MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Hold it!

Parents who obey their children are easy to spot. In a crowd, they’re the ones whose hands are always full and whose pockets are bulging. Like me, for instance, last weekend, at the parade. Before we even arrived, the pockets were already bursting from four walkie-talkies. I did not want to be carrying four walkie-talkies. There was almost no room for the small stuffed animals I needed to hold for my daughter. These were spilling out. All beads had to be placed around my neck. I did not want two pounds of plastic beads around my neck. Slouching from the weight, not only did I feel like a Himalayan beast of burden, I think I started to bear a physical resemblance to one. Except for the Mondos. A yak would never be carrying Mondos, a favorite children’s drink made of, what else? Ten percent fruit juice! In my hand I was carefully balancing two nearly-full Mondos. I did not want to be holding these two cold drinks. Soon another mom rescued me. Parents need to stick together, and the smart ones who are not afflicted by this compulsion to carry often help the helpless. A friend teased me by asking if I was drinking those Mondos. She sympathetically took them from my hands and threw them away. “I’m sure you’ll just fill them with something else though, won’t you?” Within minutes the kids came up for a little swill of Mondo. They were briefly disappointed to see the drinks gone, but the hands were free again! I was given a large toothbrush, two spears, a snake and a pitchfork. I did not want to hold a large toothbrush, two spears, a snake, and a pitchfork. With the beads around the neck and stuffed animals hanging from the pockets, I looked like a human outlet of Accent Annex. The friend who had helped with the Mondos passed again. “You’re hopeless,” she announced as she walked off shaking her head. This woman with two young children had, in her hand, a beer! Her other hand was empty! Her pockets were flat! I looked for her husband. He was buried under a pile of trinkets. Whenever he moved even slightly a few drops of the nearly-full Capri Sun he was holding would squirt from that curled straw right on to his hand. When we went to the car that evening, the kids walked while playing with their parade junk. Their trusty pack animal carried everything else. The following evening we dragged my husband to the Mardi Gras festivities. The kids were delighted. Were they happy to have his company, or just thrilled with the extra storage possibilities? My son passed us carrying a tackle box. The tackle box, just that day, had been adapted to be a carrying case for the walkie-talkies. My husband and I looked at each other, wondering which of us would be the box babysitter for the evening. The good news was, since all of the walkie-talkies were in the one case, my pockets would be available for more stuff! I was the only person in the crowd carrying a tackle box. I did not want to be carrying a tackle box, but I knew it was my fate as soon as I noticed it in my son’s hand. And the box could be placed on the ground between feet, something that would never work with stuffed animals. Yes, the new carrying case was convenient, not as convenient as just leaving the walkie-talkies at home, but that would require actual parental authority. After the parade we went to a party. I was given all the jackets to hold. My husband was resourceful enough to find a comfy sofa with just enough room for two people and one tackle box. Other parents who resembled overstuffed closets came by to chat. The children went off to play. Every now and then, though, they would pass by to see if we were all right. And to give us plates of food they didn’t want. My daughter gave me a small plate of chips and two finger sandwiches with a bite taken out. I did not want to be holding two finger sandwiches with a bite taken out. So I did what most mothers would do. I finished them. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column every Saturday for L’Observateur.