For years I’ve been using my stunning arm twirling trick to astonish the boys.
“Moms can do anything. We can see out the back of our heads, we can curl our tongues, and we can make our arms pass through each other without a single drop of blood spilling to the floor,” I’d say, demonstrating. “Too bad you have a penis instead of bosoms and will never be able to do this.”
My secret was revealed when Bill came in and saw me standing in the kitchen, arms awhirl, while the boys watched, flabbergasted.
“Hey, I can do that,” Bill said, and he did, thus ruining my line about the power of breasts.
Of course, then all the boys had to master the skill, so we taught them.
But no one teaches it as well as Bernadette did back in the days of Zoom.
Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: In Which I Discover That Porter Has Been Hired By The Government
I’ll let you visit this site your ownself and find out what your name would be if you were one of Sarah Palin’s kids. I just want you to be warned, however, that my husband would be Gripper Palin. That’s a handful!
But wait– meet my three lovely boys, Fowl, Stinger and Churn. And that’s me, Yukon. Let me know what your name is in the comments– they’re sure to be a hoot.
I’m totally covering Churn’s face in an attempt to remove Fowl’s hat.
Who are you? I hope you aren’t one of those moms who thinks the worst of boys and yells at them for no reason. That happened to Churn the other day and he’s still recovering. You can read about it here.
Dude! We’ve been taking these pictures on the beach every year since 1998. Here’s our 2004 attempt. Drew and Porter were about to be six and Finn was nine and a half. It’s a sad commentary that we were better behaved back then than we were this past August.
I have no explanation for the atrocious mom hair other than maybe the stress of wrestling three boys into collared shirts affected my judgment when it came to my own looks.
Porter heard that the local scout chapter was looking for new members. Whoever leaked the information knows how to capture a boy’s interest– Porter came home chattering about making a car for the Pinebox Derby, earning badges for shooting, and camping at the Talladega Super Speedway. Bill took both Drew and Porter to the informational meeting and they were instant scouting converts. I drove them to the Boy Scout store to purchase their outfits, which consisted of khaki skirts, olive pants, a jaunty plaid kerchief and assorted patches denoting their den and pack and so forth that must be ironed or sewn on. Porter is extremely pissed that ten days have gone by and I haven’t managed to attach the patches to the shirt yet. He has plans to earn every badge possible in record time.
Last Saturday was the first official Webelo scout outing. (Webelo is the rank below Boy Scout, I believe. Bill told the boys that it stands for “We Be Loyal Scouts” which is flat out wrong; it’s “We’ll Be Loyal Scouts” which of course is grammatically correct. Keep in mind, though, that Bill believed until law school that the Preamble of the Constitution began “We da peoples,” and you can forgive his mistake.)
We were to meet at 2pm sharp at the state park for the Top Gun competition. Because Bill would be coaching soccer and then heading to work, I was the designated Webelo parent for my crew. Porter was beside himself with excitement. The boys have been shooting all sorts of guns when they visit Bill’s parents in Auburn, and last weekend Porter proved to be adept at shooting skeet. He wondered aloud whether he’d get a patch if helped other scouts who were having trouble handling a gun.
Saturday was sizzling, and after the soccer game the boys were already red and sweating as they piled into the van. They changed into their scout uniforms as we drove down the expressway. Once we entered the park, Drew grew queasy and we had to stop twice so he could throw up before we reached the Top Gun site.
The competition was already running an hour-and-a-half late by the time we showed up. While we waited, a Scoutmaster wearing full regalia gave us confusing instructions about what we were to do when we took our places at the range. Each boy had three large targets with circles on them. The targets were fasted on a line vertically with clothespins and the boys were to shoot at the bottom one in the prone position, at the middle one in the sitting position, and the top one in the standing position. Each Webelo also had a sheet of paper with one big target on it. The Scoutmaster told us that each boy should first take five shots at this sheet to establish the pattern of the gun, which I interpreted to mean whether it was shooting a little high or to the right.
At 3:45 our guys proceeded to the range and I saw why I hadn’t heard any shooting. In front of us were the tiniest BB guns known to man. If you thought it was a good idea to buy your four-year-old a BB gun, this would definitely be the size you’d want. They looked like they were manufactured before the Vietnam era, and may have had a small role in that war as well. I’m no gun expert, but I know a worn out gun when I see it.
No matter. The men running the range were all about gun safety, and rightly so, although it was hard to reconcile their stern admonitions with the sad weapons that lay in front of us. After we’d all been thoroughly briefed on safety goggles (TO BE WORN AT ALL TIMES), cocking the gun and chambering the BB for your Webelo (OF COURSE I CAN DO THAT YOU MORON EVEN THOUGH I HAVE TITTIES AND NO PENIS), and the fact that we had twenty minutes and no longer to shoot at the paper and three targets (BECAUSE WE’VE SCREWED UP ALL DAY AND YOU GUYS ARE PAYING FOR OUR TARDINESS) it was time to commence.
