Woulda Coulda Shoulda

Chickadee finally managed to get that darn tooth out, today. She fairly flew off the bus this afternoon, grimy tooth clutched triumphantly in her hand, big hole in her smile with the tip of her tongue poking through. (After dinner discovery: even a large front tooth doesn’t leave a hole quite large enough to suck Skittles through, although they didn’t get stuck for lack of trying.)

Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered me if I hadn’t spent an hour shopping for pants for Monkey, today. Yesterday, I was trying to get the kids ready for church, and every pair of pants I tossed over to Monkey was met with “Um, Mama? Little problem, here.” They were all too short. It turned out that other than a bunch of jeans and one pair of cordoroys in not-so-stellar condition, the boy didn’t have a single pair of pants that made it down to his ankles. Whoops. So today I hit the consignment store and got him some appropriate “church pants” (someday, maybe, he’ll call them khakis or chinos…?) and a few other miscellaneous things.

They’re getting bigger; they’re growing taller and shedding baby teeth and no one–NO ONE, I tell you!–has asked my permission. This is unacceptable.

But as any good mother knows, there is revenge to be had. They grow up without asking, but we can subtly influence them along the way. It doesn’t have to be anything overt. A few little things are all it takes. Say, a miscellanous purchase when you’re out picking up some pants, for example. A casual, “You will never guess what I found on the clearance rack today….” Before you know it your mini-me will be coming along nicely.

(Here in New England, there are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and LL Bean.)

Words cannot describe what has beset my household since the children returned home. It seems likely that the small ones didn’t sleep a wink while with their father. That would explain the extreme fatigue and concomitant snarling about how rotten their lives are. The only other explanation that would account for their behavior is that they both had brain transplants last week, and frankly that would never happen without the ex banging down my door for my half of the co-pay the moment they left the hospital.

Perhaps I’m not being fair. Perhaps–in my advanced age and dimming memory–I just don’t recall how difficult it is to be almost-five or six-and-a-half. Perhaps their lives really are as tragic as they’d have me believe. After all, Monkey had to attend a bowling birthday party yesterday, and despite the use of bumpers there were a few times that he threw* his ball and didn’t knock a single pin down, which disrupted the course of civilization as we know it, if his reaction was any indication. And Chickadee, well, poor Chickadee is going by Snaggletooth at the moment, owing to a top tooth that is protruding akimbo but still stubbornly refuses to let go, and the pain is more severe than when I gave birth to her 9-pound screaming self, I have been assured.
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