by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test Parents
Set my boys loose in a room, and it’s only a matter of time before everything in it falls apart.
It’s not that boys do this on purpose. It’s just that it inevitably happens. They’ll be standing, innocently, in the middle of a room, and a fan blade will fall off. If they get anywhere close to the boxed fan, it combusts without their even laying a hand on it. If they look at their beds, the middles will start to sag in defeat. If they think about their stuffed animals, seams begin to rip apart.
This destruction follows my boys around the house daily. I watch it happen in the kitchen, where they take out bowls and spoons and then sneak out to the backyard and try to dig to the earth’s mantle because someone (probably Husband) told them it could be done. The spoon, of course, comes back in all bent and misshapen so we won’t be able to eat with it, but no one actually touched it, they say. They were just pretending they were going to dig to the mantle. They actually used their hands.
I watch it happen when they move closer to the paintings they perfected last week, putting their grubby little hands all over them so smears of dirt join the smears of yellow and red in a perfectly shaped fingerprint for which no one in the house is actually responsible. Maybe it was a robber, they say. Coming in to steal a valuable painting. I’m sure that’s it, I say.
I watch it happen to the blinds, which will either snap upon notice or, if we’re having a really fun day, will attract Sharpie marker prints that look suspiciously like the 3-year-olds had a grand old time when Mama was putting the laundry in the dryer. They have no idea who did it. Not even the one with black lines all over his chin.
Probably the most notable thing inside the house that no one destroys is their bedrooms. Somehow, according to them, they didn’t put all those clothes on the floor, it just happened. They have no idea how it happened and now they’re wondering how it is they’re going to get it all cleaned up before technology time. I could care less, honestly, because I’d rather they were reading instead of watching a screen. They also definitely did not shove all their stuffed animals off their bed in a tumble of bears and dogs and big-eyed lions.
Other things they didn’t touch are the colored pencils fanned out on the floor, the art notebooks stacked on the dining room table, the jump rope draped across the couch, the clothes they wore to school today, the backpacks that are still in the living room instead of on their hooks, the LEGO pieces that have exploded all over the floor. And they most definitely don’t know who took their bed apart, because they specifically remember making it up this morning.
We must live with a ghost who likes pranks.
It’s not just the indoors, either. Something also destroys our yard. Not only is that where bikes and roller blades and scooters get left, even though no one touched them, it’s also where things like forks and spoons and the bowls that held their snack end up, even though they didn’t bring any of that outside.
Step into our yard, and you will find all manner of things. Jackets, hats, scarves (because you don’t need any of these for a Texas winter anymore), shoes, and, my favorite: holes. Since my oldest learned all about the earth’s core, he has made it a goal to dig all the way down. And their hole is getting there, because last time I fell in it someone had to throw a rope down to pull me back out.
They accidentally cracked the tiles we used to build a fire pit. They didn’t mean to tear holes big enough to swallow my backside in the wicker patio chairs. They thought when I said, “Don’t pull up all the rocks around the rose bed” I meant, “Please collect all the rocks around the rose bed and make sure you fling them into our brand new air conditioning unit.”
But all of this is nothing compared to the things they bring indoors with them, which causes the destruction of a mama’s sanity. There are the tree limbs that they’ll place neatly on my bed, because they want me to make them into magic wands. There are the jars of roly polies they arrange on a pantry shelf so I think I’m getting out a jar of sunflower seeds when it’s really a bug graveyard. There are the spiders they’ll bring in with them and drop, delightedly, in my lap with a quick, “Look what I found!”
The destruction boys cause is quite baffling, sometimes. They look at a brand new sock, and the sock grows a hole. They eye a bunch of bananas, and the bananas are magically gone. They find a hidden plunger and, well, you don’t want to know.
But what I’m always left with at the end of a destructive day is this: memories.
The hole in the wall over there happened when somebody accidentally slammed the door too hard, which made a picture fall, which made a boy try to catch it and, instead, drive his hand through the wall. The nick on the edge of this bookshelf happened because a boy got a little too excited about a new book he’d gotten, and, in his turning around to show his brothers, he forgot that he was dressed up as Leonardo the Ninja Turtle, and his sword crashed into wood. The paleolithic cave drawings on the back of our house happened because someone let a ghost borrow a magic marker.
Boys are careless, curious, and experimental. It’s just who they are.
Although, if you were to ask them, they would have a point of clarification: It’s not them doing the destruction. It’s someone else. We must have some kind of monster living here. Or maybe we have a ghost. I bet our house is built on a burial ground.
All I know is whichever ghost is responsible for the destruction that comes from a plunger, a used toilet, and bathroom walls is about to be sent into the beyond.
This is an excerpt from This Life With Boys, the third book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
(Photo by Collin Armstrong on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Wing Chair Musings
Every Wednesday night, my oldest son and I have what we call “Snuggle Time.” It’s a sweet time—about fifteen minutes—when he gets to have my undivided attention—which is a precious rarity in our home.
The last two Snuggle Time sessions he’s wanted to go for a walk—just up to our mailbox and back.
The other night, the moon was nearly full. We stepped outside our house, and there it was to greet us, looming in the black sky, the stars around it hardly visible because it was so bright. For a moment, a cloud passed over it, turning it hazy, like a glowing orb, a little other-worldly.
“Look at the moon,” my son said. We stood there for a few minutes, admiring this spectacle of the universe, which put on a lovely show, as though it knew we were watching. Then we continued on our mission: to the mailbox.
My son slipped his hand in mine, and we walked, side by side, step matched to step, the keys jangling in my other hand. He talked about what he wanted to do for his elective next year, when he enters middle school. I listened. I breathed. I saw.
