Unbroken

Yesterday was a momentous day at our house.  Deacon's cast came off.

It wasn't supposed to be off so soon.  But apparently casts also aren't supposed to be worn until they disintegrate, have food dropped down them, or be occasionally dunked in the toilet.

"Am I being a neurotic mother?"  I asked the doctor, as I showed him the sores all over Deacon's foot.

"Oh, no," he said, "that thing had to come off.  We don't keep casts on once they've been worn to pieces."

"This is good to know," I told him, "because I expect I'll see a lot of you over the next few years."

His parting words were, "Please keep Deacon off trampolines and anything else that could potentially cause him to injure his leg for the next two weeks."

I thought that was a particularly tough challenge the doctor issued.  But so help me, I would do my best to keep him from injuring himself.  And I did.  For almost 24 hours.

On Thursday a large box containing a new golf bag for my hubby showed up on our doorstep.  Consequently, I   spent Thursday evening getting a cramp in my hand cutting out cardboard "windows" in Deacon's "train."  Large cardboard boxes that my children love to play in are the types of objects that give my husband ulcers.  He had tossed that box upstairs, so he wouldn't "have to look at it."

This afternoon, I heard a loud rumbling noise that I may, perhaps, compare to the sound of a train.  I came running to see Deacon's train, with Deacon in it, roaring down the stairs at top speed.  Guessing that sliding down the stairs in a cardboard box was probably on the banned list of activities for the week, I pulled my crying train-wreck victim out of the box.  I began feeling his leg for breaks.

"Not my leg, my hand," Deacon sobbed, holding out his hand.

Great, I think, now a broken hand.  Can I please go 24 hours without a cast on some part of this kid's body?

"I hurt my pinkie," he said, holding up a hand with an extended pinkie finger.

And for some reason this made me want to giggle.  Really giggle.  But I held it together, because it's generally not considered good parenting to laugh at your children when they're in pain.

Unless you're my sister, Riki.  She's a great mom.  She just can't help that giggle.

Broken

Every time my children asked me for a trampoline, I responded, "No, you can break your leg on the neighbor's trampoline."

I found my response a little funny, because, (let's be honest here) it doesn't take much to amuse me.  But let me tell you something, it's actually not that funny when it happens.

Cultured

I keep trying to jam culture down my children's throat. And much like what happens when you jam food down unwilling throats, my children keep regurgitating it back on me.

Yesterday I forced my three children to attend Juan Siddi Flamenco Dance Theatre. I know what your thinking. Yes, I did think that it would be a good idea.

Me: "Parker, could you put on something nicer than a holey t-shirt with equally holey jeans?"

Parker: "What?!?"

Thirty minutes later, we have reached a compromise. McKay is wearing a dress with no less than 17 layers of ruffles. Parker is wearing a collared shirt. Deacon is wearing a Buzz Lightyear t-shirt.

We find our seats. Parker begins to mutter threats.

"This better beat the Nutcracker. That was the worst experience of my life."

I took the kids to see the Nutcracker at Christmas. McKay was enthralled. Deacon was bored. And Parker felt like he was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment.

Parker: "I brought my book to read, but it's too dark. Do you have a flashlight?"

Me: "No. Watch the performance."

Parker: "Can I go out to the van to read?"

Me: "No."

Parker: "Can I go to the bathroom?"

Me: "No."

Parker: "Can I go to the bathroom?"

Me: "No."

Parker: "I'll be fast."

Me: "No."

Parker: "I'm going to pee my pants."

Me: "No."

Parker: "This is no fair."

After the Nutcracker, we walk past the bathroom.

Me: "Parker, there's the bathroom. We'll wait for you."

Parker: "I don't really have to go."

So with Parker muttering in his seat, the lights dim, and the dancers take the stage. After their first number, Deacon asks, "Is it time to go home now?"

Me: "No."

Deacon: "Awww."

The next number finishes, and Deacon asks, "Can I go home now?"

