“Mama, Mama,” screams 5-year old Joey.
I pretend not to hear and continue reading.
“Mamaaaaaaaa!” The scream reverberates through the house.
“Coming,” I say, huffing, grinding my teeth, laying the book down on the coffee table for the umpteenth time. I walk toward the children’s bedroom.
Joey stops me at the door and pulling down on my shoulders, declares, “Mama, Keith is lying!” His big brown eyes are twinkling with victory.
He looks adorable in that white and burgundy checkered sweater, I think.
“No, I am not,” says 7-year old Keith, shaking his head, hair in his face.
I enter the room. Joey follows. The fluorescent solar system model they built during winter break dangles from the ceiling, spiraling, fluttering as the warm air gushes out from the vent above. A musty odor tingles my nostrils.
“Yes. You. Are. I really know that,” asserts Joey.
Keith stoops to retrieve his glasses off the floor.
“All right. What’s going on guys? Keith?” I ask, and I squat on the floor.
The musty odor is in the air. Where is it coming from, I wonder. Joey slumps into my lap, the back of his head positioned right under my chin, and slowly slides his velvety soft hands into mine.
“Mama, Keith says there are more cars on Highway 101 than windows on the broken twin towers...”
Wow! I mean, wow! I wouldn’t have thought of that analogy in a million years. I stare at Joey and completely blank out. I don’t want to resolve their conflict. I want to sprint over to my word processor and capture that remark.
Joey straightens his back and arches toward me “He’s wrong…”
“No, I’m not,” barks Keith.
“Yes.”
“Noooo.”
Joey is excited. He stands up. “Ya aa. Hope you hit an ice cube and sink in the Pacific Ocean.”
“O, ya? I hope you roll down from Mt. Everest. Ha, ha, that should teach you a lesson…”
Well. Pretty perceptive for being five and seven years old don’t you think? Except for the part about the Titanic and the mixed-up ocean, of course.
As always, their conflicts are groundless and linger for about 20 seconds, total. No sooner did I recover from my blank out, I said, “Yea, tall buildings can have lots of windows.” I looked at Joey and grimaced, nodding my head. “Keith is probably right, sweetheart.”
“Yes!” said Keith, joyfully.
“Oh,” said Joey, sadly.
Keith started reading a book.
“And one more thing,” I added, lifting myself up, “I need you guys to stop calling each other names. When you’re mean to each other, you are mean to me. That’s not okay. Do you understand?”
“Un, huh,” said Joey as he walked over to the toy box.
Keith had already traversed several galaxies in his Earth and Space book.
And just the other day… I was in my home office, furiously typing this marvelous new story on my computer, arms and legs stiffened owing to the excitement when…“Staaawwp! Stop it!” yelled Joey, running toward me, sniffling. I stopped typing and swiveled my chair around to face him when he hurled himself up like a ball shot out of a canon and landed in my lap. He was out of breath, his ears and chubby cheeks a robust pink as he cuddled in my embrace and sobbed, “Mama, Keith is teasing me again. He’s a pu fu gu gu…” I began to caress his shoulders when Keith rushed in, didn’t see the little Hot Wheel car under foot, stepped on it, squealed, reached for the wall but fell short and cascaded to the floor with a thud, and commenced crying.
The incident stunned Joey into silence. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, comforting Keith. But I really need to wrap up that piece, I sighed sadly as I vigorously rubbed his forehead. “Honey, are you okay?” I inquired. He nodded amid deafening sobs and gasps. Phew! Thank Goodness! I was not looking forward to another unscheduled visit to the doctor’s.
Despite their ludicrous arguments and tiresome scuffles, I love my children and I’m very proud of them. The glow on my face and the glimmer in my eyes demonstrate my pride. Well, truth is the glow comes from the $150 European facial I had yesterday. And the glimmer is the result of using Visine.
In any case, being a mom is unarguably the toughest job I’ve had. I (cough) love (cough, cough) my job (clear my throat). As part of my job, I’ve had to yield to preposterous demands such as toddler harassment, engage them in silly games such as Walk-Backwards-with-a-Spoon-on-your-Nose, and make up ridiculous stories such as “Why Johnny Grew a Horn instead of a Nose.” They make me feel free and like a kid again.
My youngsters teach me humility. I once got dressed in my red turtleneck, I thought. The sleeves sure felt a little funny, shorter than normal, snug, but I went about my day as usual. Later, when I walked into Keith’s bedroom with a basket full of crisp clean clothes, I found Keith lying on his bed, tummy side down and legs kicked up in the air. The stereo was bellowing some crazy number as he read Harry Potter’s latest adventure.
