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Mother Load

I pull up to my house and see our pitch backs and goal nets arranged in a way that suggest that my oldest son had concocted some creative and convoluted new game for his brothers to compete in. The front lawn with balls and equipment strewn about, looks so lived in and loved. Granted, on a colder not as bright day, it might instead look like we’re a bunch of pigs, albeit, athletic ones. But right now, blinded by sunshine, the thought of them out there fighting, I mean, playing together gives me the warm fuzzies as I open the trunk to retrieve the groceries.

Through the open screen door, I hear my husband bellow, “Boys! Go help your mother!” For some reason it strikes me funny that he is talking about me. If he would have said, ‘Go help mommy,” I probably wouldn’t have blinked. I’m used to being mommy, but somehow, it feels odd to realize that I am in fact the ‘mother’.

I stand by the trunk gleefully waiting for the mess of them to tumble out – My nearly 13 year-old with his surprisingly strong body and sweet baby face, my 10 year old, full of sass and sparkle and my 7 year old with his mop of curls that mirror my own and a face that everyone wants to squeeze. My boys, I think sentimentally, coming to help their mother.

Any second the screen will fly open. Annnnny second. Maybe they can’t find their shoes? I think but discard that theory immediately. Who am I kidding, to them shoes are an overrated, optional accessory.

I wait another 30 seconds, sigh and gather up the bags. Slinging my pocketbook over my shoulder, I rest the two heaviest in the bend of each arm, carry two more in each hand and lumber toward the house like one of the monsters in an episode of Scooby Doo.

Opening the screen requires acrobatic maneuvering and strength that only two day a week attendees of Parisi sport training classes can master. I am crouched down, the bags that I refuse for some idiotic reason to put down, cutting off circulation in my arms. My thighs give a little shake just to let me know how vulnerable I really am, but I overcome and somehow manage to get my middle finger, white from asphyxiation, to pull open the door.

It is remarkably quiet in a house which should be a flurry of activity in their race to get out to me. “Tell the boys to help,” my husband calls to me from the office. I can’t even answer as I lug the bags to the kitchen. Of course the boys are nowhere to be seen, which means one thing. I listen by the basement stairs. Yup, Minecraft.

Hurmph!

Automatically I start unpacking the groceries, the Norman Rockwell image vanished. At this point, it’s just easier and more relaxing than calling the boys up. Besides, if I really want support I know exactly where to find it.

I remove the tub of Rocky Road from the bag and instead of putting it in the freezer, get a spoon and plop myself down at the table.

Sometimes, you’ve just got to help yourself.

 

Sometimes, you just have to help yourself.

Helping myself some more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About Ice Scream Mama

Mama to 3 boys, wife to Mr. Baseball and daughter of a sad man. I have a double scoop every day.

13 responses »

  1. Love it I actually had ry call Matt from the car yesterday to help with groceries. He was super annoyed gave me attitude I screamed at him made him do it and them sent him to walk the dog. Your idea sounds easier ! He did come back sweet as pie and apologized. Do you need a dog ?

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

    Reply
  2. Haha – the idea of them helping seemed so nice! I helped myself to ice cream last night too. 🙂

    Reply
  3. How your hubs didn’t help? And I love Rocky Road!!!!

    Reply
  4. Haven’t you learned by now? Men…and boys are never around when you need them! LOL ~Elle

    Reply
  5. This was so hilariously true! I remember those days well!

    Reply
  6. I still don’t understand the fascination with minecraft.

    Reply
  7. I think carrying all those bags in yourself is totally worth it for a few minutes of quiet and ice cream straight out of the carton 🙂

    Reply
  8. I love this post! Sounds like my house but the current addiction is ‘Daredevil’ with the earphones on and feet on the couch. My daughter just turns her ears off. An acquired skill I am told.
    Quiet ice cream sounds so nice… might try it myself.

    Reply

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