Pirates say AAARGH!

His grandmother and I kind of went nuts on the decorating.

I don't want to know what maw maw had to do to earn these.

We only had a week to prepare, and I shudder to think what Linda could have cooked up if I’d given her another 7 days to scheme. Check out the ship’s cannons.

Pool noodles -- for sea dogs and land lubbers alike.

As it was, we staged a pirate battle complete with nerf cannon balls and confetti guns, walked the plank over dangerous rubber crocodiles,

fished for prizes (a clothes pin on the end of a fishing pole delivered a cache of chocolate coins in a genuine pirate drawstring bag), made pirate crafts (glitter glue is a @#$% to get out of fabric unless you act fast)

and finished up with a treasure hunt for a chest full of individual pirate goody bags.

Then there were ice cream boats, donut towers and ocean blue punch for snack.

Check out the mainsail on that Ice Cream Boat!

Or as Jason likes to call it, the “NOT IN THE CAR!” cocktail.

A hearty mix of Raspberry filled and plain doughnuts

Chocolate Iced and Cream-filled. *sigh*

Exhausting? Yes.

Messy? We cleaned the playroom with a shovel (literally) and a shopvac.

Worth it? Absolutely. After the treasure hunt, I heard Jack shout to the crowd of pirates gathered around him, “This is the best day ever!”

And you know what? It was.

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But as I strolled through the grocery store yesterday with Sam and Tom hanging off either side of my buggy and Will tripping along behind wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a silver buckled western belt, and ornately tooled cowboy boots — all with shorts and a t-shirt — I marveled at how far they’ve taken me as a mommy and a woman. **

I’ve bought groceries with four — count ‘em — four kids in tow. I’ve lugged 4 children to the doctor for the benefit of one, and choked down my panic as the three healthy ones *gasp* touched things in the waiting room. I have safely monitored two new swimmers and two determined drowners in a pool, alone, all summer. I’ve dealt with blood and boogers, bruises and public breakdowns. And I’ve learned to do it without screaming myself hoarse (most of the time).

They’ve forced me to be more organized. Galvanized me to establish healthier habits for the whole family, and — above all — helped bring into focus what’s really important. Specifically, if you really want a thing, you can find a way to make it happen.

So there’s a notebook in my purse now as I run my errands. A story outline is taking shape — bit by bit — in my computer. And I am probably closer to the Jodi I always wanted to be than I’ve ever been.

Bottom line, had you asked me when I was young and foolish, I certainly would never have chosen this difficult road to enlightenment. I wouldn’t have had the courage. But thankfully, there was a different plan in store for me. And never would I ever go back again.

**I should probably add that for the sake of solidarity, Sam was also wearing cowboy boots, and Tom was wearing cowboy boots AND a set of chaps with their requisite summer uniform of a t-shirt and shorts. Publix was the place to be for unexpected entertainment yesterday. There were so many giggles and whispers that Sam turned to me and asked, “Mom, why does everyone think we’re so cool?” We should all have such a great attitude!

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“Hey, diddle diddle. The cat and the fiddle. The cow jumped over the moon…”

He is smiling proudly, only halfway through but certain he can make it to the end perfectly. I can see it in his eyes. As the little dog laughs, I watch the dregs of his cottage cheese and fruit plop lazily on my freshly mopped floor. I force myself to nod and smile encouragingly when he wiggles one and then the other as the dish runs away with the spoon, all the while cataloging where each bit of flotsam lands so I can find it later.

I clap and cheer when he finishes. The dish and spoon wind up in the sink eventually. And the floor wipes clean again. Mommy chores are endless. But the rewards are worth every second.

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And Legos…

And making bug-catchers while wearing dinosaur pjs and a bandana…

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Me, teasingly: No! We’re somewhere else! Where are we???

Chorus of dissent from the back seats.

Me, beating dead horse mercilessly as we pull into the garage: No WAY!! Whose house is this? This isn’t our house! This is someone else’s!

One small, troubled voice queries from the back of the van, “Are we going to rob somebody?”

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with a blindfold…

and maybe even one arm tied behind my back. But that would be showing off.

I am a flood, a tidal wave, an avalanche of efficiency. A force of nature. Unstoppable. Until a familiar voice floats up from the shadows beside me.

“Mommy, I am not afraid of the dark.”

“No, you’re not,” I reply briskly, still striding forward.

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Of course!” My reply is automatic as is my full stop and arm extension. Never ever deny a child a chance to hold your hand. It’s in the Bible. Somewhere. I’m pretty sure of it. If it isn’t, it really should be. The Eleventh Commandment.

“Everybody knows I’m not afraid of the dark,” Sam asserts as his hand slips in mine.

“That’s right. They do,” I manage to reply without a quiver.

We stand quietly for one beat. Two.

“But, Mommy?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“It is awfully dark in here,” he tells me, staring pensively into the shadows.

Then suddenly he brightens, chirping, “But dat’s why we hold hands!”

I smile and squeeze his hand a little tighter feeling the hard knot that’s been lodged in my solar plexus untangle, then disappear. Exactly, Sam. That’s precisely when we most need a hand to hold. But sometimes us grown ups forget how to ask.

