Friday, May 09, 2008

Life on the Home Front: Rock of Ages

I used to be so accurate when asked to report the ages of my children. Like most new moms, I could tell people how old Jimmy was right down to the day for a while.

Then, Tommy arrived a couple of years later, and I could only report my sons’ ages in months. If I happened to be off by a month or two or six, the smell of spit-up and soggy Pampers kept anyone from sticking around long enough to correct me.

By the time Ronnie was born, anyone caught in our path could tell my mind was only prepared to handle the simplest of questions, while trying to balance Ronnie on my shoulder and somehow keep Jimmy and Tommy within grabbing distance.

Instead of asking how old the boys were, well-meaning folks became more interested in finding out how many more Zichs I was planning to produce.

Total strangers didn’t hesitate to ask if I planned to “try for a girl.” Luckily, I was too busy with the boys to make a sassy comeback to that rather personal question.
Now that I have finally caught up on my sleep, I can think of plenty of wisecracks. Thankfully, I don’t have to face that question any longer.

I’m back to reporting their ages, in years, and can’t even get that straight.

Nine years should be enough time for me to figure out the mathematical difference in my children’s ages, but I keep reporting the wrong numbers. This time, I think I’m in a state of denial, rather than one of confusion.

Jimmy turned 14 last November, which was much easier to take than his first teenage birthday the year before. I didn’t panic until February, when it suddenly hit me that he will be driving a car in less than two years.

In the meantime, Ronnie celebrated his ninth birthday. I took cupcakes in for his classmates and made sure we honored the occasion with plenty of hoopla on the home front.

It wasn’t until March that I realized I was still telling people that my sons were 14, 11, and eight years old. Why was I having such a hard time with three small numbers?

We spent most of Tommy’s 12th birthday, March 15, driving down to North Carolina to visit my parents. I did my best to make up for all that time spent in the car by giving Tommy a bit of extra attention.

Jimmy now accuses me of celebrating Tommy’s birthday for three days. He probably has a point there, but, despite all that celebrating, I still keep forgetting Tommy’s age.

Last night, I realized he was still 11 in my mind and had to stop and force myself to do the math in my head in order to accept the fact that he’s one year away from being a teenager.

Math was never my favorite subject, but, this is getting ridiculous!

I’m going to keep repeating the numbers “14, 12 and 9” to myself until they are etched into my memory, ready to be retrieved at a moment’s notice. That way, I’ll be in the clear until
November, when it will be time to update Jimmy’s information again.

By that time, I will be sending Jimmy, Tommy and Ronnie to three separate schools for the first time, which is certain to create all sorts of new confusion in my mind.

Maybe I’ll just start telling people what grades the boys are in and let them do the math.

(Zich and her Marine Corps husband have been stationed in various locations, including Okinawa, California, Texas and their current home in Springfield, Va. E-mail her at .)