Conundrum is defined as a confusing or difficult problem or question. Additionally it’s described as a riddle who’s answer is or involves a pun.
For the last two days it has quite literally poured. Rain is one of those funny things. While our grass and plants desperately need the hydration, those of us with small children actually curse its presence as it creates a cloaking shield around your home trapping all of the residents inside.
The mother has come to believe that those people who claim to find some kind of catharsis and spiritual rejuvenation from the workings of rainy days do not have small children. The mother both mocks the notion of curling up by a fireplace, hand enveloping a freshly percolated espresso, snuggled under a white blanket as something only conjured up in Jane Austin books and yet secretly wishes it was her reality on this torrential morning. Certainly everything about that idealized picture would be terrifying if Ms Austin had indeed known the brunette……flames…..hot lidless beverages….anything white….this just screams trouble.
Stirring from her momentary daydream the mother returns to the notion that in spite of the rain the children have a class that morning and they actually must leave the house in the rain. Potentially the only thing worse than feeling trapped by the rain is foolishly deciding to forge ahead and navigate it with small children and yet we assume the risk…this is a conundrum. She takes a deep breath and prepares herself for the loading. Much like a reaping a loading is a ceremonial process, complete with all elements excluding only the sacrifice of a goat.
The mother is uncertain why the same children who not 38 minutes prior to the loading found themselves bored and meandering the home in a zombie like state are now literally enthralled and cannot possibly be pulled away for the riveting world of imagination into which they now find themselves in their play room….this is a conundrum.
She calls (much like a battle cry) towards the direction of the boy, the blonde and the brunette, “okay, people let’s move. Shoes! Jackets!” her tone is upbeat and optimistic. Only the brunette abandons her anticlimactic wooden peg puzzle to literally run towards her shoes. Often chided for wearing shoes in the house she is a child who loves her accessories and any time she is actually given authority to put them on, runs not walks to the shoe cubby.
Possessing a 50-50 chance of successful shoe placement…the brunette somehow puts them on the incorrect feet nearly 100% of the time….this is a conundrum. The mother takes note to later consider these odds which are unnaturally and inexplicably higher than they should ever be under normal circumstances and wishes she knew a statistician with which to ponder one of life’s unexplained mysteries.
The mother adjusts the brunettes shoes to the correct feet.
The boy and the blonde have not moved.
The mother claps her hand as if training small creatures in a Sea World show, transitioning her previously optimistic tone into one a tad more jaded and clipped. “Guys! Shoes….let’s go…..we’re going to be late.” The startle affect seems to be the missing catalyst to snap the blonde out of her Fisher Price doll house trance and call her to action. Her shoes are quickly put on and she focuses her efforts towards the jacket.
The boy has not moved.
The mother ignores the boy, focusing her energy on the blonde and the brunette in order to achieve some sense of progress. The blonde cannot put on her own jacket successfully and the inability sends her into 3 year old girl spiral, dripping with prepubescent angst and irrational levels of toddler rage. The blonde throws the coat onto the floor. In the rant, the sleeve of the jacket appears to graze the brunette. The brunette responds as if liquid hot magma has been poured onto her head and screams. The mother pulls the imaginary referee whistle out of her shirt pocket and sends the blonde and the brunette to virtual corners in an attempt to diffuse the escalating emotions. The baby blinks from her perch on the nearby rug highly amused by the screaming game the blonde and the brunette seems to be playing. She squeals and drool flows from her mouth.
The mother switches the shoes back to the correct feet on the brunette who at some unknown time had rebelliously switched them back. Why does she insist on taunting the mother in this manner…this is a conundrum.
The mother looks to the baby who’s onsie is 37% saturated in saliva, assessing the time to change the baby and the fact that should the blonde and brunette leave her visual landscape she might return to find shoes and jackets completely removed….this is a conundrum. The mother elects to simply ignore the dampened onsie and put a sweatshirt onto the baby in the interest of sanity and time.
The mother tells the blonde and the brunette to get into the van and leaves them momentarily, returning to the play room to retrieve the boy. “Son. What are you supposed to be doing right now?” the mother asks realizing she has ultimately set the boy up for failure with this open ended dialogue. Clearly if he had been tracking at all with the activities of the last 8 minutes would have been aware of the impending departure. The boy shrugs. The mother repeats her daily chide “focus son, focus” and simply points towards the garage.
The mother hears screaming. The blonde and the brunette have been left alone for more than 137 seconds. The mother sprints back to the garage…the boy follows as nothing intrigues him more than an unexplained throw down by the blonde and the brunette.
The mother separates the sisters who have not made any progress in getting into the van and chants “Girls! Inside voices….good choices!” The mother has become seemingly unaware she has begun to speak in Suess-like rhyme at increasing levels throughout her day.
The mother loads the baby into the car grabbing empty water bottles from the van she returns to the house.
The mother ushers the boy and the blonde towards the van, fills the water bottles and places the brunettes shoes back onto the correct feet, scooping her up.
The mother, carrying three water bottles and the brunette to the car telling the boy and the blonde to sit down and put on their seat belts. The baby looks on, smiling.
The mother gathers a small collection of trash from the floor of the van returns to the house to retrieve her keys and her phone.
The mother returns to the van and tells the boy and the blonde again to sit down and put on their seat belts. The baby looks on, smiling.
The boy, the blonde and the brunette who have just eaten breakfast not 90 minutes prior, fain hunger, pleading for a snack. The mother returns to the house to retrieve sustenance.
The mother returns to the van with snacks in hand, only to find the boy and the blonde still not in their seats. The mother initiates her gamma ray eye glare stare. The boy and the girl immediately take their seats.
The mother, administers snacks, finally runs around, and jumps into her seat. Beginning to back the van out of the garage bay, the mother abruptly stops, recalling she has forgotten the baby’s bottle she runs back inside to retrieve it.
The mother jumps back into the van, bottle in hand, making a second attempt to leave the house….all the while thinking….this outing better be worth it after all this effort.
Rolling down the driveway, the mother notices the brunette has completely taken off her shoes…..why did she even bother? The mother sighs and makes a note to stop for coffee.
The motherhood in technicolor memos: On a personal note, in the future, ignore all actions performed by the brunette in regards to her shoes.
As parents, if you decide to leave your home with four small children….remember it’s a bit like herding cats and the reasons for leaving the house had better significantly outweigh the absurd process referred to as the loading otherwise there isn’t going to be any singing in the rain for anyone.
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Summer Smith is a speaker, writer, and motherhood blogger. She and her family are currently navigating the suburbs of Northern Virginia. As the mother to four young children, Summer maintains her sanity thanks to her sense of humor, copious amounts of coffee, and Amazon Prime. Maya Angelou once said, when reflecting on her childhood, that her mother left an impression like technicolor stars in the midnight sky. Influenced by these words, Summer blogs at her website Motherhood in Technicolor, and can also be found on her Motherhood in Technicolor Facebook page.