The Scrap, The Shame & The Carwash

Last weekend, in typical Saturday-in-July fashion, we rolled out after lunch in search of an afternoon adventure.  First stop?  Our friendly neighborhood Smith’s.  Yes, that friendly neighborhood Smith’s where Sean got a new pointer finger.

We figured that since we were about to spend another 95+ degree afternoon driving around aimlessly, a cooler full of water and ice and several bags worth of bribes snacks would be a good idea.

While Ben ran in to grab supplies, the kids and I killed time two stalls over from the spot were I had parked when Sean got hurt.  I figured we could all use some happy memories from this parking lot and Cameron was happy to oblige.

 

And Kade smiled back from his seat in the back.  “Hi Mom.”

Somewhere in the middle of taking pictures, I was reminded once again that there’s a down side to having older kids to help out:  quality control. 

(Like how I blurred out all the road trip funk off Ash’s car seat?)

Somehow the older kids had grabbed Ash, dragged her out to the truck, got her buckled in, found her favorite story … but completely missed the whole she-has-no-pants-or-shoes-on thing. 

Kids. 

Thankfully, the odd remnants of 72 hr. kits past yielded a pair of toddler jeans and a bunch of trail mix packs from back in the days when we still had Alberston’s around.

Really, really time to rotate the food supply Smart Girl.

And so we headed out … and headed north … and headed for the first exit sign with promise.  Instead, we got off in Willard and found ourselves in the terribly laid out parking lot of local landmark SMITH & EDWARDS.

This place is, well, freakishly huge; something of a pack rat’s dream with 60 acres of outdoor “scrap” and 170,000 sq. feet of retail space (think Super Walmart with really low ceilings, narrow isles and three times as much crap stuff).  The place bills itself as a military surplus store-- just the kind of place to find that perfect air raid siren, 300 lb. naval buoy or ammo cases.  Ben and I took one look at the outside lot and immediately came to the same conclusion:

Hell no.

Six kids who scatter like buck shot running loose over acres of empty bomb shells, jeep wheels and camo nets?  This will not end well.

So instead we opted to peruse the inside for another short-lived adventure.  We came in the front door and looked down the first isle and all 48 side isles … and then saw that this was only one tiny area of a store that their website says includes:

western tack sales and manufacturing, western jewelry, clothing, coats, footwear, hunting, fishing, marine, water sports, toys, housewares, hardware, automotive, paint, U.S. and international military surplus, camping, backpacking, climbing, caving, search and rescue, emergency preparedness, and an extraordinary selection of dutch oven cookware.

I’ve never counted to six or spun around in circles looking for kids so many times.  Ever.  Ben and I shot each other the Head For The First Exit You See look, which unfortunately still meant 20 more minutes of walking and circling and wandering. 

The verdict:

Cool store to go putz around in for an afternoon when you’re trying to induce labor … and have access to GPS…and cell phones with texting.  Staying inside one second later with TDHD would likely have required the services of Weber County Search and Rescue.

And so we headed outside towards the death-trap of a parking lot when TDHD started begging to stop by the tank-artillery-big barrel-bomb-sign-thingy.

Sure.  Why not.

Our adventure to this point was a bust so why not spend some quality time playing inside a blistering hot WWII tank.

And so they did.  See?

And just as we left, a child who shall remain nameless shamed our family.  We’re talking pull my hat down over my eyes and walk away kind of shame. 

Smith & Edwards,  classy joint that it is, has it’s restrooms outside.  Most of the kids said they had to go when we first got there.  After two seconds inside, all of them tumbled out gagging, rattling off profound statements like, “Mom, that place stinks!”  and “Mom, nobody flushed in there—nobody!”

I laughed.  Really hard.  Because I realized it was my kids’ first experience with port-a-potties and their innocent disgust was just plain funny.

But on the way out, a couple of the kids decided that they really did have to go.  And so they held their noses … and made it quick … and I stood close counting bodies in stalls … and directing kids across traffic to the truck.  And it almost went fine until the shame thing happened.  One of the kids hopped out of the truck and raced back to the stalls.  “What are you doing?” I shouted at Nameless Kid as he slammed the stall door.  And then from inside he shouted back nice and loud so that everyone could hear, “I didn’t wipe my bum very well!  I can still feel the poop in my bum and it’s nasty!”

*This is where I melted into the pavement Wicked Witch of the West style.*

And a second later when he bounded out, “I got all the poop off Mom.  Whoa.  Much better.”

One elderly couple walking past looked disgusted.  Everyone else’s OMG faces eventually turned to fits of laughter.  And I … I was left there trying to figure out how I was going to make my way to the truck with my hat pulled down over my face.

The only thing left to do in Willard was pay $10 to watch other people with lives and quiet, toilet trained kids launch boats into the lake.  Since we aren’t cool, don’t own a boat and have noisy, dirty kids, we passed.  After a bust of a trip, we headed home.

When we rolled in, black clouds were moving across the mountains and dropping down into the valley.  I crossed my fingers for a great storm and anything to break up the heat.  While the older five kids went outside to play, Ben sacked out on the couch and Ashy crashed in my lap.  I love it when she does that.  I can feel her “babyhood” slipping away so I soak up this time when ever I can.

