Tonight we’re going to cross a line on this blog, and we’re going to talk about things that shouldn’t be talked about on family-oriented blogs. What I have for y’all tonight will make your mamas ask, “Who is this Jedi Mama, and why are you friends with her? I imagine she drives her Cadillac fast with her red lipstick on, too, doesn’t she?”
No, ma’am. I drive a tired old Suburban, and it can’t reach FAST even when I stomp on the gas pedal.
(This irritates Hubs because Hubs is of the mind that if you stomp a gas pedal and the car doesn’t shoot forward, creating enough G Force to suck you backwards in your seat, you have no business owning it.)
(Hubs is on a mission to re-own a car like this.)
(Apparently he drove such a vehicle in high school and college and early on in our marriage, and then he did what all boys do: He decided the engine wasn’t big enough, and that the G Forces weren’t strong enough, and he yanked the engine out.)
(And that’s when he figured out that owning a wife equals NO DOLLARS FOR CAR PARTS, SO SORRY, BUDDY.)
(And we still have the ’68 Camaro. And we still have the engine. But sadly, the two are no longer married to one another.)
(But Hubs and I are still married, because we said FOREVER AND EVER, UNTIL DEATH DO WE PART OR WE’RE TOO OLD TO REMEMBER WHO THE OTHER ONE IS ANY LONGER.)
(For the record, I think there are days that Hubs would like to FAKE a failing memory and forget who I am.)
(I think it’s because I talk too much during Bronco games and suggested that he start wearing a cool stocking cap like Tebow wears. And Hubs couldn’t refute this by saying THAT’S FOR WIMPY, GIRLY MEN, because Tebow is… well… CERTAINLY NOT wimpy or girly. And Hubs knows this. And although he’d sneer at a stocking cap on any other man — Brad Pitt, Tom Brady, Homer Simpson — and call it FEMININE, he can’t do that to Tebow, because Hubs knows that Tebow rocks.)
(And that’s all the tangent that I have for you tonight.)
(At least for now.)
So I have a story for y’all today, but it’s going to take my blog to a new level, because I must use a term that isn’t always family-friendly. Y’all will have to use white-out when your teenagers read this post.
Today in one of my PE classes, we were all running and running. Or rather, the KIDS were all running and running, because OH MY WORD! If I ran and ran with ALL OF MY CLASSES, that would equal a MARATHON with no one to pass out bananas and paper cups filled with water and Gatorade to me along the way. So mostly I just yell encouragement from the sidelines, and I let the little guys do the running. And then I eventually hand out grades on their report cards that let them know what good little runners they are.
Or even aren’t.
And today, during all the running and running, I had a little girl trip over — what? I don’t know! The foul line painted on the gym floor? There was NOTHING in front of her. Her shoes were tied. She didn’t hit another runner. And somehow, she still managed to trip herself up, and down she went, BLAM! And she hit her forehead on the gym floor.
And there were tears! Because a little Drama Queen like this darling can generate tears on demand, people, so just think what she can accomplish when she has almost been decapitated.
So I scooped her up, because she weighs all of nothing, and we sat down on the bench on the sidelines.
The bench where extra basketball players sit in games.
Or where naughty children sit for time-out during PE class.
And I rocked that little thing, and I rocked her some more, because SWEET MERCY! THE CRYING! MAKE IT STOP!
We rocked, and we rocked. We rocked until she’d cried enough tears to completely soak the front of my shirt. And then suddenly the waterworks stopped, and I asked her if she was feeling better.
She told me no. She said, “I’m done crying, but I still think I might have broken a part of my head right off.”
I assured her that all of her head parts seemed to still be there, and she’d even added one, in the shape of a SMALLISH, BARELY-THERE, NOTHING-TO-WRITE-HOME-ABOUT goose egg between her eyes.
So then she asked if I could just rock her some more, and I was happy to do so, because rocking a child brings an ENORMOUS HAPPINESS to my heart. The game went on in front of us, while we snuggled together and recuperated from our traumatic head bashing.
(For the record and all the Department of Family Services workers, the traumatic head bashing wasn’t all that traumatic. Honest. Little Miss Drama Queen just made it appear that way.)
And then, FINALLY! She was ready to rejoin the game. So I used the bottom of her pink Disney princess T-shirt to wipe her tears up, and I said, “Well, I enjoyed rocking you here on the bench, and I’m glad you feel better now.”
And she said, “I liked it when you rocked me. You are even better at rocking kids than my mom is.”
I’m sure that I actually AM better, because I am QUITE AN EXCELLENT KID ROCKER, so it was nice to be reaffirmed that yes! Yes, I have potential to go on and win a beauty pageant, with child rocking as my talent.
(Because no one really wants to hear me sing.)
(Not at all.)
And then that little girl told me, “Yup. You rock a lot better than my mom does, because my mom has way, way, WWAAYY bigger boobs than you have, and they always feel like I have a big lump under me when she rocks me, and THAT makes my neck hurt.”
I had no words.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t done with HER words.
“And your boobs are really, really tiny, so they are perfect for rocking kids with owies, because we won’t get a sore neck from being squished against a big lump.”
And then Little Miss Drama Queen and Boob Size Judge ran off to join her class in the game.
And it took everything I had not to push her in the back when she wasn’t looking and knock her down again.
And I probably wouldn’t have rocked her the second time.