So there Dani is…looking sweet and lovely, learning to play kickball at Saints, where “Every child is a winner” and “We give all glory to God”. She is my star child. The one I always show off. I am so proud of her. Ack!!! Proud… the feeling I only get to feel for a second or two cause God likes to keep me humble.
Another little girl steps up to the plate, kicks the ball and it goes out of bounds. My saintly daughter’s reply? “Bahahaha you’re outta here sucka!” Where did she get this term? The cockiness! What happened to the child that would hug the girl and tell her she did great! What awful cartoon did I not give proper parental supervision to. What crazy mouthed child got passed my ultra sensitive mommy radar? (possibly one of my other children) Who infiltrated my bubble?!
Well, the coach had words with her and she and I were taken down a couple of notches. I wish God’s agenda was to make me rich and skinny, but alas, humble is His priority. So there it is. God has blessed me with four humble makers.
Now friends, I come from a line of men and women with strong butt muscles. My people did not toot nor explode. I have no memories of my parents nor my parents parents ever even accidentally passing gas. To do so, in my family, was to bring shame. Tonight as I listened to stories of my husband’s family’s moments told with pride and wonder, I pondered my children’s future. The girls will be OK, but the boy’s gas has become both a form of entertainment and a weapon. The only punishment that works is when they come to me tattling of the others foulness and I declare they both now stink and therefore they must both take a shower and use soap. If the funk is not replaced by the smell of shampoo they must take another. No other punishment works. I don’t understand why someone would want to stink, but as I listen to stories of their heritage I realize they will never grow out of it. One day they will tell the stories of the escalator and as the people realized what they walked into, the doors were closing and they were trapped, like a horror movie. Or the time the boy was afraid to move, because he was trying so hard to not breath as the tent seemed to inflate and the sounds wouldn’t stop. Or the time I had had it and locked them both in their room where the smells had been unleashed and they both screamed and laughed and begged for mercy. Until then, I will pray for their future wives, either that they have no sense of smell or a scent stronger then the boys so they can defend themselves.