Mom: The Fortune Teller

I am not prescient in any way.  I have no idea what’s going to happen next. Moments are just mysteries waiting to unfold.   But sometimes, when the kids are together, I just know what’s coming.

Take, for example, what happened five minutes ago.  They took a plastic light saber apart and are using the pieces like swords.  Someone is going to inevitably get hurt.  Bonk!  There it is.  The little one is crying.  Why didn’t I stop it?  Because these two have been in this situation countless times before and they just don’t learn.  She’s not seriously hurt – just playing it up for attention.  Since I go through this many times a day, however, I’m not biting.  I don’t even look up. 

Now they’re both trying to occupy the same Pilates ball.  For all the giggling, and there is a LOT of that going on, it’s going to end in crying.  The tween keeps asking the kindergartener if she’s ok.  She is right now.  She’s laughing and giving him a run for his money, jumping on him with the enthusiasm of a professional wrestler.  He’s being gentle, for now, but since his body is in flux with the beginning of puberty, he has no idea how truly strong he is.  Whack!  She just nailed him with a foot in the face.  If she ever learns karate, her brother is in grave trouble. 

The infinitely patient family cat has the sense to stay away from this ball of trouble.  She’s been kidnapped before in the middle of one of these wrestling sessions and learned the hard way to avoid any room these two are in together.  The last time she made a wrong turn into the den, she wound up wearing a sombrero and a sour expression. 

My husband, as well, is hiding in the computer room (he calls it “working” – I know better).  He’s been drawn into these tornados as well and that’s when the kids really go crazy.  Once they take off his spectacles, he knows his chances of survival are limited.  My daughter will bend him like a pretzel and the boy will make the Whomping Tree from Harry Potter look like a wimp.  They once gave the poor man a wedgie that virtually required medical assistance. 

I once read that wresting is how boys reconnect, physically, with their fathers since girls tend to get cuddled more.  Tussling is supposedly good for the male child’s brain.  If so, then my son has an ultra-healthy brain to match his father’s bad back.

So why don’t they attack me?  Because I am the manager of this mayhem.  Wrestling is one way these siblings reinforce the bond between them.  They’re connecting, physically and emotionally, through play.   She’s not into sports (his domain); he’s not into crafts (her area of expertise).  He outweighs her by at least 50 pounds; she matches that with more energy than that released by a split atom. 

Now the play session has morphed into something amicable.  I’ve blown up a balloon and they’re playing volleyball.  Until someone breaks their spontaneous “rules,” all is well.  They’re being physical, cackling, having fun as only siblings can.  Someday they’ll recall these times and smile.  They’re sharing their childhoods, creating memories they’ll tell their kids about.

I think I’ll head off the inevitable collision and join in the game.  They’re both eyeing me with the look that says, “we know what’s coming, too, Mom.  You just can’t resist the fun.”  No I can’t.  Excuse me.  This mom needs to bond with her children.