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“Are you having a birthday party?” the conductor asked my husband as we exited the historic Ft. Collins trolley.
“No. It’s just us.”
We were having a family outing to the north-flung areas of Colorado, winding our way around country roads until we arrived in Ft. Collins. On weekends, history and transportation enthusiasts can ride the city’s adorable trolley. Because it was a family outing, we decided we would all ride. Not everyone enjoyed it, especially the older kids who acted as if their rides were being broadcast live on the smartboards of the nation’s high schools. The rest of us enjoyed the scent of lilacs on the breeze, the charming original woodwork and wicker benches, tree-lined streets with houses sporting wrap-around porches, and learning the history of railroad nationalization. Or maybe that was just me.
Our family took up a nice slice of the trolley, even though the three little guys sat on laps. Everyone was well-behaved, minding the conductor’s advice to keep arms inside because the trolley line passed trees that were so close, they’d take your arm off! Later, I wondered if this was actually true. It seemed like the kind of thing that would make news if it happened: Woman Loses Arm to Tree in Freak Low-Speed Trolley Catastrophe!
The ride seemed relatively inconspicuous, for us. I’m always relieved when we enter and exit a place without fanfare, being counted, being questioned, being stared at—and we almost made it until asked if we were a birthday party. Maybe we should have just said yes, it’s a party. No birthday, though.
When you have this many people together, it’s baffling. Nobody would purposely have a family this big, so it has to be something else. A sports team? Daycare? If the questioner concludes we are indeed a family and not some bizarre multi-aged roller hockey squad, we are asked if we’re done, if we are rich, or if we are Catholic or Mormon. Does anyone go up to a random mom and dad with two kids at a restaurant and ask what religion they are or if they are having more? Never. Ever.
But I’ve made peace with the questions, however silly or rude. Having a large family mostly rocks. Having a large family means we do get to celebrate a lot. You’ll never find me complaining about all the mornings I get to wake up and remember it’s a red letter day. It means when you see us, you might conclude it’s a party and that’s not far from the truth.
One of the kids stepped out of the van today, froze, and said, “Shhhhhh.”
I listened. Sprinklers?
The neighbor’s sprinklers were on and I knew exactly what made the kid stop and reel in the sound. “That sounds like summer!”
But it’s not quite here yet. There are still a few more days of school to slog through, although academics have been thrown over in favor of field days, picnics, and an amusement park trip. We haven’t grilled any foods, pulled on swimsuits, purchased watermelon, filled a single water balloon, stayed up way too late just because we could.
Those things are poised, on the edge of a springboard. The water looks good and clear. The light hits it just right, striking mottled shadows along the bottom. You want to dive in, feeling the hot air slough away in a cold sleek rush.
Slowly, I’m learning to manage expectations about what summer will look like, smell like, and even sound like. I used to get caught up in the idea of perfect summers, convinced it was possible to create a balanced blend of laziness, exploration, exercise, sunshine, starry nights, screen time, work, and travel. I’ve already caught myself trying to devise ways to dice up time into portions.
I have big kids who have their own plans and little kids with no plans, yet I want to find common ground. Impossible.
I also have hard, beautiful reality whispering at me that this could be one of the last summers we will all be together. Aidan is going to be a senior, then she’s off into the I-don’t-know-where. So I’m struggling with the impulse to control the coming days knowing that control will most likely ruin them. I didn’t know all of this would be so difficult and emotional.
Water, arcing up and out, makes a certain sound when it lands on green grass. You won’t hear it in the fall, when leaves pad the landing, or winter, when hoses hibernate, or spring when rains alone do the trick. It’s a now thing and that’s all I have.
In the checkout line at the grocery store, one of my kids—who is old enough to know better—yelled a curse word. This kid did it in response to a sibling, who should have known better, punching the Curser in the back. One of those misbehaviors is mortifying enough. Two made me want to melt into the white linoleum floor until coming to a rest somewhere near the paleozoic layer of earth’s crust. Hello, trilobites. I bet you didn’t embarrass your moms.
On a ranking of curse words, with 1 being “oh my stars!” and 10 being words that would make Chelsea Handler blush, this was a solid 5. It was bad enough to make people pivot toward my child and stare him, then at me. React! React!
This is what I did as a stellar, patient, thoughtful, wise mom of many:
I loudly addressed The Curser, “Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Are YOU kidding me? Are you kidding ME? See that horse over there?” I pointed at the penny horse along the wall on the other side of the checkout lanes.
The child nodded and I continued, “You go stand over there by the horsey because that’s where the babies stand!”
It made no sense then and it makes even less sense now, but that’s what I said. The child walked over and sat in a chair next to the horse. Then I turned to The Puncher and grittily commanded, “Stand next to me! Here! Next to me! Here! I can’t trust you!” as if left unchecked, an unprecedented punching spree would break out.
And then I seethed a seethe that shrank my internal organs by 50%.
The checkout clerk said, “How are you today?” and I snorted. Hadn’t he just witnessed what went down in Lane 13? I am always the chatty customer in checkout lanes, asking how they are and noting the awesome sale on canned biscuits and that’s why I had to get so many, right? But I was silent. I paid. I made eye contact with Curser and Puncher and let them trail me and the cart to the van. Once there, they helped load grocery sacks into the back of the van even though I told them I didn’t need their help.
As they unloaded, they noticed the two bags of goldfish I bought at their request—one for each in their favorite jazzy flavors with explosions of radness. One of them said, sadly, “I don’t even want these anymore” and the other agreed. Their appetites for Xtreme cheesy snacks had been crushed because of what went down minutes earlier. I smiled at their stab at penance, foregoing post-school pre-dinner gullet stuffing because of their misbehavior. I watched Curser put the cart away and we drove home where I got more bad news about another child screwing up, except with more spectacular magnitude that siblings Curser and Puncher.
It was too much. I went upstairs and sobbed. What kind of mother has kids who ____? Me. From the outside, this seems like an overreaction but it was a good, cleansing cry that left clarity.
Had the events of checkout lane 13 occurred at home, I would have simply told them to go their separate ways and knock it off. I wouldn’t have told Curser to go stand over there by the doggie, where the babies stand. I realized I took it so hard because it happened in public, shattering the image I like to portray of a cool, collected, excellent mom. The Public Mom and the Private Mom are can be two different people, and that inconsistency is painful to acknowledge. Usually, my kids really do behave pretty well in public, which is why I lacked the strategy for dealing with a public meltdown by older kids.
The kids apologized and were forgiven. Eventually, they felt better enough to devour their goldfish. I said goodbye to the trilobites, don’t change, but I hope I never see you again.
I will.
 Calm
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