A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

I never understood everything that my parents went through raising my sisters and me, until I became a mother myself. So I've never really expected any kind of real appreciation or validation from my boys until they are older. Instead, I daydream about the day when they come to me, humbled and contrite, lamenting how they took me for granted, singing my praises and lauding my wisdom. Hey...a gal's gotta have a dream, right?

Recently, my youngest who is almost 8, has been uncharacteristically industrious, due to the fact that he absolutely must have this item, which costs $99:



We are a one income family, and while my husband earns a good living, we are not affluent to the point of dropping a hundred bucks on Legos unless it's a major gift giving holiday. Also, there's a good chance that in three months, Star Wars and Legos will be abruptly be deemed exceedingly uncool. My oldest child has been through so many toy crazes that our garage resembles the toy department at Goodwill; a vast graveyard of unwanted playthings.

Rescue Heroes? Got all 372 action figures, every vehicle, BOTH Command Centers and the URV. They are all in a jumbled heap in the garage, forgotten and forlorn, just waiting with eery inanimate hope for the distress call to be sounded one more time. Ditto with Thomas the Tank Engine, although he and his compatriots did enjoy an unusually long reign.

Therefore, they are usually required to purchase such items themselves. I know. I am the meanest mother on the face of the planet, a fact that has been brought to my attention more than once, usually when a friend has been given some extravagant gift for no apparent reason at all. This happens quite often, because although we ourselves are not particularly affluent, we do live in an affluent area, that is profuse with McMansions and swarming with Mammoth SUV's, Hummers, and luxury sedans.

My older son recently decided he must own a pair of custom made Nike Shoxx, complete with his name on the heel. The pricetag? $120. This child is growing at a rate that leaves me scrambling to keep him clothed, and I'm sure not spending $120 dollars on shoes that he will outgrow in a month. So he decided to save his money and buy them himself. A Shoxx wearing friend, upon hearing of this, commented with incredulity,

"Dude...don't your parents buy your shoes? That's just wrong man."

Not a surprising attitude, since said child received a $700 electric scooter for Christmas. The same kid, when invited to spend the night, was only over for an hour before asking if they could go to his house instead. The request was prompted by the fact that my son did not have his own computer, game system, or television. Apparently, sharing with other family members, namely, Diminutive One, seriously cramped his style.

He got the Shoxx. He scrimped and saved, and did without for many months. And when he at last he had enough to order the Shoxx, he was bursting with pride. He took care of those shoes like I have never seen him take care of anything, including Cat. Makes sense, I suppose, since he doesn't pay to feed Cat or patch him up when he (invariably) gets injured in a fight. I bet if he had to fork over $1200 for a vet bill, he would make sure the litter box was clean and remember to give Cat fresh water every now and then. Hmmmmm.

But I digress.

So, Diminutive One has been busting his little behind to earn money, taking on extra chores, and bargaining wages for every single task he can think of. He even offered to take on his brother's chores, with the stipulation that brother fork over an appropriate percentage of his allowance. The offer was rejected and so Diminutive One found himself once again on the prowl for gainful employment.

Yesterday while I was working out he came to me to discuss a fair wage for cleaning the downstairs bathroom. He knows I am likely to agree to just about anything when I am struggling for breath and dripping with sweat; arduously focused on getting through the workout without bursting an artery.

"Mom. I'm going to clean the bathroom. Will you give me $2?"

"Well, (pant) the bathroom isn't really (puff, step, puff) dirty (pant) Diminutive One."

"Yes, it is. You know we can't hit that toilet to save our lives."

"Okay, (pant, step step, pant) clean it."

"For $2? Or maybe $3? Bathrooms are worth $3."

"Yes, fine. (puff, puff, step) $3."

So he cleaned the bathroom, and to my surprise, he did a pretty darned good job. It was worth the $3, because they really can't hit the toilet to save their lives. I just don't get it. And I want to know what moron decided that men should pee standing up. But that's another post altogether.

I had finished exercising and the post workout Dasani I guzzled was kicking in. I opened the door to the bathroom only to encounter the baleful glare of diminutive one.

"What are you doing?" He demanded.

"I have to pee." I said, trying not to giggle at his furious scowl.

He heaved a very large sigh and said,

"Well, make sure you flush the toilet. I just cleaned it."

I looked at him and he looked at me. It took a moment to register, but the realization brought a blush to his freckled cheeks and embarassed smirk to his lips. He slapped his forehead dramatically and slumped out of the bathroom. Shaking his head he said,

"Just don't say it Mom. I get it."

I didn't say it. But as I sat upon on the sparkling porcelain, I reflected that sometimes, dreams really do come true.