My college girlfriends are super heroes.
Top tier women. Type A personalities. Alpha level brain power.
If, however, you were to examine us as a group, I think our best achievement is not an academic degree.
As a group, our most enviable quality is our ability to hone in on when anything may be wrong with any one of us.
And, no matter what or where, whatever is needed, is given (even if the person who needs the attention aren’t themselves aware that they need it). They have a sixth sense, my girlfriends, to know what needs to be said and what doesn’t.
They save the speeches and pile on the love.
Of those of us that live in the area and have children (there are a few of us who live further away and one or two who don’t have kids and, consequently, get to do things like have hangovers and glass coffee tables) there are over 20 kids under the age of 6.
15 of those 20 children and their parents (including the super hero mommies) invaded my home a short while ago. They came piling in with too much food and pumpkin beer and toddlers with runny noses. They brought laughter and tricycles and noise. The men set up a folding table in the driveway. Chips were served out of bags. Chili was eaten out of red Solo cups.
There wasn’t a Pinterest creation in sight.
My girls clustered into the kitchen, grabbed a drink and the laughter began.
The day quickly took shape as my home turned, for just a few hours, into a little village. Kids didn’t belong to anyone, really. They just ran around and whoever was nearby would pick up a binky or tie a shoe or buckle a bike helmet.
Zachary, the oldest by 2 years, lured the little ones with Oreo cookies. They followed him like puppies. Zoe walked around screaming for “orange pickles!!” (Fritos cheesy Poofs) and Arrow graciously accepted the children’s attempts to ride him like a horse.
Dinner was served as it was ready and sweatshirts were handed out as needed. As the skies got dark, the group piled inside. We turned on The Game. The kids took out every toy. There was a massive pajama changing party.
A few weeks ago, while out to dinner with a smaller conglomeration of the ladies and their husbands, we had a frank (wine-fueled) discussion about gravity.
Why is it that our children are perfectly capable of holding a cup when they are inside of the house but, when they are buckled into their seats in the car they suddenly lose the ability to grasp anything with any efficiency whatsoever?
We get into the car armed with sippy cups and snacks in baggies because, even though we just fed them 7 minutes ago, they will be starving as soon as we pull out of the driveway.
We dislocate our arms and hand them their snacks and drinks while keeping both eyes on the road. We use one arm to adjust the volume on the radio and, if we had an in-car blender and spiced rum, could mix up a mean mixed drink.
No sooner do we return our hands to ten and two than do we hear the screams:
Mommy! I dropped my water.
My Milk….my Necklace…my lovey!
Get them! Mom!
We wonder why these same children who are so freakishly strong when trying to resist being put into their pajamas are physically incapable of holding on to their stuff once we enter a vehicle. It’s a mystery.
Meanwhile, back in the car:
A babydoll has been dropped and found its way under the seat to the only spot we can’t reach.
A long forgotten cup has opened up and water (or old milk) is spilling all over the crackers the children dropped three days ago.
The car rug looks like the floor of our favorite College bar after the lights switch on at two in the morning; There’s stuff there no one ever wants to touch.
Anyway, the kids are pissed.
At themselves?
No way.
They are red-faced-sweaty-crazy-llama-mad at gravity.
They don’t know that they are mad at a scientific force, but I assure you this is what is happening.
My children fight with gravity when building forts* in the living room.
*In my house I tell the kids to build a fort only when I have exhausted all other options.
My children call fort construction: making a sleep over.
I call it: making mommy want to take a plane to the Caribbean .
In movies and commercials, happy children build gauzy forts while warm rain streams down the window. They are smiling in matching PJ’s. The mother brings granola cookies. The children eat them while reading age appropriate books.
In my house, the happiness ends as soon as the materials are gathered. Then, it becomes my job to build Walt Disney World out of a stained duvet cover, an old dog bed and a potholder.
Sometimes I try using binder clips. Kitchen chairs. Couch cushions.
Every time the kids whine: It’s not tall enough. Dark enough. Light enough.
It doesn’t smell like fruit roll ups and lawn chalk.
Then, one of them gets the idea that the blanket needs to hang suspended from the ceiling. Seriously. Just hang there.
I explain every time why that isn’t possible and, every time, they lose their minds with frustration.
Zoe gets mad at gravity when she is standing still (seriously, as in not moving) in her princess dress and, out of nowhere, falls down.
Zachary goes nutso when he can’t build a tower of legos (horizontally) from his bed to the dresser.
During the get together at my home, one of the children got a lesson in gravity as he drove his ride on tractor full force over a cliff and into a stream.
The parents were watching, of course, but gravity was keeping us in our chairs holding onto our drinks. We laughed as a few of us ran to rescue the little trooper.
We watched the kids run around and scream.
We smiled at each other.
My college girlfriends are super heroes.