This pattern continues until the announcer states, "We have a treat for you with our next number."

Deacon (excitedly): "Did you hear that, mom? He's going to give us a treat!"

You can imagine the tears that ensued when I explained there would be no food, just dancing. Finally, the performance is over. Deacon gets super excited at the news.

He bounces out of his seat and announces, "That movie was awesome!"

Thems Fightin' Words

With the slam of the front door, I hear Parker huffing up the stairs.

"What's wrong?" I ask my agitated son.

"Kaleb and I aren't friends anymore."

"Because?"

"Because he said some mean things, so I said some mean things, so he said some mean things, so I said some mean things."

"It's not acceptable to say mean things to someone."

"But he---"

"Even if he says something mean first. Do you understand?"

I get a mumbled non-response.

"So what mean things did you say to Kaleb?" I ask, wondering if this is going to involve me marching Parker down the street to apologize.

"I said that the BSU football players suck."

Hmm. "What else?"

Parker pauses, anticipating what my response might be. I guess he decides I can handle it, so his mouth opens and unleashes the ultimate insult.

"I said he played ball like a girl."

Lost in Translation

"Mom," Deacon asked me, "how do you wash whips?"

"Like a cowboy whip?"

"No--whips."

"A whip like this?" I ask, pretending to be Indiana Jones.

"No. How do you wash whips?"

I'm stuck. I cannot figure out what kind of a whip Deacon is asking me about, but I figure you must wash all whips pretty much the same.

"I guess you would get a bucket with soapy water--"

"No! Not whips, WHIPS! How do you wash WHIPS?!?"

Recognition dawns on me. "Oh, lips. You want to know how to wash lips?"

"Yes. Whips."

"With a washcloth."

"Oh. How do you wash awms?"

Crazy Mother

"Parker," McKay told her brother, "Livy is so lucky! At her house her mom makes sandwiches on white bread and asks you if you want the crusts cut off."

"Lucky!"

Apparently McKay knows good mom behavior when she sees it. Yesterday I was lying in bed reading a book, when McKay came and cuddled up next to me.

"What is your book about?" she asked.

"It's about being a mom," I told her.

"Does that mean your going to stop being crazy and start being a mom?"

Fractured Happiness

My sister, Emily, called me the other day. "I hear you got a stress fracture in your leg. I'm impressed. That's so hardcore."

I responded, "Would you be less impressed if you knew I injured my leg playing Just Dance 3?"

The Reader's Digest version of "Kodie Fractures Her Leg" goes something like this. A few weeks ago after an intense Just Dance competition with my sister, Riki, my leg began killing me. I thought I had shin splints, so I toned down the exercise for awhile. My leg seemed to be feeling better, all was well in Zion, and the sun was shining on Monday morning when I decided to go for a run. My leg instantly began to hurt, but I pushed through my pain, finished my run, and returned home. At which point, I laid on the floor of my closet whining loudly about how much my leg hurt. Fast-forward one doctor's visit later, and I have an official stress fracture diagnosis.

Being as it is an ever so tiny stress fracture, I don't have a cast or crutches. I have to choke down a lot of chalky tasting calcium chews and wear an aircast when I exercise, but that's about it. It has actually come in handy a few times already.

"Well, I'd like to carry McKay up to her bed, but you know my leg is broken...."

However, in Parker's mind, only good has come from it. First, I had to get myself a better pair of running shoes. (I guess wearing shoes you've had since 2004 to run in is a bad idea.)

"Mom, your new shoes are awesome! They're just like the one's the BYU women's volleyball team wears!"

Seriously? Does anyone besides my son know that? That's what I call a sickness.

"Kids," I announced at dinner, "since dad will be out of town on Valentine's Day, I'm taking you all out to McDonald's for half-price Happy Meals."

"Yay!" Parker cheered. "I love it when mom breaks her leg!"

I fail to see how those two events relate, but I'm glad I could bring so much happiness into Parker's life.