This week, I sealed my bid for “worst mother of the year”
(I know it’s only the 10th day of the new year, but I have always
been an over-achiever). An old friend called out of the blue to offer her help.
I was confused. She said something like, “I am not sure what your schedule is
like these days, but I could help drive your kids to school.” Huh? My mind raced,
trying to figure out why she would be offering her help. What had I done? What
had she heard? She filled the momentary silence with this explanation, “It’s
just that I’ve seen Yohannes walking to school alone, I gave him a ride a few
days ago. I know how busy it is in the mornings trying to get everyone out the
door.”
Ohhhhh…… I thought—my wayward son.
Yohannes is in grade five; he is capable, strong and
independent in many ways. However, hovering on the inner edge of puberty, he
has lost his capacity to function in the morning, manage time (or even tell
time), and his distractibility has morphed through his entire being, and into
every moment of his life.
Living in a house where AD/HD prevails is part hilarity and
part absurdity. We have had in-the-field training with more-than-our-share of
children; we see them leave a room, with a purpose, and then—never return. When
the search ensues to see what happened, they are usually engaged in some other
task, having completely forgotten their original mission. (Your mission, should you choose to accept it is…PAY ATTENTION!)
We had a rather impromptu family dinner party this week, which
was prompted by our older daughter changing her flight by a day, and an
impulse-buy on my part. I had bought a Swiss Raclette, and was so excited to gather
around it and create a meal together. Our raclette consists of a cast-iron
grill that hovers overtop of an electric heating element, and small removable pans
that tuck in, beneath the grill. You can simultaneously grill meat/veggies/seafood,
while cooking sumptuous side dishes of veggies, herbs, spices and cheese.
The only way that we could have dinner on the table
(literally) at a reasonable hour was to get everyone to pitch in. Everyone was
assigned a job. Yohannes’ job was to get an extension cord and plug it into the
raclette, and then tape down the cords. Easy: walk to the garage, get the
extension cord, stop at the office on the way back and get the tape, plug
everything in, and tape it down. Done.
Not so much.
Yohannes walked through the quiet room, where all the
accouterments of yoga and fitness live. He picked up the foam roller, and
started using it as a sword against invisible enemies. Earlier, he had dropped
his coat and lunch bag on the kitchen floor. I called him back to put those
things away. He picked up his lunch bag and put it on the counter, and then he
saw me putting the raclette together, and after a flurry of questions, he remembered
his task and strode off to the garage. He came back with a yellow, fifty-foot
cord. I stared at it. “Was that the shortest one?” I asked. He looked at it, shrugged
his shoulders, dropped it, and walked away. I called out to him, “Take your
coat with you.” He kept going. When he came back, he had an orange, fifty-foot
cord. Great, we now had enough extension cord to run it out to our table on the
lower deck—if only it wasn’t covered in two feet of snow! Resigned, I asked him
to plug it in, and tape it down.
I returned to peeling potatoes. Kristin and Raad chopped
vegetables. Faven prepared a salad. Laurèn had retreated to the quiet of her
bedroom. Yohannes drifted once more to my fitness equipment and then re-entered
the kitchen with his arm forced into a tightly wrapped foam mat.
“Yohannes, what about the tape?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, where is it?”
“Okay, I need you to listen.”
“Okay.”
“Put my fitness stuff away and don’t touch it! Okay?? The
tape is in the office, in the drawers right under the window. There is a drawer
that is marked ‘tape’ on the left hand side—you will find it in there.”
“Okay.”
He took the foam mat with him. His coat was still on the
floor next to the table. Both extension cords lay abandoned near the table leg.
Moments later he rolled himself back into the kitchen on top of a large, grey
exercise ball. I didn’t notice him at first, because my back was turned as I
prepared the meat. But, as I turned around and saw him performing his circus
feats across the kitchen, I walked over, put my hand on the ball, and touched
my boy on his shoulder.
“Did you get the tape?” I asked.
“Uhhh…. no,” he quietly answered.
“How is it that you have my exercise ball?”
“I found it in the office under your desk.”
“Please. Put. It. Back. Get. The. Tape.”
He started rolling back toward the office, and his older
sister Kristin, who had already offered to buy me a ringmaster hat and whip,
could take no more. “Yohannes, didn’t you hear your mom tell you to leave the
exercise equipment alone?” He paused,
looked at her, and then went back to exactly what he was doing. She abandoned
her orderly vegetables, and went over to “help” him out.
Finally, he came into the kitchen carrying a roll of green
painters tape. That will do. He started to tape down the cords. He ran out of
tape. He put the empty cardboard tape roll onto his arm. He looked at it. He
said, “I’m going to paint it red.” He left. His coat still lay on the floor;
the cord still lay snaked across the table and floor. It had been fourty-five minutes since the original
request was made for him to find the extension cord and tape.
He then returned to the table with a painting palette, a
paintbrush, several paints and a container of glitter. He began to paint his
cardboard armband with zest—ensuring that the raclette grill was now sprinkled
in pink glitter and the rosewood table smeared in paint. I watched him for a
long moment, and then as my shoulders sank over my collarbones, I went and
plugged the cords in and taped them down myself.
When my budding artist was done, I asked him to clean up. He
brought the palette over to the kitchen sink and then turned the water on full
blast, and the paint took to the air splattering the dish drying rack, both
sinks, and a good portion of the countertops. I could have screamed. At this
point, Kristin simply burst into laughter. I slid in beside Yohannes to
mitigate the damage.
So, as I paused on the phone that morning with the concerned friend, knowing that Yohannes wasn’t walking to school because I was
too busy, I was sharply reminded of the unwritten contract we have as mothers.
Somewhere in the fine print, written in invisible ink, it says, “Meet them
where they are. Delight in the uniqueness of being. Guide them toward their
goals. Love them through the mess. And take frequent breaks.”
Amen to that!