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“No thank you, Sammy love. Mommy just needs to finish up dinner really quickly and then we can eat. Why don’t you go play with your brothers?”

Sammy traces the grout between the kitchen tiles with his big toe, while his shoulders and trunk twist back and forth — a study in perpetual motion. “Nah…I not leave you by youself,” he avers. “I got to take care of you.”

Focused only on making it to the end of at least one task today, I soldier on, “But Sammy, Mommy likes being alone. It doesn’t scare me at all.”

All motion stops as he looks up at me, eyes brimming with concern. “No Mommy,” he explains. “When you by yourself, then you be lost. And that’s not good. I’ll stay here with you and keep you safe.”

The last word is delivered with a confident nod of his little, dark head. And I find myself nodding back, forgetting completely why I’d ever objected in the first place.

I finish cooking my dinner stepping over and around the my tiny guardian angel. He helps wipe the table and make sure his brothers come when they’re called. Soon he’s regaling us all with stories that begin “When I was a baby…” and seldom end without an encounter with a dinosaur or a pirate ship. The day passes into night and suddenly I’m alone.

As I sit here in the quiet that descends after bedtime is finally final, I realize I did feel quite a bit safer and maybe just a bit less lost with that little body nearby. And I find myself wishing I could bottle up even the smallest hint of Sam to share with the world. I have to think it would be a better place for it.

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“Why’s that, baby?” I asked, thinking it might have something to do with the gift exchange at my mom’s house the night before.

“Because I love you,” he said simply. Then he gave me a quick hug and a Tommy-Boy-Thousand-Watt-Smile before bounding off to play with his brothers.

And THAT is what Christmas is all about.

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It’s not hard to figure out why I’m feeling so maudlin. This morning Jack had some minor surgery — nothing serious — just adenoid removal and ear tube placement to allow his eustachian tubes to clear and help get his hearing back to normal. He sat on the gurney, swathed from head to toe in warm blankets, coloring a picture of a dinosaur, and laughing at the effects of the happy juice they give prior to surgery. His dad grew an extra head, and I wound up with a double nose and teeth like a rabbit. We laughed along with him and did everything we could to keep him at ease up until the very moment they wheeled him through the doors where we couldn’t follow. Then I realized I probably needed medication as much as he did.

The wait wasn’t long, and everything went well. Soon he was back with us sleeping off a draught of pain medication. As I watched him resting there, so small beneath his mountain of warming blankets, I felt a rush of love so strong it hurt. Tears pricked my eyes as I offered silent thanks that none of the rare complications of surgery had found their way to our door.

And for the next half hour, I studied his face…memorizing details in this quiet moment, since so much of our life seems such a blur of activity. I was inordinately pleased to find the patches of light blond hair just above his temples were still evident. Why that mattered, I couldn’t say. Perhaps I just needed to find something that hadn’t changed drastically in these last five years.

I heaved a shaky sigh and confessed my weak and wobbly state to my husband, who promptly admitted feeling the same way. Together we reminisced about the miracle baby we remembered and the precious little boy that baby had become. And then, our sleeping beauty awakened, anxious to go home and particularly adamant that Fudgecicles be purchased as soon as possible.

He’s resting again, his dad and I taking turns snuggling him close and making sure he’s comfortable. As I study his profile and try to count the faint freckles that dust his nose, I wonder at the visual difficulties you develop with motherhood. Like a double exposure, the baby is overlaid with the boy. I think I understand why it’s natural for children to pull away from their parents as they mature. How difficult it must be to relate as an adult to someone who still sees you in a diaper, grinning toothlessly at your beloved stuffed hippo.

But for today, Popo and I still reign supreme. And for at least a little while longer, I still have my baby.

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Fortunately, I do believe that what we do today is significant not only in the here and now, but also in the distant future. And so it really is important that I do the right thing. It matters whether or not I discover which button to push with each child. How to motivate this one to a greater generosity of spirit, this one to better decision making, and instill in them all the social skills and graces necessary for them to one day navigate unassisted from the point of waking to the blessed relief of sleep.

It’s daunting, to put it mildly. Especially when I really, truly have no idea what I’m doing.

With three out of four of my children, I can indulge in a bit of back-patting. Smiling my modest Mona Lisa smile in the face of praise from teachers, caregivers and friends. “Well, we do try,” I say, casting my eyes down. Then meekly adding, “But really so much is simply how he came into this world.” Cue the self-deprecating grin, aaaaaand…scene. Honestly, I’m very good at modesty when I think about it hard enough.

But with the fourth, I’m at a loss. The struggle is constant with the rewards fleeting — often erased mere moments after they’ve been achieved by yet another glaring failure. It’s all a phase, we tell ourselves. He’ll grow out of it, and then we’ll find ourselves laughing over all this. We experiment with a few awkward titters. A brittle giggle cracks and breaks into an embarrassed cough.

And still we soldier on. Because leading a child from boyhood to manhood is a privilege, a sacred honor, and (most of the time) a joy. Nonetheless, I think I may begin collecting door stops, cinder blocks and cross-ties. Because once we do get these boulders to the top of that hill, I’ll be damned if they get a chance to roll back down again.

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