Friday, April 12, 2013
"Stop picking the flowers for crying out loud!"
I remember ten years ago, when I had a two year old, and a baby. It was pure chaos, all. the. time. Chaos, I tell you. Both of them were in diapers. One had acid reflux, screamed all the time, and only wanted her Mama every waking, and sleeping minute of the live-long day. The other was literally running into walls with his body, constantly making noise, and never stopped moving, climbing, running, jumping off tall things, and gave me a big fat daily, "No thank you, I'd prefer to stay awake for eighteen hours straight," when guided gently to a bed for nap time.
I got the brilliant idea that we should begin making an annual trek to a Western Washington tulip field. You know, for those stunning photographs of happy, smiling people and swaths of colorful tulip rows as far as the eye could see. The ones that make it onto the Christmas card and the huge canvas you spent way too much money for, hanging above your sofa. Yeah.
you can't pick the tulips, you can't jump over them, you can't run down the paths, and you have to stay away from trenches of mud that will suck you down like quicksand.
(Okay, the mud is only that bad if you're under two feet tall.)
Good times. Now add a toddler and a baby, and a forty five minute car ride to get there in the first place.
Idiocy, because we, the parents, should have known not to punish ourselves that way.
We broke every darn rule. Every single year.
The kids always picked a tulip, or fifty.
They always took off running down the rows like Dorothy trying to make it through a poppy field before falling asleep.
They always made bee-lines for the mud.
There were always tears at some point.
And then Adrain would remind me that I was a big girl, and needed to set a good example for the children.
Nobody picked tulips. Nobody got sucked into a quagmire of mud. Nobody tore off running down a path with a sign clearly saying, "Please stay out of the tulip rows." Not once did I utter, "Stop picking the flowers for crying out loud!"
And the only person jumping over the tulips was me, as I tried to navigate a photograph angle.
It was downright boring.
in a field.
If you know what I mean.
The backseat, filled with recent health class graduates, erupted with giggles and finger pointing.
And yes, I took a photo, because I'm twelve years old.
And I'm not sure I can stand it.