There was one snafu, which I pointed out to the Scoutmaster. I had two Webelos to manage, while everyone else had one. The Scoutmaster was completely bumfuzzled by the fact that one mother might show up with two children, and had I been forewarned of the situation, I certainly would have dragged Bill along with me. However, there were a number of Scouts wandering the grounds with no discernible duties, and I was sure the Master would motion one over to run the drill with one of my boys. Instead, he told me I could do both twins at the same time, although we wouldn’t be given any extra time to finish our shooting. In essence, Drew and Porter would be given ten minutes each while the other scouts got twenty. Nothing I’d seen so far led me to believe the Scoutmaster had an ounce of flexibility or humanity so I took the deal.
Now is the part where I must explain that Drew and Porter and I are fabulous at working out compromises and systems. We’re way past the point where multiples are horrifically hard work all the damn time (see ages 0 to 4) and into the finer points of sharing and rotating and working things out. So having less time than the other kids didn’t freak us out immediately; we just needed a couple of seconds to create a plan to deal with it.
I turned to the twins and told them we’d be shooting twice as fast as the other kids, but that was no big deal since they’d been shooting a lot lately and would certainly be able to hit the three targets and paper in ten minutes. I told them we’d rotate positions and showed them where the non-shooter was to stand.
“QUIT TALKING, MOM!” the Scoutmaster yelled at me.
“My boys need to know the plan if they’re going to be speed-shooting,” I told him. I might as well have been talking to the clouds.
“Scouts ready, and FIRE!” And the exercise began.
I started with Drew. He stood and fired at the paper, then got into the prone position and fired at his lowest target. I had two jobs: to cock the gun and chamber the bullet and to count his shots to ensure that he took no more than ten shots at each target. I was going to have him do all his targets, then switch to Porter, but the Scoutmaster was behind me and shouted, “ROTATE THE BOYS NOW!” so I had Drew retreat to the watching spot and motioned Porter to come up to the gun.
“My safety goggles are blurry,” Porter whispered.
“We’ll trade them with Drew’s,” I said. “Turn away from the range.”
I quickly yanked Drew’s goggles off and switched them with Porter’s. “NOT A GOOD IDEA, MOM!” the Scoutmaster shouted.
“Better idea than a boy shooting when he cannot see,” I muttered. “Ignore him and shoot, honey,” I told Porter.
“LESS TALKING AND MORE SHOOTING MOM,” the Scoutmaster said.
I turned around. “Listen, Sir. These boys have to rotate safely if they are going to rotate between each target, and if they are going to do so, we have to have a plan, and that requires me to communicate with them. By talking.”
I turned back around.
“Ok Porter, you do the white sheet first. That’s just to see the pattern of the gun, so take a couple of shots and then we’ll get to the targets.”
He did, and we concluded that the gun was shooting low and to the right.
Porter finished his prone position target, and then I had him go ahead and do his sitting position target since the Scoutmaster had momentarily disappeared and I could save time by avoiding a twin rotation.
Then Drew did his sitting and standing targets and Porter finished his standing target. There were two other boys still shooting when we finished.
“My God,” the dad next to me said. “I don’t know how you handled counting all that for two boys, much less with the Scoutmaster yelling at you.”
I was feeling pretty triumphant myself. It was short lived.
As we stood in line to have our targets scored, I realized that the Scouts at the scoring table were carefully scrutinizing the white sheet of paper, the one we’d been told was to be used to establish the pattern of the gun. I jostled closer, and saw that the Scouts were adding the numbers on the target, and telling the kids who’d made a thirty-five or higher to take the paper to the red tent and get a badge.
I sidled back in line and glanced at Drew’s white paper. He’d hit it five times and had a forty-one. He’d get a badge. I looked at Porter’s. I remembered telling him to take only a couple of practice shots and sure enough, he had two shots in the ring right outside the bullseye for a total of eighteen.
I didn’t tell the boys what was about to happen. I let it all play out in front of the scorekeepers, who watched as Porter’s lip trembled and he wept.
“I didn’t know that was for a patch,” he mumbled. “I only shot at it two times.”
He was right. I’d encouraged him to take only two shots at it, because NO ONE had told us that white sheet of paper had anything to do with a patch. I hugged him tight while we walked with Drew to the red tent to get his patch.
It was a tough day for mothering. When we got home I congratulated Drew on earning his badge, and then told him that Porter was extremely upset that he hadn’t gotten his.
“He didn’t know that the white paper was for the badge, Mom. I didn’t know either. I just took five shots and hit it, and he didn’t shoot it five times because that man was yelling at us.”
“Well, it would really make Porter feel better if you say that when we go inside and tell Daddy what happened.”
We had a five minute pity-party in honor of Porter and the injustice of it all, and then we gorged on food Bill had picked up from the Greek Festival.
It will be a cold day in hell before I handle another Webelo outing.
One Year Ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Sexy Singers, But Can They Spell?
Because you’ll need more than one for every head.
Ladies wear mohawks, too.
Three years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Tackled By Football