The One about Mommy and the (maybe) Sewing Machine

"Daddy! Daddy!"

The bright, high voice is clearly delighted.

"I punted the football between the fences!"

The next voice, an octave deeper, is slower-paced and slightly confused.

"You what? Wait... You kicked the football and it landed between our fence and Mr. Dave's?"
(We have chain link; the neighbors have wood privacy. The fences run closely parallel, creating a thin no-man's land between them and, increasingly, showcasing our wedged sports equipment through the grid of silver, against the backdrop of brown.)

"Yeah! Yeah! Isn't that cool?"

"OK. Well, have you thought about how you're gonna get it out?"

"Nope. I have NO idea. But, wait, I'm thinking of something.... [under the breath muttering commences]. And it MIGHT involve Mommy buying a sewing machine!"

I consider pretending I can't hear from the patio, my head buried in a laptop. Sigh. But an overriding Mom instinct kicks in.

"I HEARD THAT. And.... WHAT!? How does your plan involve me and sewing?!"

"Well..." Hesitation generally means the boy clearly wants to do something or say something he isn't sure he should do or say. Momentary fidgeting gives way as his own, boy instincts take hold.

"I gonna have to climb the fence, and I JUST might rip my pants."

He lifts himself into the links while I nod and purse my lips at his logic.

"Oh. Well, thanks for thinking of that, Miles! I'm glad you did. Just... um... try NOT to let it happen." (Meanwhile I think, "Can one repair a crotch hole with a $1.69 iron-on patch?")

...Clearly neither of us is as focused on the practical as we might believe, because the adult male voice stops us both short.

"WAIT. Miles. If you drop in there, how are YOU going to get out?" (The space is so narrow, it doesn't allow for climbing. The boy, along with the football, would be wedged in a shaft about 6 inches wide.)

Hmm...

I nod, again, (another fine point!) as Miles says, "OOOhhhhhh. Yeah... Well, we'll just have to think of another way. And it might involve poking sticks."

And so the pater familias, himself silently nodding at the "no, duh!" delayed thinking from the rest of us, directs the search for proper sticks and the slow, steady lifting of the object through the links.

Meanwhile, young master Owen (age 18 months) toddles in and out of the action wielding a badmitton racket and a tennis-size ball made of rubber bands. "Ug!" (Or, maybe, "Up!") "Ug, ball. Ug!"

This, my friends, is a perfect example of why we need each other in this life. Without two Brandt parents, our children might not make it out of the backyard alive. Or be able to save the sporting goods.

"Awwww! Oooooooo!" (We've switched to soccer as I type.) "I saved that one with my privates! That was AWKWARD."

"Ooogh, Mama! Oock!" ("Look?") A sippy cup is proferred while my head is still shaking from the unnecessary, inappropriate goalie blabber.

Then Jeremy calls Miles in for a shower and Owen (repossessing the cup and a pacifier but inadvertently dropping the Lamby) rushes behind.

I hadn't noticed nighttime on the way, but suddenly my laptop screen in the only clear light in the yard. Dark washes out all the daily drama. Wind rustles leaves and the low, steady buzz of traffic comes to the forefront as the household sounds fade. In the peace of newly fallen night, the crickets and I keep company in a circle of fallen toys, scraggly grass, a silent swing set and an untended goal.

It's a good life, this. A solid life. Amazingly, it's my life. All blessed mine.