non-heirs, thus learning their fate on the labor bed*****. It was as if cousin XX chromosome somehow knew she had produced the first male heir and HAD to be Mommy now. Except she wasn't going to have servants and handmaidens and nannies. You just can't run fast enough in this situation, can you, niece-friend?

At the tender age of seven, she is my sage for the times. I've never quite been able to verbalize my frustration as succinctly as she did.

Someday, at one of her baby showers, I'm sure we'll tell this story and it will produce big, hearty laughter.

And, I'll tell her: Sweetness, Mommyhood is frustrating work. There will be days you want to go all Marie Osmond on your clan and get in your car and drive far away. But, you'll come back because, somehow, after a few minutes of solitude it will be TOO quiet and you'll miss the screaming, fighting, and general excitement that comes with having kids.

Mommyhood is, after all, the only job you'll never regret the privilege of having.




*Little did she know that all I really managed to do was sit in the corner of our shell of a house and rock back and forth, drinking cheap wine while singing "KUMBAYA".

**Another downfall of not ever really cleaning: stuff rarely gets thrown out. This is great when you are five. Not so good when you are 43.

***The longest two minutes of my freakin' life.

****When I was pregnant and an insomniac, I watched an entire infomercial on the Aerobed. I ALMOST grabbed my credit card and made the call. Thankfully, I went to bed instead, because others in the family got sucked into the madness. Now we just borrow theirs....

*****I HATE not being able to assign time-outs with certainty and timeliness.

******I just love the irony implicit in the fact that Mr. King was throwing the XX sperm and Mrs. Queen ended up in the guillotine as a thank you gift. Um, HELLO, Mr. King? That leaves YOU and your minions to raise a girl ALL BY YOURSELF. Truly, a time of illogical men.

When you smell it you should just get out of bed...

One morning this week, I was awoken to an oh-so-familiar smell, the kind that doesn't exactly conjuire up happy thoughts upon waking. But, first let me set the scene...

Monday we had two fun things occuring in our house: interior painting AND the delivery of a new washer/dryer. The kids were giddy with delight when the delivery men let them have the "big" boxes. Boxes=forts in a boy's world, so they began to drag every pillow, blanket and toy they could find into their newly created universe of cardboard. The fun lasted all of ten minutes, then their attentions were diverted to something else, leaving me kidless and with a choice:

1. Be bothered by mess and clean it up myself*

2. Let the mess lie (I love WHEN HARRY MET SALLY!!!**)

I chose #2, so there sat the fine packaging from the W/D set of my dreams, all day, into the night, with nary a change to its initial creation.

But not to forget the painters: since this was the second time we had used this crew***, we were so comfortable with their work that neither Mike nor I thought to ask if we should remove anything from middle brother's room (where the boys were all sleeping due to flooring being installed). Did I mention that these guys do a REALLY good job of covering every conceivable inch of area in a room that won't get painted? I'm talking HERMETICALLY sealed here, people. As in, "you can't go in and nothing can get out." Sadly, by the time we realized this, all THREE mattresses were draped in plastic and enough painter's tape to wrap around the globe at least two dozen times.

So, where should the boys sleep? HMMM. How about Camp W/D? In Mommy and Daddy's room! Wow, aren't we brilliant. With three college degrees between us, you'd think we'd have more of these "ah-ha" moments. Perfect solution: the kids were thrilled, beds were made in boxes, and all went to sleepyland with nary a problem.

Fast forward to a much-too-early alarm and that smell (can't you smell that smell?) Then a small voice: "Mommy, I stepped in poopoo."

OK, folks, I can handle being woken up after three hours of sleep, but there is something downright unsavory about being told you have to pop out of bed to deal with poo.

Turns out, the fort dwellers woke early, uncaged both dogs, and one (who will go unnamed, DOUG), decided to relieve himself on the carpet in oldest's room, nary a six inch distance from SOLID FLOORING. Baby boy had managed to squash Doug's excrement into the carpet and in between his sweet (temporarily stinky) toes.

This is when I truly understood the value of having an extra box of wipeys on hand, even after potty-training is long over. Thankfully, this led to an easy clean-up and another few minutes back in bed before the snooze went off.

Doug, on the other hand, was sent, in shame, to the backyard. I think I heard him chanting "Dead dog, walking". Fortunately, he is just so darn cute......

*Usual dumb choice, which will lead to daughters-in-law who despise me because my sons will never learn to clean up after themselves....

**Have I mentioned yet that I deal with bunny trails in my brain?

***Long story, maybe another post. If you must know, email me.....