Last night we were bonafide Tired. Wd'd both worked until 3am yesterday morning, sleeping for just three and a half short hours before rolling out of bed to hit it hard again. On top of that, Brandon felt crappy with a migraine and draining sinuses by evening.

"Take a Claritin", I suggested. So he did.

I'm not sure whether it was the Captain/Coke he'd drank an hour or two earlier, or if it was just the meds mixing with Tired and making him loopy. But as he fell asleep he gave me a running monologue of what was going through his mind.

"I see tiny strawberries. But instead of seeds they have hands. Tiny strawberries with tiny little hands." Giggle.

 "A man with a yellow jumpsuit with black stripes on his shoulders. And an orange sombrero. Made out of jello!" Giggle.

"A huge machine that is shaped like a bell that is shooting out Aflac ducks!" Giggle.

"Now I see hats for your fingertips. With elephant trunks and big ears." 

"Ha ha ha! Fingertip hats!"

And lastly, as he finally fell asleep and stopped talking. "Tricycles with three handlbars. Handlbars."

HIGH-LARIOUS!

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I always get comments when I'm out in public. "Wow, you have the patience of a saint!" or "You're just so patient and sweet with your kids! I'd be screaming by now."

Dear sweet ladies out in public, I am scamming you.

I'm brilliant at being sweet in public. I talk in a quiet voice (stern but fair) and look into my children's beautiful eyes while I correct them. In low tones, so as not to embarrass them, I remind them of what proper behavior looks like.

And then we get home.

At home I overreact. Daily. I scream. I yell. I've stomped my foot and I've slammed my hand down on the table hard enough it shook. Somtimes I send them all to their rooms and go into my own, slamming the door behind me and collapsing on my bed just hoping for five seconds of silence.

I ignore them when they're explaining things to me. I rush them when they are forming opinions. I correct them when they interrupt. I tell them to "just GO PLAY!" at least five times every day.

I am a miserable failure of a mother at home. But I look damn good in public.

If we put half the effort into our behavior at home as we do when people are watching - what would change?

And may my heart be melted by little faces, even when they talk a lot. May my attitude be impacted by their desire to understand and experience everything, even when it is always within five feet of me. And may I realize the ways that I can change now to impact them for the future. Even when we're at home.

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"And once upon a time white people didn't let black people be their friends."

I over heard him telling his younger brother, in between the bits and sentences about his crush-au-jour and how to spell the word "B-U-T-T". 

Tuesday. After Martin Luther King Jr. Day. He has learned something life-changing. And he is trying to figure it out.

"Mom." He plops on the couch next to me with dirty, untied tennis shoes curling up next to my leg. I put down my laptop and set aside my work because there are moments when to focus you must focus. There are conversations that must be had without the whirring of a cooling fan in the background. Moments when to live we must actually be present.

I turn towards him. "What's up?"

"If I had been born a long long time ago then I couldn't be friends with my cousins." He recognizes the journey our humanity has trekked. "Why's that honey?" 

"I learned in school that people didn't used to get treated equally. And that was really really bad. Because all of the people in the world are the same, you know. And skin colors and just your outside parts and your hearts are all good if you have love for other people."

My son is profound, precious, prophetic. His big, lashed eyes blink at me. I affirm him. "You're right. All of God's people deserve love and respect, no matter our differences." 

He shuffles and stands up. "Even monsters and saber-toothed tigers" he grins and runs off laughing. Because for all the seriousness he is still my little boy.

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