A Trip Back to the Nutty ‘90s

At the risk of being too nostalgic and perhaps a little lazy as I populate this blog with stuff, I am now including some columns FDGB (from days gone by). These are a few of my favorite ones, reminding me of how life was when our three sons were still just a litter of rollicking, messy puppies. Three boys in four years was one of the more daring risks John and I took, that’s for sure. And it has worked out quite nicely. But I am now not at all certain how we managed all of it, and these columns remind me of those busy, noisy, sticky days. So welcome to the circus, on a camping trip, and into the world of three very young men. Have fun.

Under the Big Top
Published in The Republican newspaper in June 1997

Eight years and three kids later, I think it was quite apropos that I spent our wedding anniversary at the circus. And this was no necessarily a bad thing —this production was pleasant enough. The acts were funny and entertaining, the animals appeared to be well cared for, and the performers smiled a lot. They didn’t have that bored, depressed expression that circus folks sometimes acquire after performing 80-trillion shows for 80-trillion screamin’ meemies. I would most definitely get bored and/or depressed. Probably suicidal.

As it worked out, John kept baby Michael at home and I escorted Rob (5) and Alex (2) to the affair. Alex was just bursting — “We’re goin’ to the circuth, aren’t we, Mom? We’re goin’ right now, aren’t we, Mom?” Robert kept himself under control, being a circus vet. “I’ll show you where to go, Alex,” he said with authority. “I went last time.”

I thought Alex might come up out of his car seat as we drove along. “We’re almos’ there, aren’t we, Mom? Jutht a little bit more,” he chattered. Rob actively repressed his own excitement, determined to refrain from such a display. “Yeah,” he said, his voice heaped with sugar, “we’re almost there, Alex.” When Rob isn’t whacking Alex on the head, he’s really quite loving toward him.

“We’re gonna th’ee — th’ee — we’re gonna th’ee tha elephanth,” Alex blathered. “An’ tha’ hortheth and tha’ tha’ tha’ clowns and get balloons an’ an’ an’…!” His vocabulary gave out about then and he resorted to simple catchall squealing.

As we parked the car, the looming striped tent became visible to the boys and even Robert nearly lost composure. I demanded that they hold my hands as we walked through the parking lot, which for me was similar to holding onto cats headed for the bathtub. We entered the vacant-field-turned-wonderland and I called the boys’ attention to the elephant standing several yards from us. They both shouted, “Oh, yeah!” but I could see that neither of them was actually seeing the beast. Rob was furtively scanning the whole area and Alex was looking at the motorized pay-a-quarter ride at the door of the Treasure Island store. I risked letting go of Rob’s hand to physically manipulate their heads toward the elephant, and they finally saw it. As we got closer to her, the boys’ excitement was somewhat subdued. A real live elephant is staggeringly big to persons who stand about as tall as a yard stick.

We entered the tent and found seats in the front row, which actually rested about an inch off the ground. That’s fine for little ones, but Mommy was not terribly comfortable. Oh, well. We could see the ring so well and the boys were okay with it, so I accepted the role of martyr. A clown stood almost directly in front of us, and from his dripping wet hands blew soap bubbles — huge, wobbling orbs that bumped sluggishly over the crowd of grasping hands until some tots tackled them. He was funny — Rob was immediately rapt. The spotlights were sweeping the place, their beams crossing and uncrossing in time with the lively music. The clowns were yelling their acts and the kids were matching that noise. Several men carrying a dizzying number of sodas and other pricey snacks strapped to their chests traipsed through the crowd, stopping often to accept wrinkled bills in exchange for their wares. As I studied the scene around me, I became conscious of a growing pressure against my side. I looked down to see Alex, his sky-blue eyes the size of quarters, tightly hugging his chest and leaning into me. In a very small voice he said, “I want to go back home.”

I had to stifle a laugh, bubbling up unexpectedly, pitying him and being amused at the same time. Just then, the lights went down completely and the place grew quiet. Alex literally climbed up my torso and clung to my neck like a baby orangutan.

