Friday, February 1, 2008

Mama pockets

You know how all things tell a story? How everything in existence interconnects with unrelated objects, to create a web of relative connectivity? Well, it happens in history, in forensics, in life, and in my pockets.
 Take note of the above photo, see that stuff? It was all crammed up in my pockets. Usually, because of 3 creatures like that boy right up there.
 It went something like this:
  We came home from our day, upon exiting the car, I grabbed an offending granola bar wrapper, stick it in the pocket. Come into the house to find the phone ringing. I shoved the keys in my pocket, and missed the call. I looked over and E was picking at his diaper. Slip phone in pocket, and went to change E. In the middle of the diaper change, K climbed up to the cabinet that houses the sweets. He came in and brought the snickers for opening. So naturally it goes into the Mama's pockets. 
E exits, and I start to straighten up books on the floor in the boys room, cause I am there. And so are the books. From the kitchen, I hear the stool sliding, and the sound of glass on the stone counter. It makes a distinctive noise. I hear it a lot. Then I hear E mumbling about hot. I shove the urine laden wipes off the floor into my pockets and I take off to see what hot means. Hot apparently means that he is seconds away from making instant hot water plummet into a cup precariously close to his plump fleshy hands via the beloved Keurig. To make me, his Mama, some tea. Hug boy, tea bag in pocket, bring him to the downstairs to color.
 While we are picking colors, I hear many footsteps going around and around above me. I hear shrieking, spiderman lingo, and the word knife. So back up I go. M has stolen K's beloved spiderman web shooter apparatus. As they are flying around the circular track that is my kitchen and dining room, K grabs a butter knife to step it up a notch. He has no intention of stabbing M with a blunt butter knife. He is more interested in the shriek factor.  It works, their is copious shrieking. So I retrieve the web blaster and the weapon and redirect exuberant energy into creative brilliancy downstairs as we create anything. 
With everyone in cool mode, I head back up to boil water for rice. It's nearly time for A to appear, and to wonder how I spent my time, and why dinner is almost always never started until another adult enters the scene. While I stare at the still water, the only quiet thing I have seen all day, it occurs to me that my pockets are uncomfortably bulging. I empty them on the counter, survey my goods, and decide to snap a picture. 
I mostly take it for memory's sake. These busy, hectic days are fleeting. There will be a day when they won't need me so much, won't require my every ounce of energy.  
My pockets may then look normal, and will appear to fit just so. They will no longer be so full of the things of these needy exuberant kids. They will be an empty reminder of these special days of long ago. Sure, they will have things in them. But they will no longer tell such stories as this.
 They will no longer be Mama pockets.-K

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