Saturday Morning....Seen One, Seen 'Em All.

I feel rather sorry for the vast majority of Americans who will never know what it is to be in possession of a good many little people, because the interplay is priceless and not reproducible on any satisfactory level.

Being isolated in Austin affords the opportunity to ruminate and enjoy (or otherwise, as the case may be) this aforementioned interplay as our family is always together. (The exception being Jon who is a field sales man and thus on the road much of the time).

Saturday mornings are essentially one and the same. First, it is the one morning in the week where I do not have to get up at any particular time nor do I need to do anything particular. (The joke every Saturday morning is "What time do we have to be at the abortion clinic? Where's the parade this afternoon? and so on and so forth, the scarring memories of my past life as an activist not being that far removed from the memories of my children).

Of course, the laundry must be done (I stain treat and start the loads and Jonathan Jr. takes over from there), and advance planning for whatever Sunday activities/meals are in store, but there is no agenda per say. Since the master bedroom is in the back of the house and more like a bunker than a bedroom having no windows to the outside world, there is no chance of birds singing or sun shining to beckon me forth (sniff, sniff).

However, there are 3 little boys who share the room down the hall, and they are intimately aware of when the sun rises, the lizards are again in play, and it is time for battles to be staged, pillow fights to be launched, and forts to be erected. Next down the hall the girls slumber peacefully and rarely venture forth of their own will, and at the end of the hall is Bomethius, the resident teenager, who needs vast quantities of sleep within his man cave which is littered with books and musical instruments.

Around 7am it begins. Oliver arises--an occurrence that is heralded by the sounds of someone bounding from his bed, pawing at the bathroom door knob, clunk goes the toilet lid, a sound akin to pressure washing, flushing, and then a return to the bedroom which seems to be a path riddled with potholes, large trees, angry and hostile giants, and perhaps some artillery. Oliver, having safely made it back to the bunker, surveys the peacefully slumbering combatants. Gabriel, being the most accessible in his little youth bed against the wall, is his first victim.

His approach is always the same, and will probably give Gabriel life long nightmares that would give Vietnam vets some measure of sympathy. He bounds atop Gabriel in the spirited exhilaration of a Greek god going into battle knowing himself to be immortal. "Let's fight, let's fight" Oliver eagerly cheers while the little Gabriel in a slumbering haze, emerges from blankets wishing himself in the top bunk.

Charles, having heard the ruckus from his top bunk perch, slowly sallies forth, feeling some measure of defensiveness for Gabriel's plight, and some measure of frustration for Oliver's exuberance. The battle is on, three boys embroiled with an energy field that would challenge black holes or Bermuda triangles. In short order screeching turns to laughing, thunks commence on all 4 walls, and one would think that the half dozen offspring are all in the same room.

The parental units are tired. The night before they were able to enjoy the sounds of a massive moth, whose girth would dwarf a humming bird, going through the 12 hour death rattle, flapping against the blinds, the walls, the fan, and so on and so forth. I didn't hear the sounds until nearly 5 am. "Who is there and what do you want," I whispered in the darkness wondering what kid was producing the very bizarre noise. "It is the stupid moth the boys caught yesterday," Jon responded,"or rather didn't catch but herded into our bedroom." I had seen the moth the day before. I supposed it had gone into the sunroom which is connected to the sewing room which is connected to the master bedroom and so made its way to our room. Jon got up and headed to the bathroom, and I decided that if there was any hope for another hour of sleep, I would have to get the moth out.

I opened the door to the sewing room, turned on the light, and carefully got back to my bed hoping the moth would be attracted to the light. The moth was incapable of being attracted to anything, his remaining energy being saved for wildly careening into walls and furniture, its final hoo-ray for bidding this cruel world farewell. I must confess that it was alarming to observe something so big flailing about, and I cowered under my blankets with a "please God don't let that thing come over by me!" Yes, it is rather shameful. I had the good sense to at least laugh at myself in a valiantly mocking tone. Thankfully, God either answered my prayer or the moth had pity on me. At any rate it landed under the armoire and breathed its last with a final flutter of its broad wing span.

So back to the boys and the Saturday morning ritual. The noise level had reached that point at which the slumbering teenager decided to take action. He burst onto the battle field hissing threats with an aggression that would have floored most transgressors. But this crew was accustomed to such things and merely blinked back with unconcerned amusement, waited for Jonathan to return to his room, and resumed their battle.

Next up, mom had "had enough!" words frequently heard around our place. So I opened the door and hissed that everyone better get back in bed, NOW. Then I got back to my side, pulled the covers over and attempted to return to Zzzz land. The boys know the drill. They merely must reduce the noise level so that mom reaches a point of slumber such that she will not be motivated to re-emerge. So within short order they were back at it. Finally, the last strains of the last movement in the Requiem gave way, the notes Jonathan and I were waiting for.

The King of the Castle had had enough--words he never says but doesn't need to. Jon got out of his bed with the authoritative air that cannot be mimicked- you either have it or you don't, opened the door and bellowed forth a remonstrance that meant certain execution for rebellion to his supreme command. Silence immediately ensued save a little voice belonging to the pint size prima donna who sang a song of her own spontaneous making with complete calm and unconcern for the uproar. The General delivered another bellow and Vivian was taken from the throne of her imagination and sent back to the reality of the life of the other soldiers. Real silence enveloped the fort, Jonathan and I grinned from opposite ends of the hall in the darkness, and slumber was happily resumed.

My apologies for having relayed this tale with regular changes of verb tense. As it is a scene that has happened, is happening and will happen again, it lends itself to a confusing tapestry of tense that would make every grammar teacher shudder and bemoan any hopes of my children gaining an acceptable command of the English vernacular under my tutelage. It is my hope that this person will soon arrive and take over so I can go back to my other world and have my school room exposure happily reigned in.