I set the basket on the floor and turned down the volume.
“Joey, DON’T TOUCH!” screamed Keith.
“Hi, Sweetie.” I said. As I extended my hand to pull out a drawer in the dresser, I noticed my unusual sleeves.
I knelt on the floor. “I didn’t know they made turtlenecks with three-quarter sleeves,” I said, folding Keith’s clothes and putting them away in his drawer.
“What d’you mean?” he asked, turning his head to look up at me.
I pointed to my sleeves. “See these sleeves? They seem shorter than the last time I wore this shirt.” I pushed the drawer in. “And it’s so new…”
“But, Mama, that’s my shirt,” He said, sneering at me.
“No it isn’t.” I picked up the empty laundry basket, walked across the room, and set it down, under the long row of hanging shirts, in the closet.
“It is. It is…” he said.
“No, Keith, it isn’t.” I said firmly, shutting the closet door.
“But Mama, it really…”
I turned around. “Keith, how could your shirt possibly fit me? Think about it.”
He sat up. “It really is mine. Grandpa gave it to me for Christmas, Mama.”
I looked at him for a second, then turned back again and twisted open the knob on the closet door. I looked for the red turtleneck his Grandpa had given him for Christmas, but couldn’t spot it. A red turtleneck would surely stand out, I thought. I re-scrutinized the array of bland, dull boy shirts, running my fingers through them, moving the hangers one by one. No red turtleneck. Aaahh oops! I must have accidentally hung it in my closet. My face turned the color of the turtleneck.
I hung my head in shame. “I’m sorry, Keith,” I said, sheepishly, peeping at him from the corners of my eyes. “I promise that I will wash it and put it back in your closet.”
My youngsters are also my best friends. We entertain each other with our incredible singing and dancing talents. I educate them by reading to them, helping them with their homework, and narrating lively stories about my childhood. They educate me with eye-openers like, “Mama, did you know that soap can cause cavities?” and “Mama, long, long, ago, just before I was born, the dinosaurs got killed.”
Life with my kids is so much fun. We snuggle around the fireplace and play board games. They play ball games, and I try to keep pace. We overdose on hugs and kisses. They let me play doctor, teacher, and mentor. Ask them who their favorite person in the world is and nine out of ten times, they respond, “Mama!” Why, Joey even wants to marry me when he grows up. Poor little suckers! They have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into.
My little devils are also my toughest critics. They call me “Bad Mama” when I turn down their request to have donuts for breakfast. They say, “I like Dada better,” when I ground them for refusing to comply with the rules with “No TV for a week.” And they always want to eat out! Now that’s puzzling ‘cause I consider myself a decent cook. Why, even my mother-in-law likes my cooking.
There are cheerful days and then there are days when I want to put them up for adoption or drive away and never return. That’s when the curious little minds ask, “So what freeway are you taking, Mama?”
My life is entwined with that of my children’s like ivy on an arbor. But I try to focus less on the sweat and more on the reward of parenting. I want to enjoy every minute of my time with them because I know the day they’ll leave home for college will soon be here. I dread that day. I’m not overly anxious or protective, but I dread that day. I know that a baby bird must step out of the nest to take its first flight, but I don’t want them to go. Sure, my vocal chords could start making sweet melody from the missed morning screaming matches. The clutter and the clamor will be gone, but hmmmm… I’m gonna have a lot of time for myself. Hmmmm… I could actually go out for a decent dinner with my husband to a decent restaurant without the fear of my kids running rampant. Let’s see… I could readily travel to fun and exotic places, and not worry about accompanying the kids to mind-numbing kiddy zoos, parks, museums, or shows. Why, I could tear up the calendar that is a constant reminder of the children’s play dates, school project deadlines, soccer practice, and replace it with my travel itinerary, girls-night-out dates and whatnot. I could sleep in late, wake up late, eat donuts for breakfast, watch TV all day, boogie to earsplitting music, get drunk and parade around the house naked without the fear of setting a bad example. Hmmmmm…
I hope they will go to college though. If they don’t, well, I’ll just blow all their college money on a trip to the moon. Or maybe Mars. I don’t aspire their becoming prominent doctors or high-flying scientists. They can if their inclination so desires and I will provide every resource to support their dreams. But, personally, my goal is for them to perform to their potential and live balanced, peaceful, healthy, and most importantly, fulfilling lives. Regardless of what they do or who they become, I will always love them, accept them for who they are, treasure them, care for them, and parent them until the day I die.

On that note, I have just demonstrated Life Principle #3: Always cherish and nurture your children and instill good values in them. They are the next generation that will build your improved tomorrow.
Great! Only 7 more principles to go!