She Said She Said

I have very smart friends.

No. No, you don't.

MINE are smarter.

Are NOT.

Are TOO!!

I have the smartest friends in the whole, wide world ... TIMES infinity!

So, when I sink to this level of debate, they pull me up, slap me gently around and say, "Here's what I would do." Or more important, "Let me help." Or even MORE important than all that ... they DON'T say "I told you so."

I have this one friend who, thru her example, has taught me that FINE things can happen at the spur of the moment. Last-minute lunches, drinks, play dates, drinks AFTER play dates. Bike races, running races. Decide on a Monday and do it on a Tuesday. No time like the present. She's also taught me that she's a helluva lot stronger than me and that SHE might be able to hop off the couch and into a half marathon, and I can't, but she is going to compassionately and competitively CHEER ME ON the whole way.

I have this other friend who taught me a similar thing about racing and waiting and helping and cheering and finishing Dead. Ass. Last. but TOGETHER because you waited and you laughed and you sang show tunes and longed TOGETHER for a Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese and a Dr. Pepper, but one of the other best things she ever taught me was to carry a sugary drink to school to pick up your kids who might need a pick me up for the long ride/walk home because they are known to meltdown vehemently in full sight of the student body before ever leaving campus. And I don't even think she taught ME this trick, but I think I overheard her tell someone else. But, it works, works, works. It has saved my life and quite possibly The Short One's this kindergarten year.

I have another friend who taught me a funnel cake should NEVER be shared. I always thought this should be case. That I should get the whole, fried, powdery-sugary confection to my finger-licking self, but she confirmed it. And she taught me that grown women should have sleepovers and go to movies and order fried mushrooms with ranch dressing. And giggle. I guess I knew it. But she confirmed it.

I have a friend who taught me about carpools and hot tea and the VALUE of carpools and hot tea. And she reignited my passion for books. Moms DO have time for books. They do. They just have to carve it out. Find it. And become a better person for it.

But there's this other friend who I admire for her calm nature, her patient mothering, her deep faith ... and it is because of all this calmness and patience that I cracked UP when she shared one of her parenting secrets. A mother of three w/ two boys, she often has to intervene when her boys fight ... physically. I hate that my boys do that sometimes, too. The anger just boils up and over and restraint is hard at 9 and 5, so sometimes there's grabbing or pushing or thumping. And then wailing and tattling and well, ... my patient, calm, faithful friend taught me about "ONE HOUR. HARD LABOR."

At her suggestion, I tell my boys that if their arguments resort to VIOLENCE, they owe me one hour of hard labor at the task of my choice. Calm Friend says it has to be something physical. Something so that they exert themselves, work out that frustration. With the idea that the violence affects everyone in the house, so the HARD LABOR should be something that benefits everyone. Something like ... mopping the tile floor. (She hates to mop and so do I.)

I've handed down this sentence once to each boy ... and it WORKS. The Big One was the first to have a go at it. The initial sentencing phase brought shrieks of terror and remorse. "I caaaaan't mooooohhhhhppppppp. I don't know hoooowwwwwww." I offered that he spend the rest of the afternoon and evening alone in his room w/ no electronics, so he stomped and sulked off to the garage to retrieve his mopping supplies. I poured the cleaning solution and he did the rest. Mopping, wringing, everything. Mid-mop came the result I was looking for. His mood changed. His tension eased. He began a friendly banter w/ me as he mopped and I fixed dinner. Then he said, "Mom, can I mop for you again sometime?" For a minute, I thought the technique had backfired. "He LIKES it? But, this is supposed to be punishment!" So, I reminded him WHY he was mopping in the first place. He remembered. I suggested that he might be called upon to mop AGAIN even if he HADN'T clobbered his brother w/ his left Heely because that's what family members do. He agreed.

And then weeks later, his little brother in a FIT of frustrated rage manhandled his big brother by the hood of his jacket. Stomped on his sore foot and pinched his arm HARD. All of this before I could stumble around the mound of Christmas gifts left for the GOOD little boys in our house and drag that 5-year-old bully OFF his big brother.

"MOPPING is for Mommies," he wailed. "I don't know what to do. Don't make me. Don't make meeeeee."

Not even MIDWAY thru The Short One's mop, he decided this was the job for him. "Smells good when I do this, Mommy." When he finished, I asked him if he felt better and was ready to apologize to his big brother. He did. I asked him if he understood WHY he was asked to mop and that he MIGHT be asked to mop again. He nodded. We had a deal. And then I slap, slosh, slapped into the laundry room to remove my soaking socks. Because, while mopping is his new game, wringing out the mop is not. The more water the better. The dog was drinking off the tile from a low spot in front of the fridge.

There is no shortage of HARD LABOR around this house. There are leaves to rake, grout to clean, soon-to-be hardwood floors to sweep, cars to wash, and a fence and deck that could use a fresh coat of something! In a couple of years, I can see the boys ironing their daddy's work shirts and balancing the checkbook.

Somebody hit somebody, PLEEEASE!