CREEK ROAD GANG
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Thoughts from the Editor:
September 2010
copyright 2010
One of my vivid memories from when I was a very little girl is of sitting at my little table with my younger brother Johnny just after one of us had spilled our milk. “Not on my freshly waxed floor!” my mother cried. We didn’t mean to; we couldn’t help it. Small children are clumsy, and born to spill whatever liquid in glasses their loving parents offer them; not every time, mind you, but too often for comfort. And my mother had an unfortunate habit: she washed and waxed our kitchen floor every week. No matter when we spilled our milk, it was always spilled on a freshly waxed floor.
I remember my poor mother on her hands and knees with a towel, wiping up milk, and wailing about the floor. Johnny and I would say we were sorry, and we would sit quietly, feeling sad and guilty. But this particular time that I remember, as my mother was delivering a soliloquy on spilled milk, Johnny and I glanced at each other and were instantly struck with an almost overwhelming urge to laugh.
We knew we shouldn’t. We looked away from each other. We covered our mouths with our hands and tried our hardest to keep the giggles from escaping. We almost managed it.
But then Johnny laughed, and I followed.
“It’s not bad enough that you spill milk on my freshly waxed floor!” my mother said. “Now you’re going to laugh about it?”
“We weren’t laughing about the spilled milk, Mummy,” Johnny claimed.
“No? Then what are you laughing about?” she demanded.
He was little enough that he thought his excuse was believable. “I just remembered a very funny joke.”
When I became a parent, I was determined that I would be understanding about spilled milk, a stance that was easier to hold in an era of no-wax floors. When the kids spilled, I’d say, “These things happen.” Then I’d wipe up the mess.
Uncomplicated, low drama, but – you knew there’d be a but – but my husband and I didn’t agree on my approach to spills. This wonderful man, who I swear would do backwards somersaults if necessary to indulge a dog, believed that children needed a bit more discipline. “When you say ‘These things happen,’” he told me, “you’re not encouraging them to do better.”
“They can’t help it,” I said.
“But you can encourage them to learn to be more careful,” he argued.
His words were falling on deaf ears. I was committed to the approach of “These things happen,” and he just had to get used to it.
But it irritated the heck out of him, as he frequently told me.
We were traveling from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts one spring, our daughter a few months short of three years, and our son ten months old. It’s a long drive for little ones, and when we stopped in western Massachusetts for dinner, our daughter was thrilled to be released after having spent hours strapped in her car seat. We were ushered to a booth, and she got a booster seat, which she found delightful. She wiggled and stretched, and wiggled and stretched, and wiggled some more.
“Sit still,” her daddy said. “You’re going to fall.”
She sat still for a minute or two, and then the wiggling started up again.
“Sit still,” he repeated.
She tried, but it didn’t last.
“You need to sit still!”
She tried again, but suddenly, she and the booster seat fell, disappearing under the table.
My husband jumped up, but before he could retrieve her, that little redhead climbed up off the floor with a huge smile on her face, and said, “These things happen, Daddy.”
I’ll let you imagine for yourself the look he gave me.
This month, when I was planning to talk about launching our second year of Creek Road Gang, the seasonal changes in September, vacation over, kids back to school, etc., etc., etc., I find instead that we are running late in getting our September issue up and running. Sometimes life intrudes on our agendas, and we have to readjust. The best laid plans of mice, men and editors ....
As I often say, these things happen.
Early, late, or right on time, I hope you enjoy the wonderful work of our writers in each issue of Creek Road Gang.
I remember my poor mother on her hands and knees with a towel, wiping up milk, and wailing about the floor. Johnny and I would say we were sorry, and we would sit quietly, feeling sad and guilty. But this particular time that I remember, as my mother was delivering a soliloquy on spilled milk, Johnny and I glanced at each other and were instantly struck with an almost overwhelming urge to laugh.
We knew we shouldn’t. We looked away from each other. We covered our mouths with our hands and tried our hardest to keep the giggles from escaping. We almost managed it.
But then Johnny laughed, and I followed.
“It’s not bad enough that you spill milk on my freshly waxed floor!” my mother said. “Now you’re going to laugh about it?”
“We weren’t laughing about the spilled milk, Mummy,” Johnny claimed.
“No? Then what are you laughing about?” she demanded.
He was little enough that he thought his excuse was believable. “I just remembered a very funny joke.”
When I became a parent, I was determined that I would be understanding about spilled milk, a stance that was easier to hold in an era of no-wax floors. When the kids spilled, I’d say, “These things happen.” Then I’d wipe up the mess.
Uncomplicated, low drama, but – you knew there’d be a but – but my husband and I didn’t agree on my approach to spills. This wonderful man, who I swear would do backwards somersaults if necessary to indulge a dog, believed that children needed a bit more discipline. “When you say ‘These things happen,’” he told me, “you’re not encouraging them to do better.”
“They can’t help it,” I said.
“But you can encourage them to learn to be more careful,” he argued.
His words were falling on deaf ears. I was committed to the approach of “These things happen,” and he just had to get used to it.
But it irritated the heck out of him, as he frequently told me.
We were traveling from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts one spring, our daughter a few months short of three years, and our son ten months old. It’s a long drive for little ones, and when we stopped in western Massachusetts for dinner, our daughter was thrilled to be released after having spent hours strapped in her car seat. We were ushered to a booth, and she got a booster seat, which she found delightful. She wiggled and stretched, and wiggled and stretched, and wiggled some more.
“Sit still,” her daddy said. “You’re going to fall.”
She sat still for a minute or two, and then the wiggling started up again.
“Sit still,” he repeated.
She tried, but it didn’t last.
“You need to sit still!”
She tried again, but suddenly, she and the booster seat fell, disappearing under the table.
My husband jumped up, but before he could retrieve her, that little redhead climbed up off the floor with a huge smile on her face, and said, “These things happen, Daddy.”
I’ll let you imagine for yourself the look he gave me.
This month, when I was planning to talk about launching our second year of Creek Road Gang, the seasonal changes in September, vacation over, kids back to school, etc., etc., etc., I find instead that we are running late in getting our September issue up and running. Sometimes life intrudes on our agendas, and we have to readjust. The best laid plans of mice, men and editors ....
As I often say, these things happen.
Early, late, or right on time, I hope you enjoy the wonderful work of our writers in each issue of Creek Road Gang.
~ Kate Lydon
