Tuesday evening I took Little Boy for a haircut, and when we got home found out that my wife had allowed the girls to be kidnapped by the folks next door. Our kids had been playing “see who can scream loudest and run wildly through the back yard terrorizing the neighbor’s cat” when the neighbor’s teenaged daughter came in from school. They all screamed loudly and ran wildly over to the edge of the yard and waved and waved and said hey and waved, which made Neighbor Girl laugh and invite them to come over and play. Sucker.

They were all still over there when I got back, so I sent Jonathan to the neighbor’s back door. Knock-knock. Nothing. “Knock again, buddy!” Again, no response. Reba—“I think you’ll have to go over there and get ‘em.” ::sigh::

Knowing that my three girls in someone else’s house is not A Good Thing, I sort of dreaded going and finding out what all had been broken and who had gotten pounded in the head. I went over and stuck my head in the back door and quietly called, but again no response, although I could hear shrieking and high-pitched giggling from somewhere in the house. ::sigh::

Go to front door and ring bell. Waiting, I can hear a piano being “played” inside—loudly, with the syncopated non-rhythmic pounding that can only be accomplished by a feral five year old. Russ the Neighbor Dad comes to the door and I sheepishly ask how much they have destroyed. “Aw, their fine!” I hear the older two shouting at each other upstairs and see a flash of curls fly up the steps “Hide! Daddy’s here to takes us to home!” I stick my head in and tell them to come on, and by now Neighbor Daughter has come downstairs to the door and flashed a wicked grin, “I hope you don’t mind, but I let them have a Popsicle while they were here!” “Just not enough destruction for you, eh?”

She said they had been fine, too. The flash of curls comes flying back by and I hear the piano torture start up again, and just then Little Boy comes running up and says “Mama says to tell you the Brother Drew and Brother Jim are coming by.” ::sigh:: Our preacher and elders have been trying to get by and visit everyone in the congregation and it had finally gotten to be our turn.

“Y’all come ON! The preacher’s coming over!” They finally pound out of the house, and I apologize to Russ the Neighbor Dad for them once more and detain them long enough to get them to say thanks to Neighbor Daughter for the Popsicles.

Back at our house, supper was almost ready and the kids were buttocks over elbows in the den picking up the accumulated detritus of their childhood. Reba said that she almost told the preacher no, but that they were going to get to us eventually, and at least we could get the den picked up. ::sigh::

Power Rangers and Barbies and balls and books and books and stickers and small bits of paper and cards and books and Obi-Wan and R2-D2 and books and crayons and pillows and shoes and elastic ponytail holders and Game-Boys and books and string all disappeared somewhere. I even got the vacuum out and made a few passes and by the time we were finished, one room of our house looked almost presentable. Must have been the ingestion of mass quantities of Popsicles. We ate, and then I sent the older girls to their rooms with explicit instructions to REMAIN in their rooms for the duration and NOT to sneak over and start a fight. Sullen “Yes, sir” from Oldest Girl, chipper “Yes, sir!” from Middle Girl. Boy was given explicit instructions to get upstairs and take a bath and wash all the little hair clippings out of his hair and not to fight with his sisters. Silly “Yes, SIR, my Daddy SIR!” administered with exaggerated hand salute. “And YOU,” as I pointed at The Wrecking Ball, “will stay down here with Mama and Daddy so we can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re not tearing something up!” (Because Daddy would get hauled to jail were he to tie you to the tree stump outside and leave you with a bowl of water and a blanket.)

Finally the doorbell rings and we bring them all in—the preacher has brought his younger brother who is going to intern with us this summer and work with the young people. Jim the Elder makes his way in, too, and the first thing out of his mouth is an urgent “Hey, glad to see you, can I use your bathroom!?” I take him through the dining room and find out where all of the stuff from the den got put. “Please, just close your eyes, Jim!” “That’s okay, they’re floating and about to pop outta my head, so I can’t see anything!” Good man.

We settle down and have a good time talking. I ask how their visits are going and we talk church business and try to corral Catherine as she bounces around and inserts herself into the conversation, which inexorably turns to child-rearing tips. Our preacher is married but doesn’t have any kids yet, so Jim the Elder (who also has four kids—ranging from mid-20s to 4) and Reba and I interspersed the mission trip talks and class schedule talks with the accumulated wisdom that comes from matching wits with children.

Did you know that the cure for a child who angrily slams her bedroom door is to simply remove the door from its hinges? Did you know that the best way to answer the taunt “I’m gonna RUN AWAY!” is to calmly agree, conditioned upon allowing the child to take away only what he came into the world with? Did you know that children are very concerned about disturbing their parents, and so will wake them up at 2 a.m. to tell them not to worry, they are only going to the potty? Did you know that if a child gets sick in bed at night and does a Technicolor Yawn, he more than likely will do it again, and so it is therefore better to not allow him the comfort of returning to sleep in YOUR bed?

The Bible is a great book, but I guess there are a few things that God in His wisdom decided folks should figure out on their own.

During most of our conversation, Catherine plopped down on the couch between the preacher and his brother and interrupted to chatter about kitties and horses and school and her beach shoes and her smelly toes and her teacher and her Mama’s gallstones and her Daddy sleeps in his underwear. Occasionally she would get up to twirl herself around, or to throw her baby doll into its carriage to be dragged around, or pull out the giant inflatable Barbie chair and try to knock over the semi-antique drum table with it. Thankfully, she did not pick her nose or fart. Not that it would have mattered.

The two older girls did manage to not start a border war, although they did make a couple of trips downstairs to deliver vital intelligence to Mom about the nefarious plots the other had underway. I told them to make sure they told Tom Daschle, too. “Huh?” “Just get back upstairs, Daddy’s just trying to be funny.”

Anyway, it got late and our guests excused themselves and I finally got to breathe a ::sigh:: of relief rather than exasperation. What a long evening, and even longer before all of them got their baths and got into bed.

The weirdest thing was what happened last night. We got out of church and were headed home, and Reba said that the preacher’s wife pulled her aside after church and told her “You know, Drew got home last night and couldn’t quit talking about all of Terry’s parenting advice—he was really impressed!”

Somehow, I managed to snooker someone else into believing I know what I’m talking about.

I asked Reba if she tried to talk some sense into her and she said “Nah, they’ll find out when they have their own, bless their hearts.”
posted by Terry at 10:29:00 AM