TheMommyBlog

Saturday, October 18, 2003

Today we attended the big annual fundraiser for our son’s school. The Walkathon. The idea is to get people to sponsor your child to walk laps around the track, and the more he walks, the more money he raises for the school. It’s a great concept. Unfortunately, they’ve never met our son. Fully one week before the event, he began cheerfully reminding us that he wasn’t going to walk laps. Each time the subject came up, he’d pop in like some radio announcer and remind us that he wasn’t walking. No sir.

This morning, as we were fueling up with omlettes in preparation for the big event, he said, “Mom. There’s something I’m not going to do today, and it starts with “L.”

“Laugh?"
“No.”
“Leak?”
“No.”
“Lick?”
“No.”
“OK, help me out here.”
“LAPS.”

Good thing we asked for flat-rate donations.

So we get in to the car....wait, that doesn’t begin to describe what happened. I announced to the children our imminent departure, then reminded sternly, then brought out clothes for each child, then tried to put them on myself, was roundly rebuffed, then acceeded to entreaties to please to let them dress themselves, then came back later to discover them in underwear again, then started dressing them in earnest, wrestling them into their socks and shoes ("Nooooo! I want white socks!” “Waaaiit!! Why do I hafta be dressed?” “"You ruined it! I want to put on my socks, and then my shoes, then my shirt, and then my shorts!”

Thirty minutes later, after handing each child a rope of licorice as a bribe to leave the house (hell, it was noon somewhere), we made our way to the curb only to realize that Daddy was still at the store with the car. Not wanting to risk a reversion to nudity by re-entering the house, we decided to wait on the sidewalk. Key point here: it’s a sideWALK. Or, in the 20-month-old’s case, a sideRUN. I spent twenty minutes trying to keep them all in sight--one running towards one end of the block, and the other, inevitably, running towards the other (no idea, really where the third was all this time). I went with the youngest and begged the oldest to freeze (hah), and carried a screaming, wriggling, thrashing marlin of a toddler 100 yards back to the house, just as my husband pulled up and asked if everyone was excited to go! Sure! Piece of cake!

Short story: no one walked more than a single lap. Saying that the 3-year-old walked that full lap is sort of like saying that the Pony Express succeeded because the riders had such endurance (he rode on Daddy’s shoulders). Ten minutes later, they were all at the playground, drinking 7-Up and talking about how tired they were.

We did manage to accomplish something, though: third, second, and first place in the Really Bad Parents Derby.

P.S. That scattering-to-both-ends-of-the-block thing happened again on the way to the car. Here are the boys at one end, and the baby at the other end. I couldn’t be of use to anyone so I just stood there, helplessly snapping photos. Can’t tell what she’s doing? Here’s a closeup. She’s trying to shove her hat into her pants. She was so angelic at the beginning, but by the time we left, it looked like she’d been drinking Mad Dog instead of 7-Up, the way she was stripping out of constricting clothes and staggering around.