Laughable Moments

The Tooth Fairy Chronicles
May 3, 2018 In Cherishing Childhood Series Laughable Moments No Comment

For May 2018, we are hosting a series on Cherishing Childhood. Check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed April series on Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture, and don’t miss the photo challenge we’re doing on Instagram for the first two weeks of May!

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My oldest daughter lost her first tooth—bottom front—a little over a week past her sixth birthday. We’d been waiting for that tiny, wiggly thing to fall out for far too long. I went jelly-legged every time she showed me how she could push it all the way forward and back with her tongue. (What is it about loose teeth that makes me feel like I need to put my head between my knees?)

Our excitement and anticipation over the Tooth Fairy’s first visit was palpable.

Did I mention that this child of mine is the queen of bric-a-brac, a collector of Important Items? Recently evicted baby teeth, we were about to learn, were very important.

I know, I know—a collection of old teeth is gross. (I know this firsthand, because I found my own last year, secured in a velvet pouch, tucked into a box of childhood memories.)

But she wrote a note! What was I supposed to do?

Dear Tooth Fairy can you leave my tooth?

Evelyn

It was the beginning of a lot of one-way correspondence that my determined daughter found highly unsatisfactory. I could handle playing along with this Tooth Fairy business, but only to a point. I was not, I repeat not, going to be writing any notes on the Tooth Fairy’s behalf. There would be no glitter trail left as bonus evidence.

The following February, another tooth down:

To: Tooth Fairy

Leave my tooth plese.

Can you plese tell me your name I will ceep it seecret.

Love: Evelyn

And then in April, improved spelling and not about to give up on the quest for a reply and the Tooth Fairy’s true identity:

Dear Tooth Fairy

Can you please leave my tooth?

Love,

Evelyn

P.S. What do you do with teeth?

P.P.S. Please leave item in baggie.

P.P.P.S. What is your name?

Please write back.

In May, on a field trip with her first-grade class, a top tooth fell out right into her open palm during a playground slide collision. When she arrived back at school, the nurse gave her a special necklace to keep it safe. That night’s note read:

Dear Tooth Fairy, can you please leave my tooth?

What other fairies are there?

Oh I want to tell you my tooth is in the necklace, MOM.

That one felt like a trap. Still, the Tooth Fairy remained unresponsive.  

For every incisor and canine lost over the following year, another note containing some version of the message:

Leave the tooth, please. And tell me who you are!

***

One November morning, I woke to an indignant tiny person at my bedside. “Mom!” Through the crust on my eyelids, I made out the clock—6am!—and a riot of blonde hair. “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!”

I shot upright, suddenly very much awake. “Huh. That’s so weird!”  

Except it wasn’t that weird, because the Tooth Fairy fell asleep on the couch last night watching Friends. The Tooth Fairy also didn’t have any cash in her purse.

“I’m sure there’s a good explanation for this!” I said confidently, grabbing my phone from the nightstand and backing into the bathroom, where I hid, as moms do while trying to figure out what exactly a good explanation would be.

I hopped on Facebook and threw out an SOS: “Tooth Fairy was a no-show. Anyone else’s service been spotty?”

And wouldn’t you know? The Tooth Fairy is unreliable across the board. I’m talking one-star reviews. “Would not recommend to a friend.”

Here are just a few of the excuses other gummy-smiled kids have received upon waking to discover there’s still an old tooth under their pillow and no cash to be found:

• The Tooth Fairy is clumsy and tends to drop money, often under the bed where only Mom is able to spot it. This doesn’t explain the tooth still being there; nice try though.

• The Tooth Fairy offers no guarantees. See asterisk next to “Same-Day Delivery.” A lesson in paying attention to the fine print.

• There must have been a hockey game last night—obviously, she was overbooked. Brilliant.

• The Tooth Fairy takes Fridays off. Or Tuesdays, or Saturdays…

• Her wings got wet in the rain, and she couldn’t fly until they dried. This lady knows her fairy facts.

• Your room was too messy for the Tooth Fairy to find her way to your tooth. Once the room is clean, she’ll be back. Well, that’s just mean.

Moms are evil geniuses. I applaud you all.

In the case of our missing Tooth Fairy, it turned out she’d just overslept. A couple of quarters showed up later that morning.

They were tucked beneath a tiny note of apology, written in sparkly pink ink.

Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who traded in her red pen for a sparkly pink one. She tells imperfect stories about faith and family at Write the Rough Draft. Wife of a woodworker and mom of two daughters, her hobbies include photography, reading too many books at a time, and forgetting to turn on the dryer. Rebekah is co-founder of The Drafting Desk, a monthly email for those longing for freedom over perfection, and she shares slices of life on Instagram at @writetheroughdraft.

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story!