“I want to go back home now,” he implored. I assured him that everything was all right while Rob patted his back. Finally he ground his head around on my neck just enough to see out of one eye. He stayed there for quite some time, and I, sitting on that board holding a panicky 40-pound kid, knew I was strongly in the running for the Martyred Mother Award of 1997. As he relaxed his grip a little, I tried to put him back down on the bleacher, but it was like trying to put down a yo-yo. He was back up against my neck in less than a second. He stayed there for probably 20 minutes, finally conceding to edge back down to the seat as long as he could keep most of his body pressed against mine.

The circus was fairly free of the usual sales pitches, but at one point the ringmaster did announced that peanuts were being sold and several packages contained a coupon for a free balloon. I actually won a balloon last year with Rob, so he naturally assumed we would win again. I bought two bags — a buck each — and neither contained the winning ticket. Robert struggled to stay calm. A frown crossed his brow, but he regained his poise amazingly well. I was very proud of him and gave him a quick hug. He smiled at me and said, “We can just buy one, right, Mom?” I sighed and responded as the parent I am: “We’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Alex had discovered the peanuts and was requesting that I open them for him. About every third one was edible; the rest were roasted nearly to oblivion and tasted like tar. I busily cracked them and reported the burned ones as “yucky” and handed the good ones over to him. Growing impatient, he paid next to no attention to the grinning tightrope performer, who was simultaneously giving Rob the willies. “He’s going to fall — that’s dangerous,” he kept saying. I could hear my own warnings in my son’s voice. “I wonder if I’m creating a worrywart,” I worried. My attention was drawn to the death-defying guy, too — okay, so there was a net, but he could’ve missed it — Rob noted that fact. I quit nut cracking and watched the show, noticing after a few moments the lack of Alex’s demands. I looked to see him digging in the grass, picking up discarded peanuts and popping them in his mouth.

“Dis one is not yucky, Mom,” he said indignantly, pinching the blackened goober between his tiny thumb and forefinger. “It’s good.”

The show’s finale featured no fewer than three elephants, performing amazing balancing and daring feats, and coming close enough almost to touch. The boys were duly impressed and left the arena full of news to tell Michael and Daddy. Of course, they also left with a ridiculously priced light-up sword and a tiger-shaped balloon. So I’m a softie. The circus only comes once a year.

Sleeping Bags, Mess Kits, and Tense
Published in The Republican newspaper Aug. 13, 1998

As I lay grumbling in my sleeping bag, ruing the day I decided we’d go camping for vacation, I did keep thinking to myself, “At least I’ll get a column out of this.” So here we are, having survived another summer’s week of adventures with three young males of the species, and I’m ripe with things to tell. (Our tent and other camping items are also ripe, although in a somewhat different fashion.)

Vacation defined: “Freedom from any activity, rest, respite, intermission; a period of rest and freedom from work…” And archaic definition of the word is “the act of making vacant.” I think that second one best describes the result of our vacation —the following things have been left vacant: our bank account, our sanity, and our yen to camp ever again.

Actually, it was not all that bad. The boys loved it, I think, and will probably remember it for a long time. John and I will, too, lemme tell ya. Camping is a good alternative for vacationing, since staying in a hotel for several nights is not really feasible for a growing family of yard apes. If we really want to “get away” for a while, we have to aim at what we can achieve, at least monetarily. Campsites are pretty cheap, especially if you go rustic (and by that I just mean no electricity —we did have bathrooms a short walk away). We set up camp at grounds in Hershey, Pa., where the air truly smells like chocolate. The campground was great, complete with a pool not far from our site and a general store that had absolutely everything you could possibly need. I’m sure the hard-core campers would roll their eyes in disdain at the whole deal, but I bet most of them wouldn’t be toting along three imps, either.

