Shed Saga 4: Or Why I Had Kids in the First Place

 

I have spent the summer obsessed with my two cute little-- ON SALE!!—sheds. I have sweated, literally and metaphorically—all the details of shed building. I have relied on the brains and brawn of my Sweetie to the point he has mused aloud about the (future) wisdom of only dating women who live in condos.

 I have been blessed with neighbors who loan tools—look Ma! It’s a pneumatic nail gun! 

I have a generous friend who invented a jig to –with only moderate risk to life and limb—roof my ridiculously steep roof. And then he roofed it.

 I have utilized every tool at my disposal and have purchased new tools when needed. Look Ma! It’s a staple hammer!

Then I remembered that I had one long term investment that I hadn’t yet called on: my children. Look Ma! I’m a mom! I’ll get the kids to do it!

Just kidding. I only had my kids because I wanted someone to unload the dishwasher who wasn’t me.

 When my boys were small, they were convinced this is why I gave them life—to listen to them sigh and complain for twenty minutes doing something I could have done in three. (I know because I’ve timed myself. The sighing, not the unloading.)

I sent a text to my Best Beloveds, asking for anytime they could spare. Beth and Cameron came and helped frame, sheet, and stand the walls for Shed One and later, built the floor for Shed Two. Jordan and Devin came one fine Saturday in early September and quickly assembled Shed Two from all the parts I had pre-painted (in an ill-conceived effort to keep up with My Own Personal Jones’) and that Mark had pre-assembled. In about four hours—including lunch-- we went from floor to full shed. All that remained was the roofing.

And the trim. 

And the two coats of paint that the shed warranty requires. 

I’m left wondering why I didn’t have more kids...I’m guessing it was the price of shoes.

For Devin

I wrote this a couple of years ago for my middle son...
On Monday, February 3--he became a parent.
I love you, Devin.

Circle of Life: John Shane Edition

On the second day of August, in the year of our Lord 2018, the Sume family experienced the upside of the Circle of Life.

John Shane Sume, six pounds, two whole ounces, made his way from his namesake’s arms to ours.

I have, on my phone, approximately 487 baby pictures, and if I happen to run into anybody I even think looks vaguely familiar, I’m happy to prove it. 

Little John-John—as I like to call him—is a pretty typical newborn. Meaning he’s very beautiful--with all those tiny fingers and toes—and clearly a genius. Seriously, the boy has benevolent-Rocket-Scientist-with-a-great-sense-of-humor-and-a-poet’s-soul written all over him. True, I had to write kind of small, because at 18.5” there wasn’t a lot of surface area to work with. But, I managed to squeeze it all in.

Anyway—that’s what’s new in the Sume Garden of Life, a brand-new, bouncing baby boy. We are counting our blessings.

The Dream

I heard your voice calling my name and it pulled me from a sound sleep and deposited me back in the waking world with a thump, not unlike a gasping fish dumped on the deck of a boat, gills straining.

You called my name. Not my given name that the world knows me by, but by my secret name. Mom, pronounced Mwaahm, in that way that only our own children can call us, name and need in one. "Mwaahm," and so I abandoned sleep, left my warm bed and hurried to the front door and unlocked it.

You were not there of course. You do not need me like that anymore. My work there is done, my role now more ceremonial, the name - an honoraria of the past.

I stood in the doorway, looking out into the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, trying to understand how this had all happened. You called me, I heard your voice, full of need of me, a touch of impatience that often accompanies the requests---demands, really—of all children, even our older children. Adult now, that voice--- yet somehow wrapped in the echo of infant past. I could hear your voice plainly, knew immediately which of my children it was that had required me. I heard your voice, muffled a bit from calling me through the thick walls and locked doors of time, but heard clearly; nuanced and immediately understood.

Where did you go? Where is the tiny infant, the curly-headed toddler, the little boy who once told me after a good night ritual, “When we kiss, it makes a sound like music,” where is that child?

My heart thumping from the adrenalin rush that propelled me from sleep to response; I return to bed. But not to sleep, merely lying there, waiting for the clock to move, waiting for daylight. Waiting for it to become a reasonable time to text you, to say good morning. Waiting to make contact, playing off my deep need to know you are all right, ‘Just wanted to check in,” I’ll say to the man who is my son. Perhaps this all seems silly to you. Not yet a father yourself, you don’t speak the same language I do. You do not yet live in the Land of Parenthood, your passport bears no stamps; your heart, no scars.

 Your time in the trenches will come. You will be pulled from sleep to answer a call. A small voice will demand water, a cry will come for comfort, and you will put aside your own needs, your own comfort, to answer.

 It will be the best job you ever have, answering that call in the night-- even if it only turns out to be a dream.