I read that there’s an unspoken bond between a mother and her son and realize that this is true because they don’t hear a word I say.  I get to use this bond to finally get them to do what I want them to do.

It starts off in the morning, “Honey, can you go and make your bed, then get dressed for school?”

My son hears, “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, candy.”

Ten minutes later I realize that there are both in their pajamas and Sponge Bob is on the TV.  I walk over in front of them and say, “Go make your bed and get dressed.”

Blank stares greet me and I wish I had the mental telepathy of Wonder Woman to scream “MAKE YOUR BED” in both of their heads to get them moving.  I have a better plan to get their attention.

I walk over and press pause on the TV.  “HEY!”  Now I have their attention.

“Did I ask you to go up and make your bed?”  I ask sternly.

“Huh?”

Maybe they thought I said, “направити твој кревет.”

“Bed…make?” 

They hear, “rendere il vostro letto.”

“Get upstairs and make your bed!”  This time, the Linda Blair type Exorcist voice gets them up and moving.

I go about making lunches and getting breakfast ready when I realize they haven’t come back down yet.  How long does it take for them to make a bed? 

I walk up the steps and they are arguing over a toy.  I walk in and notice that STILL the bed is not made.

“Why haven’t you made the bed yet?”

“We did.”

I look at the bed, “Either there’s a dead body under the covers or you haven’t made the bed yet.”
Dead body?

I pull back the covers and both pillows and three stuffed animals are hiding, the sheets cowering in a bunch in the corner, ‘See?”

“Oh.  You didn’t say pull the sheets up.  I pulled the covers up.”

“But I DID say make the bed, pulling the sheets up is part of making the bed.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

I sigh, since when was leaving the sheets bunched part of making the bed?  I wonder how they define making the bed, but figured that was information that I didn’t need.  We get the bed made and they are back watching SpongeBob as I finish up the morning chores.

My youngest son has a wonderful habit of annoying his brother when he gets bored.  He sits and sings the same song or says the same phrase over and over again in a low voice, like a headache, waiting for his brother to say something.  It doesn’t take long.

“MOM!  Make Max Stop Bugging me!”

I chuckle because I listened to whole exchange waiting for Wolf to erupt, “Max, stop bugging your brother.”

I continue on, a few minutes later noticing that Max is back next to his brother rubbing a comb over a plastic toy making a squeaking noise.  Again, it doesn’t take long.

“Mom!”
”Max!”
”I stopped talking.”

“No honey, you’re still annoying Wolfgang.”

“But you said to stop talking.”

“No, I said to stop annoying him.  Making the squeaking noise in his ear is annoying him.”

“Oh.”

As I walk back out of the room, I see Max get that evil look on his face and start poking Wolfgang with the comb.

 I look at the clock and see that we’re at the time for the bus but my son sits there in his barefeet.

“Hurry, get your socks on!”

I guess he hears, “obtener sus calcetines en”

I hear the horn for the bus and he’s going out the door mad, backpack on, shoes and socks in his hands.  I’m not even sure the socks match.

So our mother/son bond is strengthened when I resort to Nazi tactics to get things done.  We may speak different languages and sometimes (OK, most of the time) not understand each other, we always understand the language of love.