The Power of Stories
Every time I start to feel the faintest whisper of confidence in my mothering, I’m almost immediately reminded that I have absolutely no clue and that I need to sit the hell down and just admit defeat.
I had both of sons in pajamas and quietly laying down listening to my theatrical reading of Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by 8:30 pm.
Badger was playing legos on the floor nearby, and Arlo was laying across the bed, facedown. I’m consciously trying to ease them into a more reasonable school schedule, and I’m thrilled that they are both invested in the same book, so the night was feeling pretty lovely.
Picking up where we had left off the night before, I got through one chapter, executing a pretty solid Mrs. Frisby voice (not too mousy), along with a mediocre but passable Jeremy the crow voice (not too squawky), and was ready to jump into a second chapter when I noticed that Arlo had fallen asleep. The Badger, ever eager to add the spicy element of surprise or unexpected violence to any situation, promptly licked his finger and plunged it deep into his older brother’s ear, not only obviously waking him up with a terrible shock, but scratching his ear canal with his sharp Badger fingernail.
Appropriately, Arlo woke up shocked and angry, and shouted at his little brother.
As quickly as it started, the scene devolved into tears and screaming while I watched in dumb silence, half wondering if they just needed to work it out themselves, but mostly not even knowing what the heck to do.
Although this situation didn’t last long, patient sweet Arlo was finally pushed too far, fueled by the many other times that he’d been rudely pestered or harassed by the relentless Badger.
Arlo burst out that his little brother was an ‘asshole’.
The Badger clearly understood the gravity of accusation, even though (I hope to God) I don’t think he’d ever heard that word before, given that we don’t swear (much) in front of children. At the very least I hoped he didn’t know what it meant. I quickly ratcheted down my hopes, and dared to dream that he wouldn’t repeat it. I mentally bargained, at least not at school?!
The Badger, bruised by the name calling, was visibly affronted, and before I could even begin to calmly intercept, his hurt and rage erupted in a shrieking, scary voice:
‘YOU ARE A SHITCAT!!!’
Arlo’s eyes popped open with shock, and immediately met mine, which were equally shock-popped.
Where did he even learn such a gross phrase?! Did he make it up?! We wondered with our eyeballs.
Like two kids in an algebra class that know full well that there will be terrible consequences for giggling, our laughgates were weak against the flood that gushed forth-- we burst into hissing laughter, hands covering our mouths, trying desperately to be serious.
I saw Arlo’s pink tearstained cheeks now rosier with amusement, and remembered the Sally Fields line from the movie Steel Magnolias,
“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion”,
yet the last thing I wanted was for the misbehaving Badger to think he was in on the joke.
Arlo and I exited the room, leaving the bewildered Badger on the floor, wondering if he was in trouble or… what?
I held Arlo in a long hug in his bedroom, my mind flooding with thoughts;
A serious mother wouldn’t have laughed. A better mother would have intercepted earlier, and avoided all that screaming and crying. A good mother would have calmly made the event into a teaching moment. A respectable mother’s children wouldn’t know such foul words. A mature mother wouldn’t be henceforth privately referring to her 5 year old child as “shitcat’ in her mind, and with tremendous amusement. A decent mother wouldn’t be standing here hugging her kid while wondering if it’s too late for her to finally start that punkband, and definitely name it SHITCAT.
(Admit it, you would totally buy that shirt).
I gave Arlo another hug goodnight, and went back to try and effectively deal with the crumpled little grump on the rug. I may not be serious, respectable, or even mature, but I am fiercely in love with all three of my kids, no matter what.
The thing is, I may not really know what I’m doing, but l know a little about the power of a good story.
I sat down next the Badger on his shaggy green rug, and put a hand on his back.
“I’m like Mrs. Frisby, the mommy mouse. I will do anything to protect my babies, and Arlo is my baby. No one may hurt my babies. Our family is a crew, and we take care of each other. Lulu and Arlo are kind to each other, and they build each other up. Daddy and I are best friends, and we look out for each other. Mrs. Frisby and her children look out for one another, and never hurt each other. I need to rely on you to be a helpful and loving part of our mousy family crew, got it?”
My little shitcat squeaked like a mouse to show his agreement, and snuggled in to rest up for a brand new day.
This not so decent mother went to go write songs for her brand new punk band…
