Janelle Evans

There are wonderful things that come with being a mother—unconditional love, and the opportunity to play like a child again are just a few. Yeah, it’s pretty great! Unfortunately, motherhood isn’t always full of lollypops and gumdrops, especially when something goes wrong. BAM! As the mom, it’s automatically my fault.

Perfect example, my oldest son’s cell phone went through the washing machine this week, making for a very dead phone.

“Mom! You broke my phone,” are the first words out of his mouth.

“I broke your phone?” I said. “Who left the phone in their pants?”

“You could have checked my pants.”

I guess I could have, I’m only doing four full loads of laundry every other day, besides the daily cleaning and upkeep I do around the house. I have nothing but time on my hands, right? I may be taking the blame on this one, but he still has to pay to replace the phone. And hopefully, from now on, he’ll be smart enough to check his own pants before tossing them in the hamper.

My oldest son has re-upped for junior high football. After last year’s dismal season I had some huge reservations. Last year, the coaches hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. He wasn’t the only one. Of the sixty kids that came out for seventh-grade football, about fourteen played. Yep, ironman all the way. And guess what? We got our butts kicked, and kicked, and kicked. Those fourteen might have been the biggest on the team, but even they didn’t have the stamina to play both ways the entire game. Stupid men. There is so much more to football than size.

Miraculously, the school cleaned house, and picked new coaches for this season. I still wasn’t hopeful this would change anything for my son until we happened to come across the head coach at a park here in town a week ago. He not only noticed my son, but called out his name.

Hallelujah! Be still my heart! The coach knows his name.

He even shook my son’s hand, and joked with him about the conditioning the team’s been going through like he was part of the team. Maybe, just maybe, this year my son will get the chance to show what he can do.

There are moments in our lives that no amount of explaining will bring understanding. Sometimes it must be experienced to be understood.

Saddened by the loss of my husband’s grandfather, we attended the funeral this past week. He had lived on my in-law’s farm, so my children knew him well and loved him as much as I did.

Before the funeral I had explained to my youngest that Great Grandpa had died. My older children were sad from the news, but my youngest shrugged his shoulders in an “okeydokey” kind of way and ran off to play.

At the viewing my youngest kept asking if he could open Grandpa’s eyes. He had always been quite the teaser, so my son thought maybe he was trying to play a joke on him.

Mortified, I wanted to strangle him, but my father-in-law reached him first.

I don’t know what he told my son but the change in his face was heartbreaking. Nothing my husband or I did could comfort his uncontrollable sobs for the rest of the evening. I had tried to prepare him, but the finality of death was something his mind couldn’t grasp until he saw his beloved grandpa in his casket. A bittersweet day for us all.

Oh, sweet love, our kitten arrived! If you’ve been reading my blog, you knew this was coming.  If not, this post will explain why. How to overrule mommy and get a pet.

My oldest son named him Explorer, I know, it’s different, and a mouthful for a name. I call him Mr. X instead.

He’s turned me into the overprotective cat lady. I don’t know how it happened. I’ve never been much of an animal person, but this little ginger monster has me eating out of his paws. It must be the big green eyes that greet me every morning from the other side of the sliding-glass door. It doesn’t matter how early I pull the curtain back he’s there with a meow and a soulful stare. I’m so glad my husband’s grandmother forced us to take one of the farm kittens home. My children are very happy too, constantly mauling Mr. X as often as possible throughout the day. Poor kitty, nothing like being overly loved.

Mr. X

While watching the Fourth of July fireworks, my husband told our children about a childhood memory. The day after the Fourth, he used to search the streets for unused fireworks, forgotten or misplaced in the dark. My husband and I have told our children hundreds of stories about our childhood. I doubt they could recount a one of them, but the day after the Fourth, my children disappeared up the mountain where we had gone the night before to watch fireworks. They were determined to find unused fireworks for themselves.

I thought they were crazy. I was wrong. They found tons of bottle rocks, and even several mortars—those are the kind that launch into the sky and explode in all different colors. So we had ourselves a free fireworks show the day after the Fourth. Though I wish my kids would listen to us more often, it was a good time for all of us, especially my oldest, he got to light his first fireworks. After all, he found them—they were his to set off.

My daughter is not the cleanest of kids—more like a hoarder who can’t bear to part with the tiniest scraps of paper. I torture her with a weekly cleansing of her dumping grounds—I mean bedroom—where I toss and reteach her the importance of keeping her space orderly.

“Everything has a place, put it in its space,” I’ve said more times than I care to count.

After more than a decade, I think I’m starting to get through to her…sort of. More than once this week her dirty clothes lay in front of my bathroom door. The hamper is inside the bathroom, so I guess this is progress. The dirty clothes are no longer a growing pile in the corner of her room.

Maybe after another decade I’ll be able to convince her to walk the five extra steps and actually put her clothes in the hamper.