Peanut Butter Diary

Last week my oldest daughter called to report a problem with her

oldest daughter. Her daughter is ten and she is excelling, not only at

school, but at sassiness. Discipline has been a challenge. “If you don’t get

off your i-pad, you lose dessert.” Her response might be, “Good. I hate

dessert!” (That is not true.)

Next, she’ll try, “If you don’t clean your room, you can’t go out and play

in the snow.” Her response, “Good, I hate the snow.” (That is not true.)

I can feel her blood pressure rising on the phone. Her husband tells her

they are too much alike. “You are fighting with a younger version of

yourself,” he says.

Fortunately, when the kids were young, I wrote journals in bed every

morning, while I sipped my coffee. I have documented evidence of

their behavior during their childhood years. I never planned to root

through them for evidence. I just thought I’d have good memories of

when they were kids. Now I’m holding my stomach laughing with one

hand and I have the other hand reaching for Advil just reading a few

of these treasures.

The first journal held stories of peanut butter swirls. Not on bread; on each other.

I had gone to get fresh towels out of the dryer when one of the genius’s

decided peanut butter would be a fun activity. I arrived back in the

bathroom, to a very strong fragrance of peanut butter. They had their

backs to me as they attempted to scamper back into the tub. By the time

I noticed the front of their bodies, the water was a caramel color.

They had slathered chunky peanut butter all over each other. Their chests

were swirled as if they were serious artists. Of course, this was the expensive

organic brand that I bought to keep them free of preservatives. I’d just came

up the stairs, I asked, (Ok maybe I yelled) “Where did this come from?”

The youngest genius confessed. “It was under my bed. I was hungry last

night.” His sisters were busy trying to repair the broken swirls on their chests.

It had been a very long day, so I demanded, “Everyone out! Leave the peanut

butter in the tub. Do not re-apply it like sunscreen.”

It took twenty minutes to clear the peanut butter, organic chunky, no less, out

of the tub and drain. I could hear them chattering down the hall. I was convinced

they be ashamed of their behavior and have remorse.  

Instead, I overheard, “You are really a good artist. You even filled in your belly

button hole,” my middle child congratulated her older sister.

Not to be outdone, the oldest showed my youngest son why his peanut

butter, organic chunky, wouldn’t say on his chest. His hands were too wet.

He attempted to come dry them off in the bathroom, but I gave him my best

mean Mom face. He ran down the hall.

By the time I got them de-peanut buttered, organic chunky, I was ready for bed.

The phone rang. It was my Mom checking in. I reported the horror the of evening

tubby fiasco. She laughed harder and harder, as I told her more details.

“Anne, “she said, “These are the best years of your life!”

I almost cried into the phone, “Mom, why would you tell me that? It has to

get better! I’m going to go stick my head in the oven!” My husband reported

that the appliance man hadn’t arrived to replace the heating element yet.

I could try the dryer. 

With five kids growing up in our house, dull moments were rare. If things

were quiet, I got nervous. My heart even beat faster with the suspense

building. What were they doing now? Quiet was never a good thing.

Just the other day I found myself counseling my daughters. “Life goes by

so fast, yon need to relax in these moments and get your own journals.

You will forget all the little things that feel so huge today,” I said wisely.

I think my Mom may have been watching from Heaven to hear all three of us chime in. “Just like Nan

always said, these are the best days of your life.”

She was right.