Being a stay-at-home mom, and a divorced one at that, my kids go everywhere with me. Doctors appointments, shopping, banking . . . all the dreadfully boring adult jobs get their own unique flavor because I do them with two pre-schoolers in tow.
Today was no exception. The day started out with an 8am appointment at Pierce Imports, my trusty automotive guru. Not only was Cebu the Subaru 1,000 miles past due for an oil change (how does the time fly so quickly???), but I had recently noticed that a front headlight was out. (BJ--is that a padiddle? I forget.)
I always cringe a bit when heading out to these sorts of appointments. My son, on the other hand, was delighted: "We get to play with the toys!!!"
He was not mistaken. By some stroke of genius, the owner keeps a small plastic crate of toys under the ubiquitous magazine table. Now I must admit, the first time my son found this stash, I was a bit chagrined. He was just walking, and the toys looked as if they'd been there since my childhood in the 80's. The entire collection had (and still has) a coating of that unique mixture of oil and dirt that proliferates in an automotive shop.
I almost forbade him to touch them, but my farm background raised its head. I used to walk barefoot in the cow pasture, and I managed to survive. He'd be fine. I took a breath, cautioned him not to put them in his mouth, and let him go at it.
Today was the same except I had two precocious children tearing into the toys. And truth be told, it is a fun collection of toys. Many of them were from McDonald's Happy Meals . . . you can tell because it's stamped on the bottom.
The assortment includes a Sherman bobblehead (Mr. Peabody's sidekick), a trio of Smurfs (Brainy, Baker, and Crazy . . . whose names are also on their feet), some plastic Indians (Native Americans?) with headdresses and spears, and a dozen building toys whose name I don't know but are very fun anyway. There are two kaliedescopes, one that doesn't really kaliedescope anymore, and a cool, brightly-colored T-Rex one that does.
While my daughter had conversations with the Smurfs, my son dug out the best spider ever. It is green and black with articulated legs . . . I should have taken a picture . . . maybe I will next time I'm there! And here is where the marvel of the 4-year-old imagination comes in.
He suddenly decided this spider wasn't a spider . . . it was a plane. By straightening the legs and pushing four together on each side, it actually did look like a plane. Of course, then he decided the spider-plane was being shot at. (I can only blame this on watching Peanuts--darn that Red Baron!)
Once he was shot up too much, naturally the spider was dead. So he needed to fall into a hole. Enter Mommy and another toy . . . a bull-dozer/lift machine. (It's the weirdest thing...it has a bucket like a bulldozer but behaves like a lift boom. I don't know.) Whatever it is, the little foreman instructed me to use it to dig a burial hole for the spider-plane.
Being a good mom, I did. (In the air, down the back of the couch we were sitting on.) Not being a good bulldozer operator, I didn't do it well enough. I left "big rocks" in the way. Rather abashed at my failure, I did what any good employee does--I passed the job to someone lower on the totem pole.
"Here, Honey," I said, handing my daughter the machine. "Can you help get those big rocks out of the hole?"
She was successful.
The spider-plane then crashed into the hole and was buried under the other toys. But have no fear, he was resurrected to fight another day!
While this mayhem was happening in our corner of the waiting room, two other patrons were looking on. They began interjecting compliments about my son's tenderness (yes, he was repeatedly butchering the spider-plane, but he was doing it while comfortably ensconced in my lap) and my daughter's language abilities (NOBODY believes she's two!).
As for me, I got to enjoy one of those "breaths" we moms need so much. It was a moment to see my children as separate from the socks defiantly thrown behind the couch, the acrobatics of climbing on crib rails and chair arms, the "no, I won't's," and the "you don't love me, Mom!s" when you deny a fifth cookie.
I can't wait for our next oil change!
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