Easily Excitable

There’s a game we used to play when we lived on Berkley Road; at the time, we would have been around elementary school age. 

It all started when, one Christmas, as we were going through our Lord of the Rings phase (read: I was going through the phase, and the rest of the family was forced through it because of me), Caroline got a bow and arrow. 

She also got a thick styrofoam target. 

This was not a plastic bow and arrow set: this was the real deal- a metal bow and metal arrows to accompany. 

The arrows, because my parents aren’t psychotic, were at least topped with a rounded metal cap. 

In short, it would stick in a target, but it wouldn’t skewer one of us. 

Or, so my parents thought. 

When my parents were none the wiser and we kiddos were left to our own devices, we would play fun, innocent games like war. 

We’d look for unpopped paintballs in the woods, and we’d play in other people’s wooden forts. 

We’d go through our neighbor’s trash. 

You know, normal people stuff. 

But perhaps one of our finest hours came when we created the bow and arrow game™ . 

Here’s the premise:

One Meadows sibling would get the bow and arrows. This sibling would shoot an arrow up into the air.

The other siblings would look up to the sky, hold the target above their heads, and try to catch the arrow in the styrofoam target. 

Have you ever seen such stupidity? 

Momma never knew about this game. See, she was a smart mom, and what she did know was that we would either wreak havoc in the house or on the streets surrounding Berkley Road. 

She chose the latter, and because God looks out for idiots and children (we were both), we always came back home, all limbs intact. 

Again, I just have to think the neighborhood held a block party when we finally moved out to the country. 

See, One of the biggest gifts Momma gave us was the opportunity to be ourselves. 

Ourselves? We were WEIRD.

And there was no weirder set of kids than the Meadows siblings. 

And there was no weider Meadows sibling than me. 

And there was no one who just rolled with it like my Momma.

She didn’t object when we’d check the weather for wind gusts so that we could jump off the swingset wearing capes. (So we could see if we would fly)

She didn’t clutch her pearls when I began to learn the Elvish language. (Again, that Lord of the Rings stage was something else.)

She didn’t complain when we mixed potions in every tupperware container and pot she had. (Or, at least, she didn’t stop us from mixing them up, so long as we did our business outside.)

My Momma was so cool that she even let me read her People magazines. 

I’m still fascinated by the Laci Peterson case. Momma and I followed that like we were two true detectives. 

In truth, she probably just watched the coverage, and it was ME who felt like the detective in that scenario. And you will never be able to convince me that Scott Peterson isn’t guilty, by the way. 

Also, because I know you’re wondering, I still would argue that Brad Pitt’s biggest mistake was cheating on Jennifer Anniston with Angelina Jolie. 

That was another case I followed with rapt attention. 

When went through my tomboy stage, I told my parents I wanted to be a boy.

When I gave myself the most awful haircut, they didn’t freak out externally, though I know they were dying inside. 

Instead, we went to the barber, and he neatened it all up, giving me my signature bowlcut. 

Momma then proceeded to cut a deal with me: I could wear my boy clothes at home, but church would require a dress. 

I figured I came out of that deal on top. And I eventually grew out of that stage, particularly when I started noticing boys in a different way. 

Middle school, the best and worst of times. 

My Momma let us be ourselves. 

And that was the biggest gift she ever gave us. 

As a result, we Meadows kids grew up with a rather immense imagination and a deep desire to be at home. That was something the three of us had in common: 

We loved being at our house because that was the place where we were able to be our natural, weird selves. 

From that sprung a lot of individuality. 

Sure, there was a time for Walker, Caroline, and me where we did conform to what our peers did. That’s natural. 

But each of us grew up with a confidence to, in our own ways, walk to the beat of our own drums. 

And I credit that to both of my parents. But especially my Momma. 

After all, she was the one who was stuck in the house with us the most. 

This Mother’s Day, I’m grateful for my nineties Momma. 

She was our audience at the pool, and she didn’t complain (all that much) when we yelled, “Momma, watch this!” no less that 600 times. 

She sat through our performances we choreographed while she worked pre- and post-planning at school. 

She left us to our own devices, and she didn’t feel the need to worry and watch over our every move. 

She cooked us Totino’s personal pizzas for lunch during the summers, and she made sure we had home cooked meals for dinner. 

My Momma’s mothering is the reason we have endless amounts of childhood stories. 

And the majority of the stories begin or end with, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I grew up believing that my Momma was the most beautiful woman in the world, and I still believe that today. 

No one did ‘nineties mom style’ (never forget the yellow romper with pearl snaps!) as well as she did. 

Back then, she had sweaters for every season, and she wore Keds like they were going out of style. 

And she loved (and still loves) her kids with an endless love. 

Momma wasn’t perfect, but she was (and still is!) the perfect Momma for us. 

Thank you, Momma, for the gift of being myself, and always feeling accepted in that. You created a place of love where your kids’ weirdness was welcomed. 

And I’m a better woman because of that.