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Monday, February 13, 2012

Hey, Are Ya Busy?

I think it’s so comical that as moms, we call other moms and start our chat with, “Hey, are ya busy?” I do it all the time and immediately after I ask it, I think, “Did I REALLY just ask that?” I especially find my question humorous when I call my good friend, Chris. This is how our exchange typically goes:

“Hey, are ya busy?” I ask.

“Nah. My little bear just ate a green crayon and took off his underwear to poop on the carpet.

My sweetie pie daughter squished her gum between two pillows and gave herself a new haircut and the big boy just had a royal six-year old meltdown because he lost a Super Mario life on the Wii. Oh and my little doggie is dancing on her hind legs in front of me like it’s a circus audition.

What’s goin’ on over there?” she calmly asks.

“Oh, not much. While I finished decorating Easter cupcakes, the little one was secretly slathering herself in Aquaphor from nose to toes and is now sporting a cool “Grease” lookin’ hairdo that would make people jealous if, oh…she was a guy and it was the 1950’s! (why did she choose the most expensive ointment we own?). The middle one is weeping relentlessly because two foods are touching on her plate. And, my big boy is climbing the walls…literally.

Then, we proceed to attempt a “conversation,” which used to be a civil exchange of words, some laughs, some thought and even some quiet filler space. I’m sure all moms and dads who try to talk on the phone with kiddos around understand exactly what I’m saying here.

I believe a strange thing happens when the phone rings. Our children acquire superpowers at that exact moment – they can immediately see candy from a mile away with their ultra-vision, they can hear us talking through the closet door (ha ha) with their supersonic earsight (as my daughter says) and they’re instantly able to run at the speed of light.

As moms and dads, we are indeed…busy. I think most of our time might even be spent “wiping.” We wipe away tears, we wipe hineys and boogies, we wipe up messes, we wipe dirt off scraped knees and we wipe crayons off of walls, cabinets and countertops.

And, amidst the beautiful chaos of Parentville, I have to stop sometimes and soak in Linda Ellis’ poem, “The Dash.”

After reading her poem, I am now in dash-rhyme-mode myself. We dash to work and to the store, to dance and soccer games. We dash to get the kiddos up and dash them back to bed again. No one knows how long or short their dash will be, you see – let’s not get too busy that we forget to simply…”be.”

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