I have had a dreadful, pitiful, tiny bit of sleep in the last few days. It’s always the case at the end of the semester, as no matter how much I space out those final assignments, I don’t do diddly about grading until the deadline for submitting grades is, at the most, 24 hours away (ok, more like 12). So I’ve been cranking out grades and sleeping one or two winks. Usually, that little bit of sleep makes me hyperfreakymommy in which any tiny bit of noise sounds like a hammer on my brain, any tiny bit of whining sounds like a high-pitched power tool (again, on my brain), any tiny bit of asking what’s for dinner sounds like a misogynist imposition on my time, and any tiny bit of talking in the car on the way to school sounds like a personal attack of the highest order.
But I must have been more tired than usual because today, on the way to school, when the punch-buggy game (I don’t allow the punching, we just call out the cars) turned into my 13-year old beat boxing while my 8-year old rapped about the cars, I was actually pleasantly entertained. Enthralled, actually, that my 13-year old could beat box for that long. Enraptured that my 8-year old could turn any line he had heard at any time from any tv show or commercial into a rhyme about cars. And pleased , most of all, that they were working together. It was one of those moments when the skies open up, a beam of light comes shooting down from the heavens, and your kids are getting along with each other. Don’t say anything about it out loud, though, for the skies close up as quickly as they opened when you do so. So I kept my mouth shut, grinned, and enjoyed the “music.” Because, let’s face it, as clever as they are, and as urban as they are, they’re still a couple of dorky white boys frontin’. But it kept me from falling asleep at the wheel.
