More Than I Can Handle?

Clay had baseball practice this afternoon, within 15 minutes of when he walked in the door from school. It takes right at 15 minutes to get to the field. I didn't want to take him, but he missed yesterday's practice, his team's first, to go to church instead. Plus, it was an almost balmy 60-ish degrees outside, so we went.

It was a rush to get out the door, and I couldn't find his lefty glove. We took Spencer's right-handed glove, and I told him to do the best he could.

They're doing some kind of construction around the fields, so on top of areas made muddy by recent rain, there were ditches partially filled with gravel, and mounds of gravel and stone that my younger two were told to steer clear of.

A little playhouse-type structure was there, and Spencer and Allison played on it sweetly with one little boy, who was probably younger than mine are. I noticed another little fella, all boy, climbing the bleachers, running around them, picking up sticks.

At one point, Spencer walked up to the little loner boy and asked him if he wanted to race. And that little... child... reared his leg back and full-force kicked Spencer. I know my jaw dropped, but I didn't say anything, because I really wanted to see Spencer's reaction. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

I was so proud of him, because I know that boy of mine. If his mind had been in it, it could have gotten ugly. Thank the Lord for the blessing that Spencer lashes out only at his family (because he knows that we'll still love him when all the dust settles, maybe?).

I waited for a couple of minutes and called Spencer over and whispered in his ear that he did just great with the way he handled that situation. He started to defend himself, but I said, "Spence, I saw the whole thing. I know what he did. You were right to just walk away instead of being ugly back."

From that point on I watched Mean Boy constantly. He was awful. He grabbed a long stick, dipped it in a mud puddle and tried to fling that junk on the other little boy that my two were playing with. Good Boy's momma caught that incident before it got out of hand.

I glanced away for a few seconds only to check on Clay's practice, and Allison started shrieking. Thinking the worst, I pivoted around. And she was knee deep in mud. She was beside herself. Absolutely insulted that mud would dare to attach itself to her princess-like frame. I do believe that every person within a mile turned to see if she was dying, because it sure sounded like she was.

I just said, "Allison, it's mud. Calm down."

Did she? Nope.

The bathroom doors were, of course, all locked. Nobody warned me that it was my day to entertain Mr. Murphy. Him and his stupid laws!

After walking to the van, and using a tissue to clean her up (you can imagine how far I got with that!), we walked back to the play structure. As we approached, Spencer again went up to Mean Boy. He was convinced he knew him from "church," he said. And Mean Boy again jerked that little leg back to kick. Having been burned once, Spencer was fast enough to dodge it this time. And he again walked away.

I was done with that kid. He had on a jersey with his name conveniently printed on the back, so I loudly said, "Hey (and his name, that I won't write, in case any of you know him), stop that kicking right now. That's mean."

Well, finally Mean Boy's dad turned around and paid attention to his little hellion. But he did absolutely nothing, except stare at me, probably wondering why I had said his son's name and chastised him. I didn't look back. Confrontation of that sort makes me not like me so much. I'm a little too good at it.

Several more minutes passed. Practice had already been underway for an hour.

Mean Boy climbed on top of one of the piles of gravel, and Spencer attempted to follow him. I'd already told my kids to stay off the gravel. Obviously it was there for workers and not for kids to spread it all over the playground, although certainly the workers might have had the forethought to place it some place less tempting for kids.

But the power struggle was on. Spencer shuffled about, not quite scaling the rock pile, but certainly not going back to the play area. So I said he had to come to me and sit on the ground and be bored since he couldn't play in the play area and stay off the gravel. As he turned toward me, Mean Boy moved in his general vicinity with his stick, and Spencer tried to get away... but lost his footing in a mud puddle.

Down he went.



And for the second time within an hour, one of my children screamed as if to bring the heavens down.

My reaction was not great. I turned around so I wasn't facing Spencer, because I just couldn't assess the damage yet. I took a very deep breath, and clamped my mouth shut. Tight. My eyes rolled back and shut, and my face lifted to the clouds. Because I was thinking, "What Lord? My kid? Really? Mine, and not the one who has been terrorizing every other kid for the last bit? Come on! Where is the love?!"

Spencer's whole back was covered, from the nape of his neck to his shoes.

And it just kept getting better. Somehow, my son, who I was so proud of moments before... blamed me!

He's five. Not yet smart enough to know when to clamp his own mouth shut. So he let it loose. Loudly. All over Mommy!

I marched over and grabbed his muddy stick of an arm and took him back to the bathrooms. The locked bathrooms. Well, fine! It was enclosed enough. I stripped his britches down and swatted him a few times. (It's bad when I call pants "britches" because that's my grandma coming out in me. And she used switches. Very well. On my dad. And my brothers. Rarely on me. But only because I didn't get caught.)

Even Spencer's underwear was muddy. And now, because I'd spanked him, so was I.

His ire shifted to Mean Boy, and he was reaming that kid, all safely out of hearing range, thankfully. I pointed out to him that his mud bath was no body's fault but his own, because if he had obeyed me to begin with, he'd have been playing nicely in the mulched play area, nowhere near the mud. He cried several minutes but started to calm down as the cold mud began to chill him.

We walked back to the practice field, and I glanced up to see a familiar face. Someone who was in my Bible Study Fellowship group last year. I said a weak "hi" that she halfheartedly reciprocated. Anyone with eyes could see that I had my hands full with two mud-coated kids.

And the next thing I know, my friend from BSF calls out to Mean Boy. She called him by name, waved, and then walked to stand beside the kid's dad. No! She couldn't possibly be his mother. Since we share prayer concerns in our BSF groups, I had probably prayed for that child the preceding year. I must not have been diligent enough!!

Practice was at an hour and a half by then. I went to the coach, said I needed the schedule, and Clay, because we were going home right then.

Spencer and Allison stripped in the trunk of the van. Allison from the waist down, but she got to keep her panties on. But Spencer lost every shred of clothing he had. Even his socks were caked with the stuff.

On the way home we passed a state trooper, and I prayed, "Lord, please. Not today. This can't possibly be made to look good." Can you imagine? One half naked child and another completely naked child, both with smudged cheeks showing obvious tear tracks down the middle. I could be in jail tonight with lots to explain. And no husband nearby to bail me out. My in-laws would have loved getting that call!

Still, all things considered, I could see the humor in it. When we got home, I sent Clay up to the bathroom with the younger two to turn on the shower for them while I gathered all the muddy clothes out of the back of the van. I threw the whole muddy mess in my washing machine.

When everyone was clean, we had a late supper. It was a hodge podge meal, but it was on the table quickly. They ate while I cleaned a head of lettuce, because I felt like having salad.

And then the crazy sink rebelled and clogged. I spent about five minutes unclogging it.

Finally, we were all finished eating and came into the den to relax. Got a fire going in the fireplace. Started watching an episode of America's Funniest Home Videos. And one of the kids went to the bathroom...

...and now my toilet is clogged, waiting for me to stop typing and get in there with a plunger.

I still see the humor. Kind of.