All of us have our shortcomings. That’s for sure. No one is perfect, after all.
For all the shortcomings I notice about myself (and there are a lot, let me tell you), probably about 80 percent of them are true, because I’m a child of divorce and suffer from self-esteem issues and blah blah blah, I don’t want to bore you.
But this amazing thing happened when I became a parent. All of those shortcomings disappeared. That 80 percent dropped to zero percent.
How did I make that happen? Well, that’s easy. I just blame everything on the kids.
Like…
The smells.
Every now and again, I’ll be in the store, perusing the aisles like any other shopper, except I’ll suddenly inhale and realize my nose hairs are singed. “Oh my gosh,” I’ll say, loudly. “Did one of you toot?” The boys will look at me and laugh, because just the IDEA of a toot makes boys laugh, even if none of them claims it. They don’t claim it because it was me. But the other shoppers don’t know that. So I innocently continue on, cropdusting through the produce section, the healthy living section, the dairy section and then on toward the checkout counter. Next time I’ll think twice before I gorge on hummus and then head to the store. Lucky I had my kids with me.
There are other smells I blame on my kids, but these are legit. Like how my house smells like a swamp because boys are really bad at aiming, and, apparently, flushing. Like how my backyard smells like a gas tank, because my 4-year-olds managed to pick the lock on the shed out back and dump the lawnmower’s gas supply out all over themselves and the grass so we could all go out in a blaze of glory (this isn’t the first time, either. There is no place that isn’t dangerous when you have twins.). Like the sour milk/mildew/fart/dirty sock smell that wafts out into the world every time we open our van doors because, well, boys. It’s like the air freshener you always wanted in your Honda Odyssey, one that tells the story of a family. I know I’ll miss it when it’s gone. Which is a good thing, because it never is.
The state of our house.
The reason our house looks like a paper supply manufacturer blew up in it is because my kids enjoy creating colorful forts out of construction paper when they’re supposed to be in bed and Husband and I have already fallen asleep. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m too lazy to get a trash bag out and sweep it all into a dump. It also has nothing to do with the fact that I might have heard them out of their beds last night but I was too exhausted to go check. All those papers? They make great sliders when I’m lifting weights, so win win.
My kids are also the reason everything in my house is broken. The coffee maker didn’t actually explode because I poured water in the wrong slot. It exploded because my kid rigged it to break when I wasn’t looking. The toilet didn’t stop flushing because Husband took a massive sit-down and used a whole roll of toilet paper. It stopped flushing because one of the 4-year-old twins looked at it. That hole in the wall did not appear because I accidentally threw a shoe toward the shoe basket and missed by about 500 yards. It appeared because boys weakened the drywall by touching it.
The door won’t open all the way? The fan is missing a blade? The kitchen chair collapsed when I sat in it? Come on, kids.
The state of my yard.
Kids are the reason we hardly ever get around to mowing our yard. Do you know how hard it is to muster up the energy to pick up all the crap kids leave outside and know there’s still something else you have to do? (I suspect you do know, if you’re a parent.) So after you’ve spent three hours playing “search and find all the Hot Wheels” because your backyard turned into a wilderness, you’re supposed to mow and weed eat and edge? No thanks. My ugly yard is the fault of my kids.
And not just the overgrown grass and the tree-weeds and the rose bushes that reach for you when you knock on our door. Also the holes you’ll trip in when you’re trying to play that Search and Find game in the backyard. My kids are using table spoons to dig a hole to the earth’s core. I know, because they told me. Also, I fell in the hole, and Husband had to pull me out with a rope. I think they’re almost there.
Being late.
It doesn’t matter how early we get up to go somewhere or how prepared we are for the day, shoes lined up just so, outfits picked out, breakfast already in the refrigerator, waiting to be warmed. We’re going to get in the car at least fifteen minutes late—and that’s a good day. All the boys could have every single bag in the world packed, and they would still remember something they need to “go back inside” to find. Someone will have to go pee. Someone else will spill their water all over themselves and scream until they get a change of clothes, because they don’t want to “wear wet underwear all day!” Someone else will squeeze out a fart and accidentally shart.
Kids make parents late. Don’t worry. You’ll never remember how to get anywhere on time once you’ve been through the circus kids perform on the way out the door. So just sit back and relax and blame it on the kids while you can.
The rapid deterioration of my brain.
I used to be able to hold my own in the intelligence department. I don’t say that to brag. I knew what the square root of sixty-four was. I knew what three times forty-seven was without using a calculator. I knew what entropy was an how it was explained using physics (though I never truly understood its potency until I had kids). Now? My kids ask me how many pieces of pizza Suzy had if there was pizza with thirteen pieces and Margie had three of those pieces and Terrance had fifteen. I get all nervous, because I DON’T KNOW. I don’t know how to solve their math anymore. I aced college algebra, but I can’t do a second-grade math problem.
While we’re on the subject, here’s some math for you. I had a whole brain. I had six kids. Each of those six kids got a piece of the brain. How much of my brain is left?
The answer is not much.
The stains on my shirt.
No, I’m not a messy eater. I just have kids who like to touch me with food on their hands.
You’ll never actually know if this is true or not, because I’ve sworn Husband to secrecy. Only the two of us will know that the last time we went out on a date (which I can hardly remember, it was so long ago), I dropped jalepeno ranch dip all down the front-side of my shirt, and there was no kid within fifteen miles of that restaurant. Only the two of us will know that when we swung by the froyo place for a tasty treat, we ate it in the car, and when I turned on the light to check my face, there was a string of chocolate ice cream clinging to my shoulder (I’m pretty sure Husband flung it in his excitement to shovel a mouthful in his piehole). No one will know that when I’m huddled in my pantry, eating a handful of chocolate chips Husband hasn’t found yet, I’ll end up with the evidence on my thighs. The shorts that cover my thighs, that is. I mean, on the thighs, too. A moment on the lips, forever on the hips. Who cares?
Going to a Fresh Beat Band concert.
I only bought tickets because I have kids. It’s not because I think the Fresh Beat Band is the coolest kids band ever and every time one of their songs comes on I just want to break out dancing. (Well, so what if that’s true?)
If you see me playing with the build-a-house blocks at the San Antonio Children’s Museum, it’s because of the kids. If you see me dressing up like a royal queen in a too-short cape at the Witte Museum, it’s because of the kids. If you see me playing with Legos and building a Star Wars Desert Outpost, it’s because of the kids.
I’m realizing here that you can pretty much blame anything on kids. You want to be perfect? All you need is someone to blame everything on. Which makes you a perfect candidate for becoming a parent.
Seriously, though, the truth of the matter is that we all make mistakes. We all have imperfections. Who am I to hold you in judgement? Who are you to hold me in judgement? We’re all just doing the best we can, so we should embrace our mistakes.
Because as long as we have kids, we can blame EVERYTHING on them. Now. Go live it up and do some blaming.
