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Mama? Mama? Mama?

by Jennifer Graf Groneberg (Subscribe to Jennifer Graf Groneberg's posts) Aug 2nd 2007 11:00AM

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When my 8-year-old son Carter grows up, he's wanted to be: a firefighter, an inventor, a vulcanologist, a paleontologist, and most recently, a chef. His current specialty is lemonade.

Every morning we make lemonade by the pitcher-full, in search of the perfect mixture. We try fresh lemons versus bottled juice; a little more sugar, or a little less. Sometimes we throw in a handful of frozen huckleberries, sometimes raspberries. When he's finished, we serve it over ice in tall glasses with bendable straws. This year, at our house, will be remembered as the summer of the lemon.

Today's recipe is made with half fresh-squeezed and half bottled juice. Carter is serious as he strains the seeds through the mesh sieve. I stand alongside him, not really working, but there to help if he needs me.

His fair hair falls into his eyes--he needs a haircut. He's long and lean. But other than those things, I can still see in him the thoughtful toddler that he once was, and the sweet, chubby baby who we used to call Butterbean. All of the Carters are there, and even as I look at the boy in front of me, I can also catch a glimpse of the man he'll someday be. I picture him in the kitchen, teaching his own children how to make lemonade. Provided we finish creating this recipe, first.

From the hall, 4-year-old Avery calls, "Mama? Mama? Mama?" Avery's at the stage where "mama" means many things, depending upon how he says it. "Mama" can mean "More?" It can mean, "Help?" Or it can simply mean, "Where are you?" This "mama" is a needs-to-know-what-I'm-doing one. He finds me and begins twirling beneath my skirt, spinning in and out of it's hem.

Bennett, Avery's twin, is behind me, tugging at my shirt. "What about a joke?" he asks, mimicking Carter, who likes to read the jokes from the summer's many empty Popsicle sticks. All my boys are growing up. It took becoming a mother for me to realize that time can pass so quickly, and so slowly, at once.

"How did the man cross the road?" Bennett asks, then answers, "to go fishing!"

"Oh, that's a good one," I say, absently. It's early in the day, but it's already so hot. I think of the hours stretching out ahead of us. The blue plastic wading pool has sprung a leak; the neon green floaty-donut loses air faster than I can re-inflate it. We could play with the sprinklers maybe, or I could set up the Slip N' Slide.

"What about a joke?" Bennett repeats. "I say knock-knock, you say who's there?"

"Who's there?" I say. I'm beginning to feel a headache coming on.

I turn back to the lemonade. The fan in the kitchen is blowing warm air, mostly. I try to catch a breeze. Avery is twirling beneath my legs. "Mama-mama-mama," he says.

Bennett is speaking, too. "It's me, Bennett!"

Sugar spills, tipped from the 5-lb bag, all across the counter, then down onto the floor, where it builds a little pyramid. I can feel my temper rising like the heat. Three little boys, all tugging at me. I want to do just one thing, one task at a time. I've never been good at the split-attention of motherhood. I want it to be quiet--I want everything still. Let me be, quiet, just a moment!

And it is. Quiet.

Three sets of eyes looking at me. All 3 boys are waiting for me to make it better, or make it worse. It's up to me. I feel the weight of it, just as I feel the weight of Avery, who has plunked down, sitting on my foot. He's pinned me to the moment--a hairsbreadth, a heartbeat--that passes slowly and quickly both.

I hear the fan. I feel the warm air. I see the pitcher of half-made lemonade. I won't miss my uncertainty. I won't miss my lack of patience. I won't miss the hot day, or the long, empty hours. I will miss these little boys, who are mine for such a short while.

"What about a joke?" I say, trying to find a way back to them, to their joyfulness, to a day that is just beginning.

"How do you make lemonade?" I ask.

Three faces turn toward me, wide-open, hopeful, full of trust, waiting for my answer. I don't want to let them down.

"With lemons!" I say.

"That's a good one, Mom!" Carter says. Bennett copies, "Good one!" Avery chimes in too, "Mama!"

And just like that, I am forgiven.

The day resumes itself, the morning still full of possibility and the sun rising in the sky like a lemony yellow ball.

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