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A typical day in our household
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 A TYPICAL DAY?
It was a typical day in the life of the Hatcher household. I had three children: Rachel, ten years old; Jimmy, eight; and Katrina, five. As diverse in personality as snowflakes, they always kept me alert for the next “episode”, much like the old “Perils of Pauline” movie clips that always left you hanging.
On this particular day, they had just finished their breakfast and retired to the living room to watch cartoons on television. Looking around at the kitchen, I questioned my sanity when I had decided to have three children. I silently blamed my husband for the predicament in which I found myself.
Spilled cereal, spilled milk, and spilled sugar covered the countertops. Dirty bowls, spoons, and milk glasses hid the top of the table. Did no one ever even consider placing his utensils in the dishwasher? I walked over to the cabinet and reached out to pick up a glass that had been there since last night. The soured milk glued it to the countertop. With both hands, I grasped the glass and proceeded to tug and try to free it from its infernal prison. My feet slid forward, and I went down to the floor on my bottom. Livid, I sat in the floor, arms crossed, jaw set, and ready for battle with anyone who crossed my path. Finally, I arose, soaked the area around the glass with water, removed the nasty vessel, and practically threw it into the dishwasher.
I walked into the living room and again saw red, as my little angels sat, happily watching television after each having finished eating a Kool-Aid pop. You know—the little frozen packets of Kool-Aid. The problem was when they had finished eating them, one had thrown the wrapper in the floor. This broke one of the Hatcher family’s cardinal rules.
We had commandments. Like in the Bible. Only they came from the book of Hatcheriah. Hatcheriah 1:1 had to do with preparing to get in the car before a long trip. Go ye therefore and potty. Another commandment: Thou shalt not throw wrappers in the floor.
“All right,” I said, reaching for a paint stirrer that I saw lying on the lamp table. Well? Isn’t that where you keep you paint stirrers? “Who threw that wrapper in the floor?”
Three completely innocent faces turned toward me.
“Not me.”
“Not me.”
“Not me.”
Gritting my teeth, I said, “Look again.”
Rachel, the docile one, walked over to the offending wrapper, bent over to pick it up, and I whacked her behind. “I didn’t do it,” she said, beginning to cry and dropping it back on the floor.
Then Jimmy, the stubborn one, walked over to the wrapper, bent over to pick it up, and I whacked his behind. “I didn’t do it, either,” he said, his mouth drooping down into a frown, as he also dropped the wrapper on the floor and backed away.
Not seeing the youngest, the creative one, I called, “Katrina!” She came out from behind the couch and tentatively approached the wrapper. She bent over. Whack! It made the strangest noise. “What in the world?” I said. Then looking at the back of her shorts, I saw the definite outline of a Golden Book. The little minx had padded her bottom.
“Uh-oh,” I heard, as all eyes turned toward me to see what my reaction would be. I tried to look stern. I tried to look angry. Then I couldn’t hold in the laughter anymore. I lowered myself to the couch and started laughing. The children looked at one another, then ran and jumped all over my lap, happy to be back in my good graces.
I love my children, but sometimes they pushed me to the absolute limit. That night, for dinner, we had the dreaded “meatloaf.” Now, what you have to understand is this: Jimmy, only eight years old, possessed a stubborn streak as strong as mine. I remember when he was three, I told him to put his shirt in the hamper, and he said, “no!” I had to bend him over, stuff the shirt in his tight little fist, make him take each step to the hamper, and then pull it out of his tightly clenched hand to drop it in the container. It was reminiscent of Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan, in the movie, The Miracle Worker.
Here we were again with a battle of wills. I looked at him, daggers shooting from my eyes. “Eat your meatloaf, Jimmy.”
“No,” Jimmy calmly retorted.
“You will not leave the table until you eat the meatloaf your mother has prepared.”
“Okay, I won’t leave the table.”
This eight-year-old boy stubbornly sat at the table until bedtime, when he was sent to bed, having eaten nothing. I woke up about 1:00 a.m. to the sound of the refrigerator door opening. I walked to the kitchen and saw Jimmy looking in the fridge. “Do you want something to eat, honey?”
“No, I’m just getting a drink of water.”
This, from a boy who never drank water.
“Jimmy, if you’re hungry, I’ll fix you something.”
“No, just water.”
He got a glass, took a sip, and marched his stubborn little body off to bed.
What did I tell you? Stubborn.
When he was about fourteen, he asked, “When you turn sixteen, and they give you a car, do you get to choose which one?”
“When who turns sixteen, who gives whom a car?!” This, from me.
“Oh, Mom. You know. When you turn sixteen, and the government or somebody gives you a car.”
Ever sensitive to my children’s feelings, I responded with kindness. “I don’t know who you think they are, but in your case they is your dad and me, and no, you don’t get a choice.”
It’s been over twenty years now, since I brought my three children into this world. There were dirty dishes, clothes in the floor, toys strewn all over the house and yard, popped corn kernels stuck up a nose, lost eyeglasses, forgotten home work, and don’t forget Katrina’s pirate’s e ye patch made from chewing gum. Now the dishes get washed right after dinner. The clothes are put in the hamper. There are no toys or homework assignments.
It’s finally peaceful around here.Those days are gone, and how I wish I had cherished them instead of rushing through.
I was thinking the other day. I only need one thing now: three little grandchildren to add color and excitement to our home again. Maybe, this time, I’ll let them choose their own car.
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