I was done.

Stick-a-fork-in-me-done.

Done asking The Cherubs to switch off the Wii in the basement and come upstairs for bedtime.

I had calmly beckoned to them.  Twice.  I had also flashed the lights off and on as a warning.  A warning that had gone unheeded.

But I was NOT going to yell.

Nosirree.  I’ve made plenty of mistakes on this trippy trip of parenthood, but if there’s one thing in which I take pride, it’s the fact that I seldom – practically never – raise my voice.

I’m better than that, friends.  *crosses legs; pats at hair*

So?  Instead of screaming down the stairs like my inner demon wanted to?

I began to knock on the wall, as if I were knocking on someone’s front door.

Gently.  Politely.  With the utmost of control.

And the knocking was ignored.

So my rapping on the wall grew in its intensity.  Something that sounded like a woodpecker’s insistent tapping upon a tree trunk.  And as I rapped, a recited a smug little mantra to myself in cadence the rhythm my knuckles tapped out upon the wall.

I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er.  I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er.  I’m-a-knock-er-not-a-yell-er.

And – wonder of wonders – The Cherubs continued to hoot and holler in front of the Wii, paying no attention to my rhythmic summoning.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to keep my desire to scream in check.  And all of my suppressed screams were redirected into my fist, which now pounded on the basement wall with a force that The Cherubs would not be able to ignore, no matter how loud the Wii was turned up.

I! (bam)

AM! (bam)

NOT! (bam)

A! (bam)

YELL-ERRRRRRRRR! (bambambambambamCRUNCH).

Yes.  I am NOT one of those yelling moms.  And I have the evidence to prove it.

Inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat’s Writers’ Workshop:  ”Tell us about something you broke.”

First:  A bit of business…

The winner of the Mommy Mixology Giveaway is:

Missy | The Literal Mom: literalmom@——–

Congratulations!  I’ve emailed you to obtain shipping address information.  I hope you enjoy this book as much as I have!

And now…Back to our regularly scheduled post:

*************************************************************************************************************************

When I reflect upon my childhood…growing up as the oldest of three children in central New Jersey in the 1970′s…I more or less remember it with rose-colored fondness.  Both of my parents worked to provide our family with what we needed.  Our days were spent in the care of a lovely elderly neighbor lady named Eve who doted on us.  Between the efforts of my parents and Eve, my younger brothers and I were loved, nurtured, and cared for as all children deserve to be.

We went out for ice cream at Carvel’s on the corner when we were good.

We took annual vacations to Daytona Beach to visit RaRa, my maternal grandmother.

Heck, I even had Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.  Because EVERYONE who was ANYONE had a designer swan stitched on their right cheek back in the day.

We also summered in The Hamptons and attended world premiers of most child-friendly movies in Los Angeles.

I kid.  We spent the occasional weekend on the Jersey Shore and waited all year for The Sound of Music to be aired on television, commercials and all.

But I digress.  What I mean to say is that we were like most middle class families during that era…with one major exception.

My brothers and I were given no milk.

Ever.

Oh, don’t you fret…we got our vitamins A and D, our calcium and all the rest…

…by ingesting powdered milk.

Shut up.

It was one of the ways my parents chose to save money in those days.

And oh, how I hated it.

It smelled like poop, friends.

And it tasted not quite as good as it smelled.

It was truly the only way I can think of that I was deprived.  And I spent a great deal of my idle time devising plans on how I could get my hands on actual cow’s milk.

Because when you are raised on a steady diet of powdered milk?  And when you have the occasional opportunity to sample the real deal, say, at a friend’s house?

Cow’s milk tastes like cream.

Better than cream.  Like a milkshake, friends.  Laced with ecstasy.

I craved it.  Begged for it.  Refused to drink the powdery stuff.

And the harder I clamored for it?

The more my parents dug in their heels.  To hear them tell the tale, they were going to put my brothers and me through college and possibly adopt three more children in our absence with the money that they were saving on each purchase of powdered milk.

On occasion, a friend would call and invite me to sleep over, and our conversations sounded something like:

“Hey, Sue, can you sleep over on Friday?”

“Ummm…I think so…I have to ask my mom.  What’s for breakfast?”

“Huh?”

“On Saturday morning, I mean.  Will we have cereal?”

“Uh…probably.”

“With milk?”

“Duh.  Yeah.”

“Oh, that’s great.  Really, really great.  Yeah.  I’m pretty sure I can.  Hey…I could probably stay until lunchtime on Saturday if you want me to.  We could, you know…have sandwiches…and some more milk.”

And so it went.

My Cherubs know all about this part of my upbringing.  And I receive no sympathy from them. They think it’s cool.  Sort of astronaut-ish, if you will.

Until I offer to let them try it.

Then they pipe the heck down and guzzle their milk like obedient little souls.

Inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat’s Writers’ Workshop:  ”What do your kids have that you always wanted when you were a kid?”