Lori C linch
Are We There Yet?
Some say the arrival of their children after school can be overwhelming. The euphoria, the excitement, the sheer volume, why, it’s enough to make some mothers jump right out of their ankle socks. It’s like standing in a tub of water and having someone drop in an electrical appliance.
It can certainly give one a heck of a jolt.
Just yesterday, despite the fact that I was 3 feet in front of one of the little dears, he repeatedly shouted at the top of his lungs, “I’m home!”
“Did you miss us?” inquired another as he performed 13 vertical leaps in less than 10 seconds. “Did you miss us, huh, huh, huh? How ’bout now?”
Yet I’m actually more overwhelmed by the homework. The late nights, the last-minute projects. In fact I’m still trying to recover from the bad grade I got on my son’s English paper in 1999.
I’ve completed my education and obtained all the wisdom I need to get through the average day. Although I’m no guru, I know most of my states and capitals, can readily explain the difference between a noun and a verb, and can calculate the exact amount of cream it takes to soften my corns.
Still I have to be the tutor for history, the flash-card queen of reading, and the mentor for photosynthesis. Why, I’ve even been known to do a math problem or
two. Just as long as it wasn’t above the third-grade level and the metric system wasn’t involved.
Recently, I was reviewing “Your Endocrine System and You” with the eldest, when my 10-year-old appeared at my elbow.
“Mom,” Huey said as he dropped a 60-pound science book on my lap, “my solar system is due in a couple of days. I’m going to need you to brush up on your knowledge of the upper atmosphere, and how are you with Neptune?”
Like I’m going to pull that little feather of wisdom out of my hat.
“I think Neptune clearly falls into your father’s line of knowledge,” I replied.
“Dad helped me study for my Congress test. He said it’s your turn.”
“Did you tell him that I helped your brother understand the three distinct phases of fungi life cycles and have made vast preparations for Presidents Day?”
“No, but he won’t care because he had to help Vernon do an in-depth study on primitive cultures.”
“Dang it,” I said as I gave in to defeat. “I forgot about what he did with the Neolithic Ages.”
I tried my best to get out of it, and you can look down on me if you want to, but who really wants to spend a night analyzing solar systems and determining which planets have gas.
Not wanting to let my child down and unable to pass the responsibility off on his father, I helped him to obtain information from the Web site The Earth as a Peppercorn. Then I took him to purchase the necessary items. We had just arrived at the store, when my little Charlie called and inquired, “Mom, when are you coming home?”
“Just as soon as we can find a ring for Saturn, why?”
“Because I just remembered, I need 100 signatures for my 100-day party at school tomorrow.”
“Charlie,” I said as I experienced a tightening in my chest, “how long have you known about this?”
“Since last Thursday.”
“Last Thursday? But today is Tuesday.”
“I know, and tomorrow’s Wednesday, and that’s why I need it today.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because you didn’t ask.”
“Charlie, how would I know to ask?”
“Because moms are supposed to ask.”
Allow me to add that to the list of my shortcomings — as if I weren’t still suffering inadequacies from the project we turned in on cell respiration.
After purchasing paint, wire and a plethora of Styrofoam balls, I headed home to get the dang signature book, so that I could travel abroad and ask for autographs like a desperate employee of the paparazzi.
I was about to head out the door when a child appeared at my side.
“Mom,” he asked, “how are your decimals?”
Finally, someone was concerned about my well-being. “Well, honey,” I replied, as I touched his sweet little concerned face, “it’s so nice that you asked. My feet are killing me, and I could really go for a little R and R right now.”
“Whatever,” he said as he rolled his eyes. “Have a seat right here, and I’ll go and get my math book.”
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is [email protected].