Names Changed to Protect My Quiet Lifestyle

"Umbrella, Umbrella?  Where are you?"  Mom was tall and looked like she smelled odd when she was a girl.  Nope, not holding nothing back here.  Her mother's pale face and constant talking whether Umbrella was there or not hinted that she was a mouthbreather when little.  A child who smelt like sour milk and chicken noodle soup lunch two hours after the fact.  The kind of kid that has leftover food behind the ears. "Umbrella!  Come here!  Ooh, I wanted to show you the bracelets; I wasn't sure if you'd like this one or not."  Umbrella was maybe five and still had baby fine hair wisped around her head like a halo that had dropped down to her ears.  She was fast, nimble and argumentative.

Now, fast and nimble are fine and keep you out of the way of traffic; after listening to Umbrella ignore and argue with her mother, I imagined her standing in the street, blabbing at the cars in her little ghost voice that they'd better not hit her before getting splatted by a you-talking-to-me fender.  It was a pleasant reverie, until I was snapped back to attention.  We were in another aisle, by the needlepoint kits and there was Umbrella, running ahead of her mother and emptying the bins of embroidery thread onto the floor.  "No, Umbrella, you are being silly," chortled her mother, hoping that we would catch the cute actions of her darling; "I don't need that color.  Put it back, hahaha."

Hahaha my foot.  Umbrella kept it up, enjoying her mother's semi-confusion at parenting.  "This one.  This one.  You need this one."  "Nooo, I don't need those colors, now put them back. Go pick up Mr. Fluffles (name also changed)."  Mr. Fluffles was a stuffed icon apparently indentured as a servant to Miss Umbrella, who left the mess on the floor and ran to get the adored, floppy toy before he could escape.  His button eyes looked up at me in desperation.

My friend whom I was with was expertly searching for a color of thread to complete the kit she selected, and had way more patience than I; this reporter had to walk away as the method of Reasoning With a Five Year Old's Undeveloped Brain was jumping up and down on my last nerve in stilettos.   In my world, there is one warning, phrased in civilized English but the kid gets the meaning behind it.  Those are not for you to touch.  Let's keep the store looking nice, so Santa won't forget to bring you anything next Christmas, and I don't make you go live in the garage.  Ignore me, and we are both in the car headed home; you are now responsible for hunting your own food, and I hope you are good at catching squirrels.

When we left the aisle, Mom was still standing in the same place as Umbrella made her way through the merchandise; grabbing, squeezing, tossing.  Mom looked at us with a grin, and sour milkily sighed, shrugging her shoulders; still talking loudly to someone, she bent down and began to resurrect what her tornado had torn apart.  As a teacher, you can imagine my blood pressure level.  Please god, please let Umbrella be in my class next year.  Seriously.  She will be walking in line and saying please and thank you in three days.  I will remove the golden flagpole her mother has Umbrella perched on, and get her busy on those numbers.  Yes, I love children.  With ketchup.

Grandmas were there with other children, searching through the section of do-it-yourself playfun kits designed for the elementary crowd.  Noises of interest were used to attract the child to what ever item was deemed appropriate by the adult.  Most of the kids were happy and if they weren't certain about the item, would say appropriate responses.  Not "Eeeewwwww," but "Is there one with beads so I can make bracelets?"  I heard clever children negotiate appropriately, it's no crime to ask for what you want if offered choices.

This was not the case with Appendix, who wanted what he wanted and if that looked bleak, was taking hostages and having a ska-reaming tantrum to supposedly initiate the battle at Jericho.  "You're stupid.  You've got money for this one. That's the one I want, idiot."  I actually heard this in Target, at Christmas.  I took a look at Appendix and recognized him as a fifth grade student from my old school, who gave teachers similar treatment.  In this case, Mom crumbled; this kid had a monster father who spouted jerk responses that the school was not understanding his son.  You got that right, bud.  She probably receives the same at home.

Appendix got what he wanted; in this case, I think the kid needs counseling and meds; when he saw me, he smiled and waved, and his nicer sister came over to talk.  Part of her job was to keep an eye on her older brother; apparently Appendix was going to go to a different school where understanding abounded, rather than to a pediatrician to see which menu item was missing.  The coup de grace occurred in the parking lot, when the econo-van sized soda he got at the snackbar on the way out exploded through the lid from his jumping around victory dance, soaking the lad with sweet justice and a syrupy sugar coating.

I read today that schools have been given the forefront job of socialization and deciphering mental health issues of the students.  Why it waits till a kid reaches school age is beyond, waaay beyond my ken.  There are Kindergarteners who are out of control, running the halls, through the cafeteria, screaming; parents will sell the kid's meds, save them up for the weekend, take them themselves, or just not get an evaluation of their child.   "He doesn't do that at home, what are you doing to make him angry?"  Uh, expecting him to do his work?  How will these little people function as adults?

Hug your own children when you see them, and be happy that you have the sense to put your foot down or get help.  Be ecstatic that they aren't Umbrella or Appendix because of appropriate expectations and structure; you raise kids to be sustaining contributors to life, to wave good bye when they leave, prepared to make mistakes and learn from them.  It doesn't always turn out that way, sometimes good parents have troubled kids, and vice versa; keep going.  Love them.  Just keep the precious ones away from me in the store, especially if I have a large burlap bag and a brick in hand.

Another friend who lives to the north commented on the silver stars shining last night as she walked home.  As I drove home just before sunset, hundreds of gulls hung over the edges of the river for almost a mile; I wondered if they were searching for the little silver minnows that begin running alongside the berms in early spring, but it's too soon, isn't it?  Silver minnows, silver stars; both moving in directions dictated by the swirl of galaxies and currents, reason whirled.

We are observers of the natural world, and have witnessed this latest cold season as an unveiling of what is beneath the leaves, the growth, the covering of grasses; the bare bones of earth.  Here is the framework of support for the green luxury coming, these rocks apparent through melting snow, the leafless branches of trees as skeletal architecture.  It has reached the furthest depth of winter, and is ascending upwards, Dame Nature stirring;  the birds say so, the fish are traveling to the warmer Buffalo River to spawn; the constellations are changing as Orion turns down the covers and the Big Dipper rises.  Let them, let yourself.

Your arms are branches, let green leaves grow from them, maple, elm, oak and birch; the birds will come and sit in the shade, sing, then fly upwards and far, as we would have it be.   Light to dark, shake out the covers for a spring airing, fold heavy blankets to the end of the bed, sleep in anticipation, dream of new shoots.   Be well.