So the two-room tent went up just fine, and the boys were tickled to romp around in their new “house,” almost to the point of tearing it back down. They fought over who was going to get to use the mess kit, argued about who was going to get to spray bug repellent into whose eyes, and got in fist-fights over the flashlights (that sounds like a country song). The boys had no real mattress —just a bunch of blankets piled up. John and I, however, had thought far enough ahead to purchase an air mattress for ourselves. We didn’t, however, think quite far enough ahead to get an air pump, so a great deal of time was passed as we took turns filling the double-bed-size air mattress with our own carbon dioxide. Not a fun task, especially on a hot afternoon, and especially when three little boys are running around like wild animals asking question after question and whacking each other for no apparent reason. After a long, sweaty two hours of setting up, we were actually able to retire to the pool, which provided an extremely pleasant respite.

Then came bedtime —that transition from circus to sanitarium. They always tell you in childbirth classes that in labor, transition is the worst time of all. You are in pain, you can’t think straight, and you think you’ll never get through it. Hate to break it to ya, new mommies, but that transition thing continues throughout childhood. Bedtime can be really tough, as we force these young humans to change gears from Full Speed Ahead to Full Stop. It’s sort of like trying to make a cat settle down at the vet’s, or brushing down a cowlick. And when the kids’ beds are in a tent, for pete’s sake —well, let’s just say the whole transition period definitely ranks in the high stress range long after childbirth, and especially while camping.

A family of what seemed to be about 83 children was camped next to us, and those weary parents kindly told us that the first night is always the toughest. “After that, they’re so tired they’ll drop into bed and snore ‘til morning,” the father assured us. I’ll be forever thankful for those words, because I probably would have left at about 11 p.m. that first night if I thought the next night were going to be the same. The kids argued over who was going to sleep where, they fought over their pillows, and then they began a series of “giggling-to-crying-to-giggling” episodes, during which Michael, the “baby” (he’s almost 3), caused most of the crying because, boy, he really likes to kick. He and Rob (6) did finally go down, but Alex (almost 4) lay awake for quite a while, telling John and me through the mesh that he just wasn’t tired. John and I had planned to play a game together by the campfire while our angels slept. Funny thought, that.

At last the sandman bagged Alex, and John and I retired to our squishy bed. I would have fallen asleep immediately, but a family camped near our was apparently holding a Yahtzee tournament. That game, as most people know, involves a cup with lots of cubes in it. You shake the cup and then dump the cubes out, twice per turn. I lay there listening, shake shake rattle, shake shake rattle, until I thought I’d lose all sense. By about 1 a.m., I was desperate to rush out of that tent and scream, “If you don’t stop playing that game, I’m going to set fire to your picnic table!” I don’t know when they quit, but I spotted that game on their table the next day and I told John I was going to go get it and pitch it in the river. He told me to go ahead. (I didn’t.)

The rest of the time was really a bit better. The boys did get supremely tired and fell asleep more readily. And the trip to Chocolate World was fun (and free, so we did it three times), and the day at Hershey Park was, well, a day. The kids loved it, although Alex was in turmoil about greeting the many walking advertisements (human-sized, living versions of every Hershey’s treat you can think of). He wanted to say “hi” and hug them freely, like Robert did with ease, but he was torn and afraid once he got right up to them. John was happy to report to me that when I was off with Michael somewhere, Alex had actually beaten his fear and hugged the chocolate syrup. There was much rejoicing.

On our final night, we had decided to retire to a hotel. Three nights in a tent was really enough. “I think camping must be an acquired taste,” John said gently. While we drove to another point of interest in Pennsylvania, we searched for an inn. I was desperate for anything, pointing and shouting, “There’s one!” Once John snorted. “Mary,” he said, “there was a guy at that place with no shirt on, drinking a beer and using the corner of the building to scratch his back. No thanks.” Okay, so I had seen him, too, but I just wanted a bath and a bed. I could ignore the guy.

We did finally make it to a satisfactory hotel and our rest was good. There’s more to tell, but the laundry is waiting and our tent smells like a sock. I’ll be back.

