I Can't Hear You

A few minutes ago I was sitting here looking at a blank screen with the thought that blogs were intended to be written with some sort of frequency and perhaps I should well, write.  My thoughts were interrupted with the screams of a child.  For the sake of anonymity we will say that they were coming from “Christopher Perry Johnson”.  Let me tell you about these screams.  They were along the lines of: “MOM!”  “MOM!”  “MOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!” 

Not to be one to let the distress of my child go unattended, I did the only thing I could do: I ignored him.  I flat-out pretended I could not hear him.  I even went so far as to try and time myself typing the alphabet to make it appear as though I was deep in writing thoughts and could not be torn away by mere sounds.  Why?  Because he was screaming in the hopes of having me stop what I was doing and go downstairs so that he could….wait for it…..TATTLE on his brother.   I know this because I know the sounds of my children’s screams.  And this one was a tattle scream; one that I refused to hear or acknowledge. 

At the same time, I heard another child (Alec) ask about putting away his own laundry with astounding clarity.  Suddenly my keyboard no longer held my interest and I took the time to not only answer his call, but also have a brief conversation about how appreciative I am of his initiative to help out.  All this loveliness was happening to the relentless auditory backdrop of “MOM, SERIOUSLY, I NEEEEEEED YOU”. 

There is one thing that I learned fairly early on in motherhood: Learn to distinguish the sounds your children make, and learn them quickly.  This will save a ton of time and energy and will, hopefully, someday, reinforce the knowledge that Mom will not come running every time your brother threw the ball in your face.  (Seriously, at some point, can we all just accept that maybe he has bad aim and a nice game of checkers might be a better choice?)

I learned this as surely as I learned that when your small child is playing on a playground and out of the corner of your eye you see him take a tumble, you never, under any circumstances, make direct eye contact.  And you only utter the words “Are you OK?” if you want to spend the next thirty minutes of your life participating in a boo-boo-fixing, cry-shushing, and make-the-other-moms-at-the-park-back-away-slowly-and-leave spectacle.  As any mom will tell you, drawing attention to it will only make it grow fangs that can drag you, your mood, and your well-laid plans for a lovely afternoon into that same offensive dirt that he should have been able to get up and dust off himself in the first place.

I feel comfortable in my choices to ignore the screaming “Christopher”.  I feel especially comfortable because, for the sake of accuracy, I did go downstairs and check on him.  And what did he want?  Help with a particularly difficult math homework problem?  To ask for help cleaning up an accidental spill?  To ask how he can help make his mom’s life easier by putting away his laundry?  Nope.  He wanted to tattle. 

I called it.  I ignored it.  I rock.