In the Eye of the Hurricane
Title: I Make My Home in the Eye of the Hurricane
Author: InsolentScrawl
Rating: Anyone
Prompt: Ranch
X X X
I don’t live on a ranch. In fact, I’m not sure I would know how to handle the quiet. Besides, a ranch is not the only place where fortitude, resilience, and stubbornness must reside.
I make my home in the eye of a hurricane.
The eye sees every speck of missing homework or missed chores and hears every sound (usually cries of “Mom, I can’t find my shoes!” or “This is the principal. I’d like to talk to you about your child.”). With every passing day and every advancing year, it gets gradually louder.
Sitting in my comfortable chair, I watch the orchestral movements swirling around me. I stay still for the most part, walking a random path called life. Never knowing my track or destination doesn’t deter time from marching on.
Yet I am almost always in the eye, where I can see all, hear all, and occasionally witness a sudden gust blow a child back on course. I see a football swirling around the outer edges and smile. It will be back in time for next season. Of course, somewhere along the way, that swirling mass will need to pick up some new pads and a pair of pants.
There’s my youngest - my fearless warrior - swimming around me in a pink tutu. Giggling.
Where are the others?
Oh! I see one rolling her pre-teen eyes and whispering to a friend. Isn’t it funny that they don’t really understand that Mom and Dad were once that age? Or that Mom and Dad still feel that age now and again, especially in front of Grandma and Grandpa?
Don’t get too close to the bottom of the swirling mass, though. I got whacked with a report card when I ventured out not too long ago. Plus, my youngest boy is marching near the bottom, against the wind, to prove it can be done. He slips every now and then, but he stands himself up, dusts himself off, and tries again. That’s my trooper.
And there’s my oldest boy, trying to get close to his brother. Oh look, he’s marching in time, like a soldier. Except, they keep glancing in my direction, whispering and laughing like conspirators. That’s never good. A quick look from me keeps them momentarily grounded, until their feet are picked up and they whoosh away in childish delight. I can only sigh at the trouble they’re planning. And hope it has nothing to do with the slingshot I see spinning a chaotic circle nearby.
My husband joins me here, sitting in his own chair right next to mine. Although, every now and again he disappears for a brief time. Usually not for long - just enough to dig out the garden for me to plant, or help the kids with something in the garage. Then he’s back at my side, sometimes holding my hand. In the calm, we are powerless to set the course, but we watch, laugh, and attentively love.
Sometimes (rarely) I venture outside of the eye. It’s never pretty, though. I can’t see or hear in the middle of the thunderous noise, and I panic because I lose track of what swirls about the center. I don’t like to interfere, but they need to know that I’ll always be here. When one gets hurt or blown to the outer edge of the hurricane, I’ll be here to offer a hand. That’s my job, after all.
Sure, they have grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. But I’m Mom and the guy sitting next to me is Dad. In our smiles, we watch the chaotic movements of all that whips around us, keeping track of knee pads, baseballs, computer time, chores, and children.
One might ask: Why are we in the eye and not the kids?
The answer is simple. What child wants to come in out of the rain?
Author: InsolentScrawl
Rating: Anyone
Prompt: Ranch
X X X
I don’t live on a ranch. In fact, I’m not sure I would know how to handle the quiet. Besides, a ranch is not the only place where fortitude, resilience, and stubbornness must reside.
I make my home in the eye of a hurricane.
The eye sees every speck of missing homework or missed chores and hears every sound (usually cries of “Mom, I can’t find my shoes!” or “This is the principal. I’d like to talk to you about your child.”). With every passing day and every advancing year, it gets gradually louder.
Sitting in my comfortable chair, I watch the orchestral movements swirling around me. I stay still for the most part, walking a random path called life. Never knowing my track or destination doesn’t deter time from marching on.
Yet I am almost always in the eye, where I can see all, hear all, and occasionally witness a sudden gust blow a child back on course. I see a football swirling around the outer edges and smile. It will be back in time for next season. Of course, somewhere along the way, that swirling mass will need to pick up some new pads and a pair of pants.
There’s my youngest - my fearless warrior - swimming around me in a pink tutu. Giggling.
Where are the others?
Oh! I see one rolling her pre-teen eyes and whispering to a friend. Isn’t it funny that they don’t really understand that Mom and Dad were once that age? Or that Mom and Dad still feel that age now and again, especially in front of Grandma and Grandpa?
Don’t get too close to the bottom of the swirling mass, though. I got whacked with a report card when I ventured out not too long ago. Plus, my youngest boy is marching near the bottom, against the wind, to prove it can be done. He slips every now and then, but he stands himself up, dusts himself off, and tries again. That’s my trooper.
And there’s my oldest boy, trying to get close to his brother. Oh look, he’s marching in time, like a soldier. Except, they keep glancing in my direction, whispering and laughing like conspirators. That’s never good. A quick look from me keeps them momentarily grounded, until their feet are picked up and they whoosh away in childish delight. I can only sigh at the trouble they’re planning. And hope it has nothing to do with the slingshot I see spinning a chaotic circle nearby.
My husband joins me here, sitting in his own chair right next to mine. Although, every now and again he disappears for a brief time. Usually not for long - just enough to dig out the garden for me to plant, or help the kids with something in the garage. Then he’s back at my side, sometimes holding my hand. In the calm, we are powerless to set the course, but we watch, laugh, and attentively love.
Sometimes (rarely) I venture outside of the eye. It’s never pretty, though. I can’t see or hear in the middle of the thunderous noise, and I panic because I lose track of what swirls about the center. I don’t like to interfere, but they need to know that I’ll always be here. When one gets hurt or blown to the outer edge of the hurricane, I’ll be here to offer a hand. That’s my job, after all.
Sure, they have grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. But I’m Mom and the guy sitting next to me is Dad. In our smiles, we watch the chaotic movements of all that whips around us, keeping track of knee pads, baseballs, computer time, chores, and children.
One might ask: Why are we in the eye and not the kids?
The answer is simple. What child wants to come in out of the rain?