Eeny Meeny Miny Moe

It was Sunday yesterday. I love Sundays. I mean, they're a busy day with church meetings and after-church meetings and big fat yummy dinners. But I love Sundays because it's the one day my kids always end up playing together. All of them. Every Sunday. This is no small thing, of course, because there are 5 of them, between the ages of 7 and 12 -- they're the "my 5" on my Favorite Faves list, and they're delicious fun; but not in the weird-crazy-witch-lady-from-Hansel-&-Gretel delicious fun; more like that "you are so dang fantastic, I could eat you. But I won't. Because you're not food" kind of delicious fun.

So yesterday they were playing "So You Think You Can Dance, Piano-Room Edition," where they each get a turn dancing to a 20-second demo from the digital piano and then get judged on it. I like to watch them when they're not looking, because really, I don't know that any of them can dance. Well, maybe a couple of them can. But the other ones are just trying to imitate moves they've seen real dancers do (not on the actual show, by the way; I don't think any of them have seen it. Not even 5 minutes of an episode. I don't even think they could tell you when it comes on). Sometimes I'll peek in to see arms flailing and feet moving, almost like Elaine from Seinfeld, and think, yeah, that's about how I look when I think I'm dancing. The Boy (my youngest, but only by 2 minutes) will sometimes just hop in place to the beat of the music and call it a dance, and who am I to argue? It's not like I really know. I practically got kicked out of a community ballroom dance class due to my terrible dancing abilities. But that's another entry.

What made me laugh was the "Not It" that officially called everyone to play. "Let's play 'So you think you can dance,' who's gonna be the judge? Not IT!" This, of course, is followed by a unison chorus of "Not ITs," which then begins the battle for who has to be IT. Inevitably, one of the oldest girls will announce who's IT and everyone will go along with it because, well, they're the oldest. If it had been me and my siblings, we would have immediately launched into Eeny Meeny, followed by all of Eeny Meeny's relatives: "My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes..." "Engine, engine, number 9," or of course "Inka Binka bottle of ink." If we were short on time we'd opt for "Bubble gum, bubble gum in a dish," since we could put a limit on the number of pieces you wish for and it would go faster. And of course in that case, we'd finish it with "and you are IT," as opposed to "And you are NOT IT," which would require several more rounds.

Funny, my kids haven't really stepped into the world of Eeny Meeny so much.

So as I stood there rolling out what would later become some exceptionally spectacular rolls for our big yummy Sunday dinner, I thought about all those little kid things that we grow up with and then eventually grow out of. I remembered a day a few years ago as my family walked to the school playground one hot-ish summer evening. Dave and I hung back a bit as we talked and pushed the twins in the stroller; the three older girls had run ahead and their sing-song chanting was our white-noise background music. I watched as Mak would jump and stomp every few feet, almost in rhythm, and it wasn't until a quiet spot in our conversation that I stopped and really listened to the girls -- in absolute shock. "Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back!"

And there was Mak stomping with all her might on every crack she came upon.

What, was she testing it out, trying to find out if my back's really gonna break? I never put much stock in those kinds of things -- you know, "if you swallow gum it'll take 7 years to digest;" "if you sneeze with your eyes open they'll pop right out of your head;" "every time a fly lands on you it's barfing and then eating it's barf." Come on, that's all just a bunch of kid rumors that your mean older brother tells you to keep you up at night.

But suddenly my faith -- or lack of it -- in all kid rumors was being shaken; suddenly I felt differently about all these silly kids-tales. Could it be there's actually truth to this? ...What's that funny tingly feeling at the base of my spine? And my stomach, suddenly there's this rock-kind of feeling right in the pit of my stomach; is that some wad of gum from 1997? And what's with that smallish sticky feeling on my arm? Did some fly just land there and barf and eat it while I wasn't looking?! What is happening??

And then there's Mak. What in the world was possessing her to keep going and stomping so mercilessly like that? Was she feeling a bit of animosity towards me for some parent-inflicted chore I'd put her up to earlier? Or did she just like the feel of the beat: DON'T (jump) step on a CRACK (jump) or you'll BREAK (jump) your mother's BACK (jump)!

Whatever it was, it was too much for me. The back thing, with the breaking, and it's MY back we're talking about... I mean seriously, should we really be tempting fate so brazenly?

I had the sudden urge to run after her, screaming, "Stop!! Please! For the love of all that is good and pure in this world, STOP STOMPING ON THE CRACKS!!" I didn't, but then found myself seriously considering a heart-to-heart with her about it: "You know, Mak, sometimes people really get hurt when you're playing what may seem like a harmless little game."

No, don't be silly, it's just some childish thing she'll grow out of, I assured myself. She doesn't mean anything by it.

And then I blinked, and it had all passed, and she had grown out of it. And I'm standing in my kitchen 5 years later, listening to my kids debate the ITedness of their game while I roll out dough and chant, "My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes. My mother socked your mother right in the nose..."

And dang, I miss it. I miss the little kidishness they're all growing out of. Now when we walk somewhere, Mak doesn't run ahead, but stays with me and grabs my hand in her 11-year-old-let-me-be-your-friend-and-we'll-walk-and-talk-and-laugh-together attitude, then asks how I slept last night.

Pretty good, I say. Except my back's been bothering me for years now...