Dinosaurs in the Kitchen

Over the holidays, I was swatting at cobwebs dangling from our 12-foot ceilings when I again noticed the Velociraptor. His four-inch body lives on a chandelier in my kitchen. He is green and yellow and has a little magnet in his nose, which enables him to adhere to light fixtures, corners of sheetrocked walls and anything metal. I know because that's where he's lived all of his life. At our farm in Douglasville, he had his domain over the hall, perched high on an upstairs corner for many years. When we made the very difficult move from that wonderful home, one of my sons carried him here in a pocket and searched for a special place to transfer him to. He reached up with his absurdly long arms (attached to an absurdly tall body) and placed the Velociraptor on one of the ancient light fixtures in the kitchen, where no one else could reach it without a ladder.

Every time I happen to notice the plastic antedeluvian hanging by his nose from up there, I have a multiple flashback moment. I think of my four children and their adolescences. Our family is not normal. The whirl of images in my mind of those years brings laughter, incredulity, not a few goosebumps, and a new wave of amazement that no one got burned, killed or swallowed up by something. 

All of my kids took great pleasure in trying to touch the 9-foot ceiling in the kitchen. With time, practice and more muscles, they took to bumping it with their heads. There were antics involving jumping from a standing position onto the top of the galley island. Eventually there was a winding crack in the tile, spanning the kitchen and laundry room, caused by a boy creature jumping back off the island onto the floor. 

One memorable day, one of said creatures was jumping over the bar stools that stood sentry. One bar stool -- victory! Two bar stools -- eureka! So let's turn the two bar stools face to face, making the trajectory another foot longer. Here comes the gyrating backup into the laundry room, and then the dash and leap. Mama is sitting in the dining room when the manchild flies over the stools, grazing and toppling the second one onto the tile floor. With a crash, screams of agony, and splinters flying....the stool explodes as the beastie howls in pain. Then laughter, from him and everyone in the room. More snorting and then caution, as Papa runs to Mama's side, where her chair leg is shattered and about to collapse. Meanwhile, everyone is laughing and nobody is in trouble.

I told you we're not normal.

I think of perils -- children flying off absurdly high tire swings, jumping off cliffs into dubious waters,  diving, swooping, climbing, plunging, shooting things, digging into things, mud. Lots of mud. Wrestling matches indoors. Outdoors. Aerial attacks. Fake snakes and rats in my bed. In the microwave. Behind the toilet. Papa wouldn't let me hold them back. My boys became men because he expected them to work like men and then he let them be wild boys, playing with abandon. Liz jumped right in there with them, the calm amidst the storm, our discerning, not-so-tiny dancer. 

It was a whirlwind that hit and then left as quick as it came. When I glance up at the Velociraptor, I flash back in an instant. Sometimes I get a little misty, remembering, wishing for the past, wondering if it really happened, then smiling because I know you can only take so many of those years. These days, the boys come rushing back in with their families, bundles of energy and opinions, and Liz speaks her mind a lot more. That was then, this is now. But it's all good. I am blessed.