A few days ago my husband and I were rushing around like crazy people packing for a big trip. We were off to see my brother Tyson who lives at the beach a few hours away. It was his college graduation.  We checked and double checked everything needed when twins are in tow.   Half of our living room was covered in bags and bins of “necessities” two tiny human beings had to have for this trip.

Wyatt (my husband) was packing up our dogs, I was trying to find something decent in my pile of dirty/clean clothes that rotate in the same basket to wear. Kitty (mentioned in my previous post) was attending and if I did not look somewhat decent she would let me know in the worst way any terrifying Napoleonesque grandmother would.  All the while we had two scooting babies to add to the mix.

Then I hear it, “OH MY GOD he’s eating a magazine.” This was Wyatt yelling in panic about my son Franco consuming a newly minted issue of Vanity Fair.

Wyatt:”I tried to get it, the ball of paper in his mouth and I think he just swallowed it.”

Me: “His cheeks are freaking huge, he could be hoarding it in there check!”

Wyatt: “Nope nope he swallowed it for sure.”

Me: “Check his cheeks!”

With a huge sigh we realized he just ate it and that was that.

During the next several hours feeling like a bad mother, I had childhood flashbacks of the following events:

The Elmer’s Glue Affair:

Images of me sitting in my room hovering over a jar of Elmer’s glue paste eating it with a spoon like Gollum with his precious ring. Thinking of this dug up euphoric feelings of happiness and becoming slightly dizzy.  It was as if the peppermint paste turned my brain to pop rocks. I then would immerse my hands in the glue and let it dry peeling it off to create white monster hands.  It was weird and I’m not ashamed.

The time my cousins and I almost Hunger Gamed ourselves:  

Memories of my cousins and I playing “Dare you to eat that unknown berry on that bush.” They were only blackberries in my grandmother’s backyard but we honestly didn’t know at the time. It really could have ended up like a mass child suicide with red berry juice streaming from the corners of our mouthes.

The Creek Crossing:

My cousin Camille and I have been best friends since birth.  In the early 90s we lived together in a 3 bedroom house along with my Aunt and Uncle, Camille, her 4 siblings, my brother, and myself.  Yes that totals 7 children and 4 adults in a 3 bedroom house.  It was crazy, it was fun, it was awesome.  Camille and I would sneak back into the woods behind our house pretending to be Native American witches and wander for what felt like hours. Early on a dewey summer morning, we found our way to a creek. We were determined to cross it and one day did.  A large tree fell over and created a path from one embankment to another.  Camille and I sat down and scooted across the tree placed very high above a  fast-moving body of water. We did this for days on end back and forth until we discovered on the other side, a golf course!  We found a way to shimmy under the course fence and rolled around on the putting greens like we were fucking kings. We noticed a particular green where golfers would consistently hit  balls to.  We would run, grab the ball, and hide while a pissed off WASP would mutter in frustration. We were up to no good and loved every minute of it.  I don’t really remember why we stopped crossing the creek, but I will always have memories of warm summer days and mischief. Days reveled by a wild pair of children, but probably a nightmare for any parent to hear.

After reminiscing, I questioned my parenting for several hours and came to the conclusion that shit happens. Kids will eat magazines and probably much worse. Thinking of all the crazy adventures we went on as children I said to myself, “Where were our parents?”. Maybe it is true my children Franco and Rose will do much worse than consume glossy pages of paper with images of anorexic women in haute couture. However, I can be present enough to make sure they don’t ask ,”Where were our parents?”.

Cheers,

B