(This was actually written in April of 2009, but thought I would post it now because I love my son, I’m craving popcorn, and having brain cramps.)
I used to think that when my kids were older, I would no longer have dings and marks on my walls, that I wouldn’t clean up spilled milk and that I would stop saying, “What were you thinking?” The dings and marks are still on the walls, they’re just higher. There are more spills and crumbs to clean up because they eat more now, and more than ever before I find myself saying, “What were you thinking?”
After the movie Holes came out, my husband and I came home to a 5x5x5 hole in the backyard. We said, “Son, what were you thinking?”
He shrugged and said, “nothing,” and filled the hole back in. I thought about suing Disney. They should have put a warning label on the movie.
This same son has amazing leadership ability. He served as 9th grade class president after winning a tough election with a video of him standing in a field. The dialogue went something like this, “Quin Campbell, outstanding in every field. Well, he’s standing in somebody’s field.” He served as 10th grade class president doing a comic routine involving a mop. And to think all these years I’ve been using a mop to clean my floors. He served as student body president with the catchy slogan, “It’s not my RHS, it’s not your RHS, it’s (R) HS.” Did you get it?
His leadership skills continued in college. After seeing the movie Patch Adams, (there should be a warning label on this movie also), he bought a large wading pool, spent $120.00 of his own money and got everybody in his apartment complex to cook spaghetti. I’m sure you can picture the rest.
When asked, “Why??” His response was somewhat to the effect of “Why not?” Maybe this explains the quote that was written in pen on his wall until he moved out, “If not now, when?”
After serving a 2 year mission for our church where he proved to be very obedient and successful, we expected a changed man. We left him home so he could work and save money for college while the rest of the family went on a service vacation to La Mision, Mexico. There we worked in a few different orphanages loving the children and repairing old buildings and building new ones.
Exhausted and on our way home, we get a call from our son. After exchanging small talk, he says, “you’re on your way home, now? You’ll be home at midnight? I thought you’d be home at 2 or 3 a.m. I guess you should know that I’m having a party.”
I’ve met his friends. They are all great kids so I am not too concerned.
“I can call off the party if you want, or cut it short. . . There’s something else you should know. I’m filling the hot tub with popcorn.”
“What?” I question, not sure I have heard him right.
“Popcorn,” he responds. “I was going to have it cleaned up before you got home.”
“Why,” I ask.
He answers, “I thought of that before I saw Patch Adams,” as if this is a logical, rational explanation.
We arrive home at midnight to a house full of nice kids who help us carry in luggage, sleeping bags and dirty laundry and politely ask about our trip. The house is clean except for a few cans of pop on the table and a small smattering of popcorn around the door that leads to the hot tub.
I haven’t told my husband or children about the hot tub. The 14 hour car ride from Mexico was all the excitement I could take. However, the kids immediately see the popcorn in the hot tub. I tell them under no circumstance are they to tell their father about it. Of course it’s all they can do not say anything, the secret jumping around in their heads just like, well popcorn.
My husband discovers the popcorn the next day when he’s not so tired. He rolls his eyes, sighs and wonders where this changeling child came from. I discover that my son used an entire gallon of Olive Oil ($20.00) to pop most of it, and that he popped every night after work and all day Saturday to get enough popcorn. My other kids enjoy playing in it for a couple of days and showing their friends. About a week later my son loads it all into the back of the pick-up truck and takes it somewhere. . .