Tot Mentality
Published in The Republican newspaper in the winter of 1999

Observing the growth of three little boys is an eye-opening experience, to say the least. My husband and I glow with pride over our first-grader’s good report card, we get lumps in our throats when the 4-year-old tells us he loves us, and we laugh out loud at the 3-year-old’s dancing technique. We also make noises come up out of our necks that are unrecognizable (known as “yelling at the children”), we literally grind our teeth as we tell them for the gazillionth time to stop hitting each other, and we get into what seem to be important conversations about why one should not put Milk Duds in the fish tank or balance one’s full dinner plate on the back of the couch.

So as this life unfolds, I’ve been thinking about human behavior. What if we never changed our ways of dealing with life? What if we all still acted like 3-year-olds? (Okay, I know everyone reading this knows an adult or two who does indeed act like that, but just disregard them for a while.) If we did continue our childish behaviors, a day could go like this:

Mr. Smith, a clean-cut, 30-ish, tall businessman, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, comes in to work. There are doughnuts on a plate for everyone to share.

“Awwww! I don’t like peanut butter ones!” Smith wails plaintively. “Are they any plain ones?” Someone informs him there are no plain ones and he might really like a PB one if he tries it, but he screams back that he knows he doesn’t like peanut butter, he HATES peanut butter, it makes him THROW UP, and he slides down the wall, making himself boneless, until he is a crumpled pile on the floor. He sits there frowning rigidly for about 15 minutes until he forgets why he’s mad.

Later in the day, his secretary comes into his office.

“Mr. Smith?” she starts.

“I’m not Mr. Smith. I’m the blue Power Morpher,” he informs her.

“All right, Mr. Blue Power Morpher,” she says, resigned to play along, “you have a visitor.” Another man enters, says hello, and holds out his hand in greeting. Mr. Smith eyes him for a minute, frowns, and announces “I don’t like you.” The secretary blushes. “Oh, now, Mr. Smith, you don’t mean that!”

“I am the blue. POWER. MORPHER! Smith yells. The man, Mr. Jones, responds by pushing Smith down by the face and calling him a doofus. A wrestling match ensues, ties flying and jackets jostled. A table is knocked over and a lamp shatters. Jones and Smith say simultaneously: “He did it!” and at least one of them starts to cry.

Later. The two men are working at a computer, perhaps designing some great building or mapping out some great plan. Their elbows brush against one another’s by chance.

“Quit touching me.”

“Shut up. You touched me.”

“You shut up. And give me the mouse. It’s my turn.”

“Please don’t say ‘shut up,’” the secretary says quietly from the doorway.

“It’s not your turn. You had it for a long time and I just got it.”

Jones then pushes Smith down by the face again and Smith whacks Jones with the mouse. Both cry. The secretary says they are going to drive her completely insane soon.

Still later. The men are joined by a third guy. Jones and Smith suddenly become very close and work to exclude the newcomer, whom we’ll call Mr. Doe. Doe reacts to the exclusion with apparent calm, and then walks past both of them with his arm out,
unabashedly cracking them both on the forehead. They shout “HEY!” and rub their heads. Doe smiles. “You guys are really dumb,” he announces. He then produces three Power Morpher action figures from his briefcase and shows all indications of sharing them. Jones and Smith are now his very best friends. The secretary rests while she can.

The three men go to the bank to discuss lending options. They are informed that they will have to wait a few minutes to see the representative. They complain lustily and Jones lies down on his back on the floor. Smith takes this time to systematically strip down to his underwear and T-shirt, claiming his clothes “hurt” him. Meanwhile, Jones has become invisible lying there on his back, apparently unable to hear or see anything. When the banker can see them at last, Jones remains motionless. Doe nudges him with his foot, to no avail. Smith grabs his arm and tries to pull him up, but only drags him around in a circle. Jones is evidently in a trance of some sort. Then the banker cagily offers fruit gummy snacks and Jones wakes up immediately, fully recovered.

The banker’s secretary crosses her arms and whispers to another secretary that if those three were her bosses, they’d never act like that in public. Smith, after regarding her for a moment, asks her if she meant for her hair to look like that.

Can you tell I’ve been home a lot this winter? I think I need a nap.