Cookies, Kids, and Zombie Killers

I have two children, a main son to provide general mayhem and destruction, and a younger backup son for mental distress. Although the odds of them getting along is about the same as a double fudge brownie dying of old age in my kitchen, they take great pride when it comes to disturbing my peace. Sort of a parental trauma tag team.

Son Number One specializes in physical destruction. His responsibilities include punching holes in plaster, breaking small appliances, and clogging the plumbing. He holds a family record for mass destruction and once brought down an expensive light fixture with a simple fastball, high and tight. If you’re looking for a Rambo-style battle with water-based munitions in your living room or need to know how much Play Doh the ceiling fan will hold, he’s your man. His motto is “I didn’t mean to.”

Son Number Two specializes in emotional turmoil. He is responsible for the state of general untidiness in the house, having long ago mastered the art of talking his way out of cleaning his room, taking out the trash, and emptying the dishwasher. He is especially adept in the art of negotiations and can reduce an opponent to heavy sighs and hand-wringing without once dropping his video game controller. If he were an independent country, his national symbol would be the loophole. We expect him to have a successful career in government. Should monarchy come into vogue, he’ll be a natural.

One sunny spring day when all the world seemed fresh and new, the boys were playing together in their room. I sat at the computer composing an essay on the joys of motherhood. For a paying market.

“And that’s why motherhood makes my heart sing.” I typed the final strokes, leaned back, and wiped away a maternal tear.

“You can’t kill zombies!”

That’s not something I ever expected to hear. Until I had children.

“You can shoot ’em!”

I frowned thoughtfully. I needed to add some more endearing anecdotes.

“They’re already dead. You can’t kill something that’s already dead!”

Maybe how Ryan loved to help me with his baby brother. He would bring Jeffrey’s favorite toy lamb and help sing him to sleep.

“They’ve come back to life. Beat ’em with a stick!”

Or the time Jeffrey bought my Christmas present with his own money at the school store.

“I’ll beat you with a stick.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll cream you and your zombie army.”

Did I mention the children are now teenagers? They’d rather argue than eat. Unless I’ve got something artificially flavored on hand.

“There’s cookies in the kitchen.”

Exit two teenage boys, charging down the hallway like the bulls in Pamplona. There’s a crash. The Pamplona bulls never had to negotiate a tabby cat and two Cookie Hounds trying to beat them to the goodies.

In the kitchen, on separate plates, there are two kinds of cookies. One with chocolate chips, one with sprinkles. I have five minutes before Ryan polishes off the sprinkles and develops a sudden fondness for chocolate chips.

The essay needs a bit more length. I’ll add that cute story about Ryan coming out of church the sweltering Southern summer when his was six. He refused to listen to the sermon about humility because he thought the pastor said humidity.

Smiling with motherly love, I revised the word count.

“Zombies can’t eat cookies. They can’t eat anything. They’re dead.”

“How’d you like to see for yourself?”

At times like this, I think back to what Mom always told me. Whenever I came to her with my traumas and tantrums, she’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry, it’ll get worse.” She said it when I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, and she was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, it’s not the end of the world. Things will also get better. So if postponing the essay for a few minutes to Google “Zombie Facts” is the worst thing to happen today, life is pretty good.

Especially if there’s a chocolate chip cookie left.

This tale of zombie cookie love was first published in the February/March issue of The Wham Magazine.

Teenage Heroes

I got tagged by Erika, my favorite editor, and hardworking and talented developer of The Wham Magazine, for a meme that's thought provoking enough to make me set down my jelly doughnut and think for several seconds at a time. Why do I like to work at home?

I have a part-time job away from home. So why do I worry and work and stay up so late that people think the racoon rings around my eyes are permanetly etched on, laboring to get my at-home writing base up to speed?

Just now there are four teenaged boys in my living room. Their names are Twinkie, Fatt, Mini, and Seth. I’m not sure why they don’t call Seth by a nickname unless it’s because A) he has one, but I’m too old and parently-impaired to be allowed to hear it, or B) there’s not one awesome enough for a boy who can play the guitar with more ease than the rest of us strain spaghetti.

At present these guys are profoundly affected by the actions of several multi-colored creatures cavorting in cartoon-like battle rage on the television screen. Although they will all be eligible to vote come November, right now the actions of a round pink fellow with large, engaging eyes is more important to them than the actions of any of the candidates engaged in the brawl that is this year’s race for President of the United States. If any of the candidates ran on the Wii platform, they would secure the vote of teenagers all across the nation, and probably a few write-ins from outlying territories.

Following is a conversation taken from these actual teenaged boys. (Teenaged girls take note—these are authentic sounds used for communication in the wild. Not once did the subject of hair, nails, or what to wear to the mall enter into the conversation.)

Psychologists might make much of the fact that these guys seem preoccupied with death. But it’s nothing that a Care Package consisting of sodas and pizza can’t cure. Toss a bag of bite-size candy bars in the mix and they’ll swarm like yellow jackets in a State Park picnic zone. And there’s at least one of them that I know is partial to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

“We’re all gonna die!”

“Stop shooting me!”

“Ow! Stop killing me!”

"Dude!"

Silence broken only by the bip boop bang of electronic battle noises backed by cartoon music.

“Run in fear!”

“Where am I? I found me! I lost me!”

“I killed myself off by accident!”

“I’m not dead yet!”

“We’re all gonna die!”

“Am I dead?”

“Run!” (Various colored creatures dash in different directions like a box of Crayolas kicked across the playroom floor. Think Pac Man on speed.)

Eventually, these young men grow weary and tired of the trauma of death by colored laser blasts. Then they switch to a challenge that involves a miniature guitar and more colored notes onscreen than sprinkles on a sugar cookie. One of them wields the guitar like a superwizard wields a magic wand, and the powers of good and evil hang in the balance. The others watch in awe and I stop in the middle of my essay on grieving hearts to see this kid play a toy guitar like Clapton performing Cocaine. The song ends in onscreen applause and real life respectful silence broken only by a hushed, "Dude!"

So why do I like to work at home? Because I get interrupted mid-project by gangland activity fueled by carbonated beverages that I just brought home from the grocery store. Because food disappears from the refrigerator like I have an automatic Hoover installation in the door. Because it won’t be long before these young men have families and responsible jobs and haircuts that don’t touch the collar of their pinstriped suits.

So for now, I’ll plan to do a little extra work later on tonight so I can stop to cheer for a fifty note run in a song that was famous when I was in high school.

And maybe I’ll make a peanut butter sandwich and cut the crusts off.