My boys are still too young for these toys but now that the box had been discovered, it had to be brought out. We put it on the floor and began to explore its contents. My husband, sensing action, was beside us in flash. Before I knew it, he had whipped out the jackstones and was challenging me to a game. I let out an incredulous chortle, already feeling the surge of victory coursing through my veins. Then he picked up the first jack with alarming, never-before-seen dexterity. Gulp. He threw the ball and nimbly picked up another jack. I looked at its neighbor, certain I would see a little patch of pathetic space, yet there it sat–mysteriously untouched–something I was so sure big, unpractised hands would not be able to avoid. Bsut avoid it he did, with the sinister calm of a just-paid hit man.
Little beads of sweat bubbled to the surface of my now clammy skin. I watched my husband work his way deftly through a field of little jacks–he who last surprised my friends with his winning form on a rarely used water ski. He couldn’t possibly be good at that AND jacks. No way, Jose. These small-time competitions were MINE. But, boy oh boy, the man was making me nervous. He whisked through the singles and was now breezing through doubles. After an eternity, my manic self-assurances were finally put to rest by the sight of a red ball bouncing off and away. I looked up and gave my handsome skier a subtly sympathetic nod–the kind reserved for a defeated but well-respected peer. I swiftly gathered the jacks and claimed the ball. It was time to show my boys the meaning of skill. (Grace would be a minor bonus.)
I was off to a promising start. My husband and son watched as years of adolescent butt-flattening practice came forth. I threw the jacks with flair, picked each one with cultivated nonchalance and tried not to faint at the successful end of the first round. (Breathe in and out. Project calm.) Without pausing to expose any kind of emotion, I went for Round Two. Though I tried to choreograph the landing of the little jacks with an extra swoosh of my palm, a few fell into a clump. I surprised myself by going for the Siamese twins that landed smack in the middle of what now looked like a dangerous minefield. The ball flew straight up and gave me just enough time to turn my fingers into pincers that unhesitatingly–and quite expertly– nipped the two hugging jacks to safety. Ahhh…the killer instinct motherhood brings.
I finally stopped the posturing and let out a primal "HAH! DID YOU SEE THAT?"
There was a look of awe in my son’s eyes. He looked at his father sheepishly, seeking permission for this sudden surge of misplaced admiration. I was now no longer just his care parent. It looked like I was earning a minor slot in the play parent pedestal as well. It was just the push I needed to sail through Round Two.
With the annoying confidence of one whose ass is perennially kissed, Mama Babe went to town. Buoyed by my newly acquired hero status, I carelessly threw the jacks into the air, silently daring them to challenge The Queen. A few of them almost made it to Marikina but that didn’t faze me. I was invincible. I threw the ball up into the ceiling as my body contorted to gather the nearest three jacks. It was all over. The ball had betrayed me, the way it did the water skier who was busy trying to put a lid on a cackle that could deafen a continent.
It lasted two seconds. Then we stared at each other and dissolved into tummy-tugging laughter. My son, who has seen this sort of competition (worst singer, best dancer, biggest mouth, you name it) between his parents before, had begun laughing a split-second before us. We were all on the floor, rummaging through the box for the next round of games when our baby, Andres, crawled in from his nap. It was time to put the little choke hazards away, but not before he started yelling for his right to manhandle the bright red yo-yo.
My husband obediently retrieved it and began showing his sons the fine art of yo-yoing. We sat and watched as tricks learned decades ago came to life. The yo-yo did an amazing little dance in the hands of our hero. I cuddled my boys, back in my role as care parent, while their father resumed his as magician supreme.
Here, on the floor, was paradise. I inhaled little boy smells and basked in the simple beauty of life. What did I do to deserve the best Sundays in the world? I nuzzled my children. They looked at each other and giggled. The older one took the baby’s hand. I hugged them closer. This was life at its purest, sifted, uncomplicated, sediment-free best. This was more than I ever thought I was entitled to.
I watched my handsome skier flip his yo-yo this way and that before I sensed a subtle shift in the air. There was something about the sudden intensity in his concentration. What began as a show for our boys was looking more and more like practice. Something about the pursed lips…that game face… sent me scanning my memory for hard-to-beat yo-yo moves. It would come in handy for what was starting to look like next week’s challenge.