We use A LOT of words in our household. Some would add we use too many. This is probably true. Rare is the occasion when we don’t know how each other feels. You’d think we were first generation Italian just without all the good food. Occasionally, the word pollution can be too much, but it can also be really funny.
My young adult, triplet sons are merciless when it comes to ragging on each other. They are so quick witted with comebacks that I struggle not to laugh out loud at their lightening quick, verbal assaults. It seems no subject matter is off limits either. I might cringe on occasion, but I do have to admit that they are very creative in their put downs. Too bad there isn’t a paying summer job for their exceptional talent.
One such occasion was Mother’s Day about a year ago. Our family went to a steak house for dinner and was waiting to order when one brother looked across the table at the other and made an annoying comment about his haircut. Without any expression, the recepient of the comment deadpanned, “What? I can’t hear you through your perm.”
They can be merciless in poking fun at me too. Mom jokes are a team effort. “Type A++” is their description of me due to my incessant house cleaning. I also get compared to the You Tube video of the son dressed up as a mom yelling at everyone to, “Throw everything away! Make our house look like no one lives here!” Also, long ago two words became bad in our home: the “f” word (which was “fat”) and the “o” word (which was “old”). They may say a lot of things about me, but I don’t like to hear either when they tease me.
Our elderly chihuahua isn’t spared the heat either. She’s a 14 year old, 9 pound rescue. Her sight has deteriorated to the point she occassionaly walks into trees. She also has trouble hearing so one son renamed her “Helen Keller.” She doesn’t seem to care.
Recently, when inquiring what the triplets wanted for their birthday, I mentioned possibly getting all three ear pods. One son immediately countered, “First of all, it’s Air Pods, and secondly, I’d rather get a telescope and just steal their’s.”
I used to say the only mother I could relate to was on Animal Planet. My litter, like theirs, would tussle, prod, and generally aggravate one another until an indecipherable mass formed. It seemed as innate in them as it was in the wild. I tried everything to eradicate that instinct but failed. I suppose it’s natural when three or more come from one crammed womb. I finally just gave up and pushed furniture back or yelled at them to take it outside (mostly).
My boys seemed to always end up in a pile. This pile could be inside our house, in the yard, on a patch of grass at church (I hated it when they were all dressed up), on a playground, or even in the water. They looked like a three-headed triclops with numerous, flailing appendages. I’d ignore it (outside the water) as long as the noises emitted from said “pile” didn’t indicate pain. That sound was my cue to intervene with the water hose, pitcher of water or any other mechanism possible.
Dumbfounded at how to handle the situation as they grew in size and strength, I finally asked one of the boys what he would do if he were a parent and had three sons constantly wrestling and bothering each other. Being approximately 11 years old, he replied, “What do I look like…a social worker?” I asked him how he knew what a social worker was. Dead serious, he said, “I saw it on Sponge Bob.”
If you think I am about to share a sappy, bromance story you are highly mistaken. I am not referring to some mommy moment of actualized, parental expectations either. Instead, I am outlining how bonding became a criminal misdemeanor in the Turner household.
This is how the incident came to pass.
My husband and I planned a short outing nearby. We lived 90 seconds from a nearby restaurant. (We actually timed it.) We thought, “We need adult time and the boys are older now. We can steal away for a half hour. It will be fine.” I always fretted leaving them but our daughter was about 13, could call us and we were 90 SECONDS away. What could possibly happen in that short of time?
One brother, being easily bored, was in the art cabinet when he found a small tube of super glue. He may or may not have known its efficacy of attaching items together- one will never know. Apparently, he went to each of his brothers and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just stick your finger out…” Being interested and not realizing what they were doing, they stuck two fingers out and pressed two together. And just like that, four little fingers were super glued together. This “sticky situation” is our family’s definition of brother bonding. I’ve hidden the super glue ever since.