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Laugh On
Chicken Soup I am continuously amazed at the things I’m forced to say aloud to my children. Standard phrases appeared as expected, ‘No hitting!’, ‘No running!’ and ‘Apologize to your sister!’ Minor surprises crept up, ‘Pull those crayons out of Jada’s ears!’, ‘If you must spit Kool-aide out your nose, do it outside!’, and ‘She is not a mummy cat, unwrap her and put the ketchup away!’ Other, truly eerie exclamations sent chills down my spine. I’d love to be a work-at-home Mom, but our finances demand a day job to make ends meet. I write computer code as a programmer analyst for eight brain-bleeding hours a day. But, for my cell phone-armed children, I’m never more than a speed dial button away. Co-workers used to gather at my office door with quizzical looks and knowing grins as I delved out creative punishments, sorted though complex story-lies, or calmed an overly dramatic teen. For a brief time, my Mom stayed with the kids after school. She and my oldest daughter found ways to butt heads daily. I extended my phone a foot from my ear during that period and counseled them through each crisis with exasperated sighs. What a relief when they were old enough to stay home and care for themselves and one another. I innocently believed their fights would revert to ‘No hitting’ decrees. No such luck – the oddest things kept creeping up. Curiously, my co-workers began to flee when my cell phone chirped. ‘Put all the knives back in the drawer!’, ‘Give the underwear to Jada and stay away from the flag pole!’, ‘Yes, rats float. Yes, even in root beer. What do you mean does he need a bath afterwards?’ The worst days were when the kids were home for a teacher work day and had to feed themselves. One day Hope called me, doing a poor job of muffling her giggles. Jada wailed on the other line, “I’m starvin’ to death, and I can’t never eat chicken soup again!” “Tell Jada to just eat her soup. She asked me all sorts of questions and now she won’t eat it,” Hope managed. “And you told her?” I prompted. Giggle. Snicker. Chuckle. “I told her it was chicken juice. I gotta go do my homework.” Click. By the middle of the explanation, my co-workers had abandoned the office for hastily scheduled meetings. “Yes, they cut their heads off and pluck them. No, there is no such thing as a chicken juicer and they don’t use an orange juicer. No! No chicken compactors either. Chicken eyeballs are not filled with yellow juice. Those are carrots, not intestine fragments. Noodles are made with flour, not chicken brains.” Jada finally ate her So shout with pride, you are not alone. ‘Ice cube baths do not keep the devil away! And tell your brother electro-shock therapy is not an appropriate science fair project!”
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