"Mom!"
The scream that comes from the boy's room is deafening. The knife in my hand stills while I wait to see if this is one of those situations I really do need to go in there for. Ryan's ten now--he just had his birthday last week. In an effort to avoid getting in trouble as often as he does, he informed me that I only need to show up if I've been called three times in a row. Apparently, if I show up after the first time Ian calls for me, the boy doesn't even get a swing in. According to Ryan, that's not fair. But this is Ryan's screams, not Ian's. It didn't used to be like this. It used to be Ian crying and screaming for help, but ever since I gave in and let Jim teach the boys how to fight, Ian's been coming out on top more often. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me proud. A few months ago, Ian started karate at the local rec center. Ryan lasted three classes before their sensei said he was too unruly to teach, but Ian's absolutely flourished in the classes. He started with his white belt, progressed to blue pretty quickly, and is on the verge of getting his purple belt. He's been working super hard for it, but it's not been easy. It's worth it, though. Marital arts is giving my kid a sense of power and control that seems to be healing him.
"Mom! Help! Mom!" Ryan's screaming again. With a sigh, I set down the knife and eye the pile of tomatoes I have yet to chop. I'm not sure how Rage convinced me to make the salsa for this weekend's upcoming barbecue, but he did. I like making salsa, don't get me wrong. But making salsa for four is a hell of a lot different than making salsa for over fifty people, half of which have stupidly large appetites.
"Um, Mom?" Ian's voice breaks through my thoughts now. It's tentative and loaded with probably about fifty bucks' worth of damage. Their room looked so nice when we first moved in. A few weeks later and it was officially broken in as the bedroom of two rowdy boys. Two rowdy boys who seriously don't understand the concept of "you break it, you buy it." So I take my time washing and drying my hands. They broke something, I already know it. And it's going to cost Jim money one way or another. I'm just hoping it's not another bone. My boys are tough as all get out until they're laid up on the couch, unable to move, and then it's like they're complete invalids. Broken arms I can deal with a lot better than broken legs. If it's a broken leg, I'm going to stay with Sylvia and Rage until it heals.
"I should go." I'm talking to myself aloud now. It might make me crazy, but it's not the first time I've been accused of such, so I go with it. "Good moms run to their kids' aide. They don't hide out in the kitchen, stalling."
"I don't think she's coming," Ryan says. He's shouting it, making damn sure I hear. Neither boy is bothering to come out, and they're not crying, so I know they're not in a lot of pain.
Ian speaks up, defending me like any good son should, saying, "She's not just going to leave us here."
I love that boy. As a nod to his faith in me, I walk to the fridge, pull out a beer, pop the top, and take a swig. I won't actually leave them there, but I'm not going to run to their aide either. They're not little boys anymore, and they don't get into little trouble, so they can learn to wait it out. I continue to enjoy my beer as they place bets on whether or not I'm going to come to their rescue.
"This is a very not-mom thing to do, lady," Ryan shouts. I snicker and shake my head while giving myself a mental pat on the back. Just when I'm feeling more mom-guilt than I can handle, I set down the beer and head for the hallway.
The loud rumble of Jim's bike sounds in the distance, growing nearer every second. I let out a relieved breath. If dad's home, I can be the good cop and cuddle my babies for their stupidity. That's why I hate handling things solo so much. I don't have anyone to pawn the responsibility of the discipline off on.
"Dad's coming! Shit!" Ryan shouts, now sounding panicked. Oh, whatever they did is good. Real good. I want to be mad, but I can't bring myself to.