Saturday, July 23, 2005

Hustle Makes The Call

I don't blog much about the bad times. They're so exhausting when they happen, and then I don't want to dwell on them, because by that time there's not much point. But they do happen -- my kids aren't perfect.

The other day, we had a Bad Time. Grandpa and Maia were going to walk up the street to check out some excavators tearing up the road before supper. John wanted to come with, but was wearing pajama bottoms. So Grandpa got all crazy and unreasonable and demanded that John put some shorts on.

John stomped upstairs and sulked. Grandpa and Maia left without him, which made him even madder. He shimmied into some shorts and ran out the door to join them -- letting Gorm escape in the process.

He began to sob -- I could hear him from upstairs. I grabbed the bottle of progesterone and went down to the front door.

"Here," I said. "You need to come with me and shake that while we call Gorm, to get him to come home."

"But I wanted to go see the excavators!"

"I know," I said. "But you let Gorm out, and so you have to help us get him back."

"Why don't you do it?" he cried, miserable.

"Because," I said, getting annoyed. "I'm going to help you, and you're going to help me get Gorm."

"I don't want to! I want to see the excavators!"

"I know that. If we find Gorm quickly, you can go."

"YOU DO IT!" he hollered, at a total loss, and threw the bottle at me.

I snatched it out of the air and said, "Upstairs. NOW."

Yeah, yeah, I know -- he got out of trying to round Gorm up. I see that now. This is why I don't blog about the bad times.

He was grounded in his room, without books or toys, until supper, which was about 40 minutes later. When it was time to release him from his bonds, I went up and sat down next to him.

He'd drawn me a picture (yeah, I know, he wasn't supposed to have books or toys, but he asked Matt if he could make me a card) that showed him saying, "Can we go say th axvadrs" and me saying "Yess" and the two of us holding hands. We talked for awhile about what it means to be responsible for your actions, for being responsible for your body and emotions, and how you react to feelings, and what it means to help when you've screwed up.

After all that heavy stuff, we sat quietly for a minute. Then Charlie Hustle leaned over and said soberly, "Mom? When I threw that bottle at you? That was a really, really good catch."

5 comments:

  1. Oh man. You should write more about the bad times, ya know that?

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  2. I have to admit that, at that point in the story, my first thought was, "Hell YEAH that boy should be playing ball!"

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  3. Helleleuja! You're not perfect! I feel much better. Thankyou.

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  4. You will be a columnist at the DNT someday. That was as good as the best of Jim Walsh.

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  5. This one had a good punch line, but most bad-time stories end up with a stiff drink, which isn't always a laugh. HA!

    Mystic, don't EVER think I'm perfect ! I just don't blog about being imperfect. :p

    Thanks, Kris. Now if only my house would sell...

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