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Poop Mountain
March 13, 2018 In Laughable Moments Resilience Series No Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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My nerves were shot. It could be because my toddler’s new favorite place to play was on top of the dining room table, or because my twins perfected the art of overshooting the toilet. Whatever the reason, I knew that to not lose my mind; I needed to get the whole crew outside, pronto. The sun was shining in December, which put a smile on my face even though I cleaned pee off of the bathroom wall four times that week. Where I live in Seattle, the sunshine doesn’t always last long, so time was of the essence. I crammed my toddler into a full body rain suit, (because I have trust issues), and lovingly reminded my preschoolers to put on their rainboots for the 80 millionth time, perhaps with a little too much urgency (read: impatience).

Our Costco folding wagon, the designer handbag of mothers with multiple children, was loaded down with approximately eighty pounds of happy kids. I grabbed the handle and lumbered down the busy street to the nature trails at the end of the block. Momentum and a slight downward grade made the load a little easier. Every step a little closer to peace and further from the chaos of my house.

At the trailhead, the children jumped out of the wagon and eagerly scampered down the gravel trail amid trees, ferns, and singing birds. The whole scene was entirely saccharine and idyllic, and I breathed relief that I had found one peaceful moment. My boys announced that they wanted to hike a few hundred yards further to climb Gravel Mountain, a term they coined at two for a sad rock pile that measured maybe two feet high. Cheap entertainment. They marched down the trail like soldiers, their little sister and I left to bring up the rear. Little Sis was just excited to walk on her own two feet–without my help–just like her big brothers.

Volunteers had recently worked to improve the trail network, as evidenced by sections of fresh gravel and drainage rock in the places that were prone to flood in heavy rains. On our way to Gravel Mountain, another large pile of fist-sized drainage rock blocked the trail. Wide-eyed, as if they just spied the Paw Patrol display at Toys R Us for the first time, the boys raced ahead to scramble over the new obstacle.

Wouldn’t this be a great place to end the story with a happy-ever-after picture of all things rosy and bright? Here with my daughter, on her own two feet, proud in her accomplishments, my two boys triumphant at the top their mountain, and me beaming in adoration that my kids are so grown up and more capable now than they were a few short years ago. But that is not what happened. Something waited at the top of that rock pile that would wreck all of us, and shatter into a million hysterical pieces, the chance for that delightful moment to exist.

The best thing to crap on your plans for happiness, fulfillment, and peace is just that, a massive pile of crap.

As they climbed over the mound of rocks I heard a scream; one of the boys had tripped. I rushed to make sure he wasn’t more seriously injured and discovered that, not only was his knee covered in dog poop, it was all over his skin because of a hole in his jeans. For good measure, the poop was also curiously in the armpit of his jacket, which smeared all over my hand as I hauled him up to his feet.

I am usually so prepared when I leave the house with my kids. I carry everything I could ever need in my diaper bag down to a miniature tape measure because you never know when you might need to know the precise length of something less than three feet. But, when you haul eighty pounds of anything farther than three feet, the need to carry extra baggage is ridiculous. I had nothing, not even a snot-soaked tissue in my pocket to help clean up the mess. I improvised and employed a few decomposing leaves from the mat of vegetation beside the trail. They promptly disintegrated as I mushed the poop about on my son’s leg.

I have often wondered if crying is as contagious as yawning because all three of my children erupted into tears in quick succession, and only one of them had a real reason. My first son freaked out because…poop. My other son cried because the hike was cut short and Little Sister sobbed because I picked her up and didn’t allow her to walk by herself, her independence crushed and likely scarred for life. In a futile attempt to control the situation, I yelled in my Sargent Mom voice for them all to calm down.

A little-known fact about poop: If it touches your extremities, it has a paralyzing effect. Poop had stolen my son’s ability to walk, so I loaded my frantic boy into the wagon. We needed a police escort, but there was only me to haul our troop out of nature and back to running water and wet wipes. My son envisioned a solo ride but I needed to move faster than a toddler, and I couldn’t carry her and pull the wagon at the same time. He didn’t want her to sit with him, and it became clear she didn’t want to ride anyway, given the way her rigid body refused to bend. As I pushed her down into the wagon, my son pushed her back up in protest. Somehow I loaded all three of them up and headed for home. When the trail was too steep for me to pull all that weight, I asked pleaded for my poop-free son to get out and help push the wagon uphill. He cheerfully hopped out, probably to get away from his brother who reeked, and to escape the thrashing, colossal fit thrown by his sister.

Our house never looked so welcoming than when we nearly skidded to a stop at the door. I wasted no time and right there on the front porch in the middle of December, stripped off everyone’s clothes and considered whether or not I should burn them just in case. I put my daughter down for a nap, the boys in the shower, and sat on the couch to breathe another sigh of relief, glad to be back in the chaos I wanted to escape earlier in the day.

In life, you will be surprised by crap, and it will screw up your plans, and when it does, you just have to bear the stench until you can wash it off…or burn it.

Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby girl).  She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom.  She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out.  She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram.