For the next half hour, I just laid their enjoying the stillness as clouds continued to build.  The moisture in the air added an extra mugginess that made me impatient.  Rain already, I kept thinking.  Instead I watched kids come and go while one of my favorite Sting songs played in my mind:

And then … at five o’clock exactly, I heard the little patters of rain and the squeal of kids outside.   And though I hated to move my baby, the rain was calling.  So I snuggled her in safely with her daddy and went outside on the front steps to watch the rain. And by rain, I mean sprinkles.  Just enough to cover the car,  but not enough to worry about rolling up the windows. 

 

Savannah rushed out the front door excitedly and pointed to the clouds.  “Mom!  It’s your favorite storm!”  I smiled.  I love that my kids know that Mom loves storms and that Mommy grew up with rain.  And so the big five moved out to the front yard to play--which I rarely let them do--while I took the whole thing in.

“Look Mom,” Kade and Savannah called out.  “Puddles!” 

And even though I smiled and nodded, I couldn’t help thinking that the skiff of water they were standing in wasn’t even close to a puddle.  The lame-o sprinkles were barely enough to wet the ground and did nothing to break the heat.

Come on storm.  Get going.

But, even though I’m a storm snob, the kids loved every second.  They ran around … and stomped stepped through puddles … and played Monsters vs. Aliens in the driveway … and never stopped laughing.

I love getting pictures of my kids like this:  dirty from good, hard play … damp from a light rain … happy from the thrill of backyard adventures that only imagination can provide.

And seeing this kid scowl  just like  his dad when I told him to hold still for a picture made me so happy.  And a little weirded out.

And this beautiful girl ….

She frolicked (yes, frolicked), and danced and waved to every . single . car that drove by in the most genuine Welcome To The Neighborhood sort of way.  It was infectious.  See?

I’m sure every single car on our road felt the love.

About this time the kids started clamoring for food and dinner and other important stuff.  And this sounds terrible, but I had no desire to make it happen.  I was loving the drizzle rain and just sitting and enjoying the afternoon.  So I told the kids to grab the stale trail mix and water bottles out of the truck and have at. 

And the funny thing is that TDHD thought that Mom was so cool to let them have candy for dinner. 

Such a good mom.

While we sat on the steps eating, it actually felt like it was getting hotter, not cooler.  And we noticed several cars of people driving around with windows down to enjoy the breeze and the rain. 

Bingo.

And so ignored that Savannah was tossing her raisins into the rose bushes and that Sean was spitting his peanuts out onto the lawn, and loaded up the kids for a drive.

“Pop and suckers?” Dylan asked.

Absolutely.

And it was great.  The breeze and sprinkling rain and music cranked up was awesome.  This is summer, I thought.  This feels right.

On the way to our favorite corner store with the awesome drive thru and free kids suckers, the kids asked if this was the biggest storm I’d ever seen.  “Not even close,” I told them.  “Guys,” I said, shooting my mouth off, “this is a total wuss storm.  It’s barely raining, it’s still crazy hot and there’s no thunder or lightening.  Mr. Storm here seriously needs to bring his A-Game or go home—“

--and just then a loud clap of thunder rumbled over head, followed a second later by a brilliant burst of lightening.

And I DIED laughing.

I think the kids thought Mom was crazy for practically keeling over in laughter.  “I can’t believe it! …” I managed in between gasps for air. “Mr. Storm just got called out by a housewife from Utah.  Someday you’ll understand why that’s absurdly finny.”

And as we sat at the drive thru window waiting for our drinks, the rain started coming down.  Hard.  I mean really, really hard.

And I am not at all embarrassed to admit this, but I squealed. Loudly.

I turned around all giddy like and I told the kids in a breathless I Can’t Believe That I’m This Excited but, Dude I’m This Excited way that this—this was a storm.  And that we were going rain dancing. Now.

So I grabbed our drinks and pulled into the carwash lot next door.  “Everybody out,” I announced.  And with shrieks and giggles, everyone did. 

And man did we dance.

  

And we splashed and stomped and chased and laughed until poor Seanry started shivering and I worried that my camera might never recover from getting soaked.

While the kids climbed in … and got seatbelts on … and asked Mom to turn off the cold heat and turn on the hot heat … and squeezed water out of their hair out all over seats …

… I sat watching the whole thing in the rear view mirror.

And out of nowhere I got hit with a wave of gratitude and emotion.  I suddenly realized that I needed to let go of the Mom Guilt for not being able to give my kids Disneyland or Bear Lake or even a real day trip.

My kids were happy.  Truly happy.  And all it took was a good storm and a carwash.

I was reminded once again that I needed to stop holding their childhood hostage from everything I think they should have and just let it be.  And I could imagine the Lord talking to me the way I talk to my kids sometimes:

What part of smiles and laughter and time together do you not get?

So I closed my eyes for a second to repent for wishing for more than I needed:

Thank you, Father, for this storm.

Thank you for these kids.

Thank you for this life.

And to remind myself that I was actually here for this moment, I even snapped a quick shot of my drowned rat badness just to prove it.

Hi mom.

In the short drive home, the kids chatted about who splashed the biggest and which puddle was the coolest, all while the hot heat fogged up the windows and warmed up soaked bodies.

Summer hot spot?  Today ours was letting-go-and-making-your-own-magic-at-a-carwash.

Happy, happy summer.