You’d think that by taking the weekend off from blogging I’d have a good 2 or 3 posts stashed away, waiting to be published. You thought wrong. We’ve had the last 2 weeks off from school, so you might think again that I’d have some really good material for posts in my draft folder. Again, you’d be wrong. You might then think I would be embarrassed to trot something out from the archives. Wrong wrong wrong.
The following post was originally posted about a year ago. It’s funny how quickly time flies. And how I’ve made such little progress.
A few weeks ago I dropped Jensen off in the children’s Sunday School at our church. The prospect of doughnuts gets ordinary folks through the steeple doors, but not my son. The draw for Jensen, is the opportunity to play with the cars in his classroom. Fresh cars. Cars he doesn’t get to play with during the week. He has a wonderful stash of hotwheels at home, but he can spot a different car in a split second. This thrills me of course, because I’m able to peel him off of me long enough to attend church service with Fiddledaddy.
So, it’s kinds of like a date.
With 200 other people.
When I picked Jensen up from Sunday School, I didn’t notice until we were in the parking lot that he had lifted one of the cars belonging to his classroom. Not wanting to trudge back into church, I vowed to return it the next week. Which I did. I explained to them that my son is a klepto, and that they should pray over him in hopes that he changes his ways now and avoids a life of crime.
When I got home I found THE SAME CAR in his Power Rangers backpack.
Such a shame, as he really doesn’t look good in stripes.
This week we attended our first co-op of classes that my homeschool group offers. The girls are taking art, Karate, guitar, and worship dance. Jensen even has his own class for 2 and 3 year olds. I worried how he would adjust. Until I spied the box full of hotwheels cars in his classroom. These are his people. They understand his needs. But I warned sweet Emily, the children’s director, to always be sure and check his backpack carefully before he leaves.
When I came to collect him, true to form, he was clutching tightly, 3 beloved cars. I asked him to put them away so that we could visit them next week. He held on tighter. The battle of wills escalated into a full fledged skirmish, where he wrestled me to the floor, and I had to pry each car out of his chubby hands. It was an ugly tangle of arms, legs, and hotwheels. I emerged sweaty and disheveled.
I just love making a good impression on the first day of school.
When the wrestling match ended, and I was victorious, I picked up the wriggling, screaming mass of Jensen and hoisted him up on my hip. No easy feat since he’s weighing in at 40 pounds these days. He retaliated by grabbing my left breast and pinching as hard as he could.
It’s not like he hadn’t already done enough damage to me during the breastfeeding portion of our relationship. Violent nurser that he was. But, I didn’t flinch. I was ready for him. I was wearing my battle bra. The padded one. With the sturdy underwire.
For just such an occasion.
I wouldn’t think of wearing a padded bra for vanity sake. Oh no. I wear a padded bra for protection.
Because it’s less cumbersome than, say, body armor.
I conducted a thorough cavity search on Jensen and we left with no stolen matchbox cars.
As mothers, we wear a lot of different hats. Because our job description varies widely. Everything from chef to chauffeur, stylist to laundry maven.
And now you can just add crime fighter to my ever growing list.
I’m sort of like Wonder Woman. But without the tight abs and fabulous hair.