Since our marriage became filled with boys, it seems that all my Saturdays have been associated with a Season. There was always either a sports season or a hunting season, from football to basketball to baseball to deer hunting, to turkey hunting…and so on. Once, when school was out for the summer break, I challenged the boys as to what they would do with no season to dictate their activities. One of the older ones, now a seasoned teenager, replied with gusto, “Are you kidding, Mom? This is GIRL season!” (Our boys were normal, after all.)
As the boys grew older, I welcomed the Saturdays of the hunting seasons with mixed feelings. The good feelings were associated with the fact that the boys would have something to do that they could share with their dad, and the fact that if they should die in the woods, they would die happy. The not-so-good feelings came from the tsunami of activity that overwhelmed me on these days. There would be many hungry hunters, not only my men, but numerous friends who were in and out during the day. The level of expectation associated with those days was almost palpable as the camouflaged stealth hunters headed for the woods.
After their departure, things would be quiet and I could have tranquil time to myself. Then before I was ready, the scene would change. The house, particularly the kitchen, would become a cacophony of guns clicking, cartridges clattering, boots thudding, coveralls unzipping, and jacket snaps popping. There would be scuffling and jostling and joking and bragging. This was the time of the day that they enjoyed almost as much as going out initially. Because they never waited for “real” breakfast before leaving in the morning, there was nothing they loved more than homemade blueberry pancakes when they returned. I could watch three boxes of cereal disappear before the pancakes were finished, and there was always never enough milk. They enjoyed sitting around the table and re-living the morning’s exploits for hours. If they couldn’t make them vivid enough with words, they had the video cameras to back up their stories, and they could spend the major part of the day looking and analyzing every nuance of the morning’s experience.
By the end of the day, Saturdays were a blend of mud-caked boots, footballs scattered on the lawn, strew towels left from half-washed hands, shotgun shells scattered on the floor, shotgun pellets in the carpet, sometimes runny noses and wet beds, but always spontaneous hugs and aura of contentment. Their goal for the day was to pack in as much masculine activity as could possibly be experienced, and my goal was to record in my mind the memories.
We must have both succeeded, because as I think about our present day Saturdays, I realize that the purpose of them now is to recreate the experiences, emotions, sights and sounds of Saturdays past. What I have now is a house that is still filled with on occasions with grown men dressed in “camo” who are the same little boys in their hearts. The competition is still there. My serenity is still disturbed, only now it’s usually with apology. The blueberry pancakes are still a favorite treat, but almost every bite is taken with expressed appreciation. Instead of writing in my journal to enable me to cope with my blessings for another six days, I find myself reviewing my notes in order to remember the challenges and be able to encourage other young mothers who are coming behind my on the motherhood path.
Some days the only way I survived was to remind myself that life has its seasons. There would be a time when I could finish a telephone conversation without having to settle a dispute, and I could drink a whole cup of coffee at one sitting. Not always would one meal morph into the next before the dishes were done. One day they might even offer to help with clean-up. Somehow, in the midst of managing their college apartments, owning their own homes, and becoming responsible adult men, this season has arrived. Maybe this is MY season.
And it’s the best one of all.
