Soon, the little man joins in. They chase. They belly laugh. I watch the microwave and pour water in a saucepan, set it to boil.
A bit louder, I say, “BABE. You need to CALM DOWN.”
I know it will only be moments before one falls and begins to ---
CRASH!!!!
“WaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”
“MMMMMOOOOOMMMMMM!”
The microwave beeps as I run into the living room to see who slipped on the wood floors and cracked his head.
The big guy’s eyes are wide. “Mom! He fell all by himthelf! I didn’t do anyfing, Mom! I’m not trickin’!”
It’s the little one. I pick him up, wipe the snot from his face, and kiss his head in the general area of the bonked spot. The microwave beeps again. I ascertain that there is no blood, wait for the sobbing to stop, then plop him on the floor.
“Let’s get blankie and puppy and you can watch some TV while I cook dinner, sweetie,” I say to the baby. He pumps his head up and down in a vigorous “YES". Big brother jumps on the couch and I wince at the vision of springs sagging on my near-new furniture. Before I can get to the “On” button on the television, he shouts, “DORA, MOM! I WANT TO SEE IF DORA’TH ON!”
The microwave beeps again, reminding me of the meat. I sigh, “Just be patient, Bud. I don’t know if she’s on now.” He shouts, instead, “BLUE’TH CLUETH! BLUE’TH CLUETH!”
I sigh again, put on "Dragon Tales" and head for the kitchen where I plan to take a hammer to the beeping microwave.
The water is boiling over so I turn it down and put the macaroni into the bubbles with a big pat of buttery spread to kill the froth. I take the beef out of the microwave and see that I over-defrosted it and the outer edges of the hunk are already cooked and hard as cement. I shrug and take it out of its package, throw it in a frying pan to brown. I open the fridge, reach for the vegetable crisper and hear the theme song signaling the end of the kids’ show.
SHIT.
They come running in to the kitchen.
“CHAAAAAAAASE!!!!!”
I sprint in front of them to close the door of the hall leading to the office, trapping them in the kitchen. One runs over and head-butts me in the thighs to pick him up; the other jumps back up on the stool, wanting to chop cucumbers for the salad.
“Mom, can I have a carrot?”
“Just one, I don’t want you to get too full for – “
Little fingers reach into the bag and a fistful of carrots comes out.
“-- dinner.”
The baby sees the carrot. He points up, craning his neck backward to see from his thirty-one inches off the ground.
“My-eee! Myyy-eeeee! “MYYY-EEEE!”
He head-butts harder, with his right index finger stabbing at the air. I pick him up, shove a thin carrot in his hand, reach over to stir the meat so it browns evenly. I find it already charred on one side. The froth on the noodles threatens to blow.
“Eeeewwwww,” says the baby, looking at both.
I turn down the heat. Both boys chomp carrots in stereo.
Holding twenty-three pounds in my left arm, I chop the vegetables for the salad. I crouch to the counter and steady the cucumbers, carrots, and lettuce with my left hand, dropping each every few milliseconds to swat away the baby hand that gets too close to the Ginsu knife in my right hand.
From the corner of my eye, I see a sneaky, chubby paw going back into the plastic bag. I drop the knife on the cutting board and swat the hand.
“No more carrots! Go sit at the table!”
I lead them both to the table and lock the little man in his high chair. He grunts and chomps louder.
Brother says, “Mom, can I have thome chocolate milk?”
“In a minute. Let me get your dinner ready.”
“Okay. Can I have thome chocolate milk with my dinner, pleath?”
“Sure. Please be patient, Bud.”
“Okay, Mom. You’re a nyth mom.”
“Thanks, babe.” I tweak his cheek. He throws me the dimples.
The water in the noodles is dark yellow which is a giveaway that they’re cooked to mush. I dump them in the colander in the sink and rinse. I throw whatever’s chopped and laying on the cutting board into a bowl and mix in the vinegar and oil.
“You’re not gonna put the white thtuff on the thalad, are you Mom?”
“No, Buddy. I’m putting on the stuff you like.”
He gets up and runs over to see that I’m telling the truth, then opens the Lazy Susan for the Quik Chocolate mix.
“Mom, you’re not putting the red thauth on my noodleth, are you?”
Shit. Forgot the sauce.
“No, I’ll put just butter on yours. Now go sit down, please.”
The baby starts banging on his tray and crying, pointing everywhere.
“BUP-py! BUP-py! BUP-py!”
I sigh, swear inwardly, and begin to boil over. “WHERE IS PUPPY?!” I yell. His brother fetches it from the living room while I toss the sauce into a bowl and then the microwave.
“Thanks,” I mumble as the baby sticks his left thumb in his mouth and squeezes Puppy in his right hand. I yank out the heated sauce, toss one bowl of noodles with it and the meat and one with butter. I dole out salad into junior sizes, slather butter on wheat bread and chop off the crusts, and then deliver the goods.
Six minutes later, as I’m bringing my own food to the table to sit and eat, the baby has smeared his whole face and head with marinara and thrown nearly all of his noodles and meat sauce onto the floor. He looks down at the tile and points to it as I sit.
“Eeeewwwww,” he says.
“Yep. Ewwww,” I reply, beaten.
His brother says, “Mom, you forgot my chocolate milk.”
I sigh loudly. “That I did.” I return to the counter to mix it.
I give it to him and in his haste to get the straw in his mouth he upends the bowl of noodles with his elbow. I do not react.
“Oopth. I’m thorry, Mommy. Can you get me some more noodles?” he says with the sweetest face ever as the key turns in the door and my husband walks in. It’s 5:45; he’s home nearly two hours early.
“Hey! How’s my family?” he asks with a big smile. He looks at the floor. “I guess we’re having spaghetti for dinner?” He looks at me. I nod my head as I put my fork in my mouth and start chewing.
He kisses me where I sit, then the boys. He grabs a bowl and puts in some pasta, then joins us. We watch each other, all of us, smiling.
I probably should have ordered pizza.