>>  Episode 35 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Becoming a Resilient Mom is now available!  <<

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Why Little Boys Love Peeing Outside
May 17, 2017 In Childhood Laughable Moments 9 Comments

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them.

***This week we are doing a fun giveaway in celebration of the Kindred Mom Podcast release (quick links to subscribe to the podcast are on the sidebar, and we have a podcast page in the navigation with show notes for each episode). From May 17-May 24, you can enter to win one of two Hospitality Bundles full of goodies that might help you head up a Summer Connection Group in your local area. There are some beautiful things from Magnolia Market included. Not to be missed! Enter on Instagram (beginning May 17) for the Backyard Coffee Hour Bundle or subscribe to our email newsletter to win the Evening Moms Gathering Bundle. Winners for both giveaways will be chosen on May 24th.***

We were three mothers standing in the cul-de-sac chatting about trivial things. Ripe strawberries, dogs, lost socks, dinner. The 5 children (1 girl and 4 boys), were playing kid stuff that involved running, stopping, yelling, bossing, and more running. We ladies were in the middle of a good laugh when my neighbor to the south glances at my front yard. Faster than a gate can swing shut in a cough of wind, her mouth fell open and her eyes widened to maximum orbit. She tried to say something, but only a few scratchy rounded vowel tones emerged from her tonsils. Her hands, though, were making small circles in the empty air as if they were grasping for something unseen.

My neighbor to the north and I stopped talking and turned around. We wanted to see what awesome or shocking thing had this mother of an adorable 6-year-old girl so speechless and so stupefied. Having had brothers and currently raising a boy or two, we just burst out in laughter at the sight.

“There he goes again,” my north neighbor stuttered between giggles.

I tapped her arm twice, struggling to birth some words between laughter. “Just watering.”

My southern neighbor finally closed her mouth enough to huff and puff a few times. “Did you see that?” she asked, he voice rising an octave between her first and fourth word.

We giggled some more.

“Doesn’t he know better?” Miss South asked, shock evident in her voice.

I nudged my northern neighbor. “At least it was your kid this time.”

Miss North wiped her eyes. “Do we owe you any damages for the yard?”

“Only if the grass turns yellow,” I laughed.

“D-did you teach him t-that? I mean d-does he, he, he do t-that everywhere? D-doesn’t he know better?” Miss South clearly had her vocal cords back, although she was stuttering from the shocking display.

“We occasionally allow him in the house,” Miss North giggled.

“You allow that, that kind of behavior? I mean . . . don’t you care?”

“He’s a boy,” Miss North and I said in unison.

“That can’t be normal? Miss South protested.

“Perfectly normal,” I said. ‘Actually quite normal.”

Miss South shook her head. It was obvious that she was glad for her one well-behaved girl who didn’t flash the neighbors and compromise her modesty when her bladder was full. Unlike Miss North’s son, who paused in the middle of running to pull down his pants and flash a cute little white heinny while watering the ground, only to start running again before the pants were firmly returned to his middle. He was clever too, because he wasn’t tagged during the whole 12-second episode.

One way boys and girls are different is that the grass on the other side of the yard always needs watering and young boys feel it is their responsibility to personally douse it, and douse it good. Even if there is a just clean and sanitized bathroom only 50 feet away.

My little blond boy during the summer tells me he is going next door. Thirty feet past the front door he pauses long enough to pee, then continues to the neighbors. “Go in the back fenced yard,” I tell him. He nods and pees out front again. His friends come over and I see them peeing in the front yard.

I’m not sure anyone teaches little boys to pee outside under the canopy of the blue endless sky, but once they have done it, they will forever be drawn to the magical charm of peeing outdoors. And not just little boys.

One grown man in my house looks for opportunities to take advantage of providing water to nature. He’ll step into the back yard, and under the cover of blackness, relieve his bladder. Then he’ll stroll in and comment on the briskness of night air or the chirping of crickets.

As a teenager I was quite embarrassed that my much younger brother often peed off the front porch.

“Doesn’t he know someone will see him?” I asked my mother, “And then what will they think of us?”
Mom took it all in stride and didn’t seem concerned. She must have already learned that boys love peeing outdoors.

I am taking her attitude these days. It may be a bit shocking to the neighbors, but it has been happening for centuries.

My son says he pees outside because it is easier and convenient. No lid to lift, toilet to flush, or seat to piddle on and get chastised for. Clearly it is also just plain fun.

I figure I can be remembered by my son as the mom who nagged him about peeing in the front, side, and back yard, or I can be remembered as the mom who remembered what being a child was like, and who doesn’t sweat the small things; a mom who encouraged him to laugh, play, finds joy in life, and didn’t criticize imperfection in her children. A mom who loved him unconditionally, even if he chooses to pee outside.

I also figure his wife may enjoy his descriptions of the stars on dark night.

 Theresa Boedeker unwraps life with words to encourage, entertain, and bring forth laughter. She blogs to remember what’s important, and creates humorous story podcasts about Life as it Comes.

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