Minkgirl Muses

“Once upon a time, a boy named Gman ate oatmeal. The end.”

“Once upon a time, a boy named Gman said ‘No!’ The end.”

“Once upon a time, a boy named Gman got tickled. The end.”

We were all finding this hysterical. Especially Gman, who was giggling so hard he could barely breathe – a sound as pure as water bubbling in a mountain stream at dawn.

This giggle-fest was the climax of a long and funny morning, one which began inauspiciously at 6:30am, when Gman dragged me from my bed with the command “Let’s play!” During the winter months, he took his cue from the sun and stayed in bed until 7:30 or even the occasional blissful 8:00. But now, as the days grow longer, Gman seems to wake a few minutes earlier each day, and I usually find myself grumblingly roused before the sun is fully up.

I’m not very friendly when I’m awakened too early. I find it hard to muster enthusiasm, energy, and patience when I’m bone tired. But somehow today, despite my lethargy and the early hour, Gman and I fell down a rabbit-hole into a land of story-telling and make-believe that made our morning time magical and fun.

It started with wooden spoons. I was standing at the stove blearily stirring oatmeal, when Gabriel demanded to have my wooden spoon.

Gman: “And I need some eyes.”

Me: “Some what?”

Gman: “Eyes. For the spoon.”

Me: “Do you want to decorate it?”

Gman: “And some crayons. For the mouth.”

Me: “But honey, if you decorate it, then I can’t use it to stir the oatmeal.”

Gman: “And feathers.”

Me: “Honey, I can’t give you this spoon right now, I’m using it.”

Gman: “Where’s the glue?”

Me: “How about if we go buy some spoons for you to decorate after school.”

Gman: “No! I want to do it now.”

Me: “Well, sweetheart, I don’t have any other spoons that I’m not using, so why don’t we…”

Gman: “NOW!”

“Oh, here we go!” I thought. It’s going to be one of those mornings, where every little thing becomes a pain in the ass. But as our spoon conversation teetered perilously close to the brink of disaster, suddenly I remembered that Gman has his own little wooden spoon – part of a toddler cooking set. I dug it out and he immediately set to work decorating it. We got star stickers for the eyes, drew on a nose and mouth with crayons and glued feathers to the top for hair. Then I wrapped two pipe-cleaners around the stem for arms and legs. Gman was ecstatic. He spent a few minutes making his spoon (called “Kara”) dance around the table, and then he enthused “I want to make another!”

Oh shit. I started gearing up for a redirection campaign, but he was already rummaging in the utensil drawer. After a moment, he produced another small wooden spoon.

Me: “Oh! I forgot we had another one of those.”

Gman: “This one can be the Mama spoon!”

So, we decorated a second spoon (in between bites of oatmeal), who we named “Mama Spumoni Spoon,” and then we told a story about how she and her assistant “Kara” became tailors for the world’s tallest giraffe and fashioned him a special pair of yellow pants to wear to Bear’s birthday party. It was great.

And I found, suddenly, that I was using the best parts of myself (funny voices, knowledge of dramatic structure) to parent him through the morning tasks of eating, dressing and washing, instead of the worst parts (mean voices, knowledge of what makes a three-year old apoplectic.) It was all easy and effortless and good good fun. I don’t think we’ve ever enjoyed tooth-brushing or sock selection so much.

How did this happen? And why can’t it happen everyday? Why is it that some days all I can manage is to speak and act like a drone, while other days I actually relish pinning Gman under my booted heel as I force him to bend to my maternal will?

Laughter is like a miracle drug. It un-cramps the heart, de-fogs the brain, and dissolves conflict on contact. It delivers more sensorial satisfaction than any other substance on the market. And it’s free.

Now I am not a naturally funny person. In fact, some people might even call me a serious person. But I think it’s time to lighten up. I think I should start watching Comedy Central and reading comic books. I should learn some jokes. Because without a hefty dose of laughter in the mix, parenting is one long sorry slog through alligator-infested swampland. It’s Sartre’s No Exit on repeat play. It’s an endless turn at the rigged carnival basketball toss, where you miss again and again and again.

So my mantra for today is “Keep laughing!”

It’s much better than crying, arguing, begging, whining, ignoring, yelling, cajoling, banishing, berating, threatening, bartering, or beating!

Be well.

Labels: Family Life, Mamahood

# posted by Christine Young @ 2:15 AM