Love you, Mom. We’re hungry
WE LIVE -- IF you can call it that -- in a humble little house where one dandelion is considered a weed, two are considered a nice bouquet. We try to stretch things. Soup. Wine. A tank of gas.
We don’t have the latest plasma TV or even a high-end surround-sound system. We have one of the earlier, less-sophisticated surround systems. Set it up myself.
What I did was place one kid here, then another kid over there, then two more in the corners. Before long, I have surrounded their mother with sound. Not good sounds. Just sounds.
“But I set the table last night,” one whines.
“No, you didn’t!
“Yes, I did!!!”
“Who took my box of tampons?” someone else yells.
“Those were tampons?”
“What’d you think they were?”
“Little white cigars.”
We live in a house with a funky decorum and no sense of moderation. By last count, we -- the toddler, me and the two dogs -- had watched the “Shrek” DVD 213 times, a masterpiece about a guy so flatulent he kills fish when he swims.
“You can’t still be laughing at ‘Shrek,’ ” their mother says.
“It’s the nuances,” I explain.
“Funny!” belches the toddler as the fish float to the surface.
At the center of this human storm is their sweet mom. A woman surrounded by the enemy: four kids, not counting me. A mother, a medic, a saint.
“My wee-wee hurts,” says the toddler.
“Where?” she asks.
“Back here,” he says, turning to show his backside.
Think of how you become a mother. It is too often the byproduct of bad, forgettable sex after too many bad, forgettable nightcaps. (“Hey, this Merlot turned my tongue black! Kiss me!”)
Nine months later some nurse is handing you something carefully wrapped in a blanket. That would be the hospital bill. Then they hand you the baby. Your hips, your hair, your life will never be the same. Good night, nurse. Hello, motherhood.
The other night, their mother prepared a pasta dish -- a little garlic, a little olive oil. Salad on the side, crisp as hundred dollar bills.
She then watched as the toddler carefully slurped up a long strand of linguini. He sucked it in a little at a time until only a tiny piece wiggled between his lips. All was quiet. All was good. Then he gagged and, like a sword swallower, pulled out the entire strand, which by then had entered his throat, his stomach and quite possibly his lower intestine.
“Oh, my God!” someone shrieked.
“How’d he do that?” someone roared.
“Do it again!” begged his big brother.
Twenty-two years she has been a mother and they still surprise her with their madcap behavior. They are an odd lot, the sort of people who smear cream cheese on blueberry muffins, ketchup on fish.
But they won’t eat just anything. For instance, leftovers. After a long day staring into their cellphones, they think they deserve far better than mere leftover chicken.
“Isn’t there anything else, huh?” they’ll whine.
To which I respond, “Yeah, let me just steam you up a lobster.”
To which one of them will say, “Don’t be sarcastic, Dad.”
To which I’ll respond, “Who’s being sarcastic, not me.”
Then there’ll be a 10minute debate over who’s the most sarcastic one in the house and how we need to eliminate sarcasm as much as possible, since it frightens the pets, who don’t understand sarcasm.
All the while, their mother is trying to make them something besides leftover chicken. A panini sandwich perhaps. Or some watered-down soup.
“There, are you happy now?” she’ll ask, placing the food in front of them.
“Very,” I’ll say.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she’ll say.
“Have you seen my sports bra?” someone will scream.
And this Sunday -- in one day brimming with gratitude -- they’ll make it all up to her. Two of them will burn her a nice breakfast, permanently disfiguring the stove. One will make her coffee, which in their hands comes out a gooey, sludge-like substance often found in bulldozers.
And one will pick her some small yellow flowers from the front lawn. The toddler will put the dandelions in a Dixie cup and place them on the counter. His mother will pronounce it, “The best bouquet I’ve ever seen.” The toddler will beam like he just won the lottery.
He did. You did. We all did.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
