I am a dream crusher.
A crusher of dreams, if you will.
A destroyer of fun.
But sometimes it just has to be done.
Some dreams are easier to crush than others.
There was the time I crushed a dream with twelve little words: "No, a pile of Halloween candy would not make an awesome dinner."
Or the time I was all, "Well, just because your brother can bark and get down on all fours, it does not mean he is your pet dog, and no, you cannot put a leash on him."
Or, "I understand that it would be fun to see your sister's Barbie dolls hanging upside down from the ceiling fan and swinging in the wind, but no, you may not have duct tape, string, and the kitchen ladder."
Or, "No, you cannot set up an obstacle course in the basement and charge the neighbor kids a $5.00 admission fee."
I can understand that in the eyes of a shortie, these are all fun dreams. They are a platter of fun, with a side of joy, a salad of tomfoolery, all covered with a large helping of awesome sauce.
Then there are the dreams that I do not crush. For example, my 9-year old son dreams of being a professional golfer-slash-Major League baseball player-slash-research doctor who cures all forms of cancer-slash-video game programmer.
And? In his spare time, he is going to invent iPhone apps.
Also, he informs me that he's going to have a wife and two children. When I asked him why he is so decisive about having two children, he answered, "Well, because if I had four children, then that would just be soooooo busy, Mom. Duh."
Dream the impossible dream, buddy. Far be it for me to crush that stable full of awesome. After all, I hope that for his sake, he keeps dreaming big, and one of those dreams actually comes true for him. (I'm partial to the whole curing-all-forms-of-cancer dream that he has. Moms can dream too.)
Back to me.
And how I am The Dream Crusher-slash-Destroyer of Fun.
I am The Corn Dream Crusher.
All four of my children recently attended a wonderful vacation Bible school at our church and came home with seeds planted in small biodegradable containers. "Mom! We're going to be farmers!" they informed me with much enthusiasm as they showed me the seeds they planted, still in their containers, about 3 inches to the left of our front porch. They didn't tell me they were going to plant them, of course, but once I saw it, I had absolutely no problem. It's dirt! It's fun! It's educational! They feel productive! They are not fighting! They have a common goal!
Also? It's not like those seeds will ever grow, right?
How could they grow? During the planting process, the kids had sloshed out half the dirt from the containers, and I'm assuming, most of the seeds. To say that they were, "planted" is a stretch. The containers were mostly just embedded in the mulch next to a row of boxwoods. How could they possibly grow into anything resembling a stalk of corn?
Three out of the four containers are flourishing, friends.
With a flourish.
And within a matter of weeks, I will be able to open my front door and get whacked in the eyeball with a corn husk. Or is it cob?
Whatever. I wouldn't know, because I am not a farmer. I'm just a suburban mom trying to do my thing.
And now? I have a row of corn flourishing inches from my front door, and four happy children who do not want the Destroyer of Fun anywhere near their agricultural wonder.
It's not that I don't want them to be mini farmers who grow their own corn. I am supportive of their goals.
I have suggested moving the corn to a more proper spot in the backyard, an impromptu cornfield if you will, but my suggestion was met with a chorus of shouts and a tear or two, and a, "NO! YOU'RE GONNA KILL ALL THE CORN! LEAVE IT WHERE IT IS! YOU NEVER LET US HAVE ANY FUN!"
Sigh. Playing the role of the bad guy wearies me.
My son pleaded with me that he was actually doing me, "a ginormous favor" by growing our own corn. "Think of all the money you will save mom!"
Yeah. It might save me a WHOLE $2.00, because that's how much 10 cobs of corn cost on a recent trip to the grocery store. Thanks, kids. Now I can upgrade myself to the venti-sized drink at Starbucks.
My heart does not want to crush their latest dream-slash-goal-slash-project.
It was the light in their eyes that got me. They had me at, "Mom! But it's real corn!"
So the corn will stay put for now, and as of this morning they informed me that it has reached 8 inches in height.