Click. The stars peering out from behind clouds, pulsing a song we could not hear.
Click. The neighbors’ cars, shadowed, shining after a thin blanket of rain earlier this evening.
Click. A cat stealing across the driveway.
We joked about what we would have done if the animal skittering across the driveway had not been a cat—a skunk, perhaps, or a raccoon or a zombie. (We would have run, of course.)
We were back at the house much too soon, so we stopped again, peered up at the moon, still as lovely as before, his hand still in mine. The insignificant mail shared space with the keys in my other hand. My gaze kept turning back to that brilliant moon, as if something waited for my notice. For my listening.
And I heard it: the earth sang.
The earth is always singing, I think. It may sound a bit mystical to say that, but I agree with John Keats: “The poetry of the earth is never dead.”
And it has something to tell us if we take a moment to listen.
That night, it said, “Linger for a bit. Enjoy your son. Be here, now. Nothing lasts forever.”
So I lingered. After the timer clanged, startling both of us in a way that made him laugh hysterically, I took an extra minute—two, three—with my son.
Time never lasts forever.
I hope that as you move about your month, this last month before school is finished, perhaps, and your children move up yet another grade; this last month before the stretching out of summer, when you take a vacation or two and enjoy friends, family, or a lighter approach to work; this last month of endings and new beginnings, you will linger. I hope you will take a moment or two or three with the people you love, to say, I am here and you are here, and life is lovely, isn’t it?
I hope you will listen to the poetry of the earth.
(Photo by Helen Montoya Photography.)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
2:52:38
Listen to the song
I sing and you will hear the
secrets of my heart.
2:52:39
I wish a wish and
dream a dream and yet life is
so, so much better.
2:52:40
This is what poetry
has to tell me: that life
is worth the living.
2:52:41
Some days the whole world
feels like it’s upside down, but
tomorrow’s brand new.
2:52:42
It’s an endless sort
of hope that echoes in all
our deepest spaces.
These are excerpts from The Book of Uncommon Hours, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Books
I’d been hearing a lot of talk about Ibi Zoboi’s American Street, and I finally, after waiting for months, got it off the hold shelf in our library.
All that talk was true: American Street is a truly spectacular book that will entrance you, bring you to tears, and lift you to a higher place than where you started. At its heart, it’s a book about Haitian culture, drug life, and bravery.
Here are three things I liked best about it:
- The Haitian culture. I absolutely loved how main character Fabiola brought the Haitian culture into everything and how voudou, her faith, was the source of her strength.
- Strong women. Fabiola and her cousins were strong women who solved their own problems, even though they didn’t always make the right decisions or even honorable ones. I also really loved the insight into Detroit culture that Zoboi provided; it was an eye-opening peek into the truth of street life, particularly for young women.
- The mystical quality of everything. Because voudou, which is the Haitian religion, was so important to Fabiola, it seemed like everything in her life was infused with the mystical and the magical. I found that really intriguing. And inspired a look at my own everyday magic.
Here’s an example of how Fabiola infuses her everyday actions with the mystical:
“When I get a better look at his face, my stomach sinks. He’s definitely the one who punched Bad Leg. He looks younger up close, but older than me—maybe Chantal’s age. There is a black patch over his left eye and his face is a series of sharp lines—a tight jaw, a straight nose, and a hard smile. Even if I hadn’t seen him do that to the poor old man, something about the way he grins and that eye patch makes him look like he’s been to the underworld and back.”
This was a superb book (I feel like I keep saying that, but it’s true): a well written, gripping story about what it takes to live a life as an immigrant, coming to a broken place in America that may not be as safe as even your dangerous homeland. I can’t wait to read more from Zoboi.
The above is an affiliate link. I only recommend books that I personally enjoy. I actually don’t even talk about the books I don’t enjoy, because I’d rather forget I ever wasted time reading them. But if you’re ever curious whether I’ve read a book and whether I liked or disliked it, don’t hesitate to ask.
by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test Parents
I write a lot of things in a lot of different places. And because I write a lot of things in a lot of different places, I “meet” so many….let’s call them “interesting” people. Sometimes they leave an online comment on my work. Sometimes they send me direct messages to my email (I stopped publishing my email because of it, but some people know how to get around the controls, apparently). Sometimes they go so far as to mail their letter to my PO box. Those are my favorites—shows some initiative, contacting me like that.
Sometimes this communication from readers is lovely. Sometimes not so much.
But if I’ve learned anything about living a parenting life with humor in the nine years I’ve been attempting, I know that when trolls hand you lemons, you squirt lemonade back in their face.
So here’s some of those lemons (all typos left purposefully in place) and my backwashed lemonade.
“I know I’m just another asshole dude telling women what to do, but we don’t get pregnant. Paraphrasing Smokey the Bear, ‘only you can prevent pregnancy.’”
—A-hole Dude
Dear A-hole Dude: The only true thing you said in your comment was the naming of yourself. And I have to give you credit: Another Asshole Dude Telling Women What to Do is actually a pretty accurate name.
Without going into all the details I was fortunate enough to learn in fifth grade (I guess not all schools had the resources to educate their students about the finer points of conception), I will simply explain to you that in order to result in a viable pregnancy, a woman’s egg needs sperm. A woman does not produce sperm herself, which logically proves that she is not the only one who can prevent pregnancy.
Who produces sperm, you might be wondering? You do. In your testicles, where it then is delivered to a woman’s vagina (and perhaps to a waiting egg) through the penis. So you should keep it in your pants, because you, my dear, are sadly misinformed about who has the power to prevent pregnancy. You have just as much responsibility as your lucky woman does.
Paraphrasing Michael Crichton: “Life is hard, but it’s harder if you’re stupid an asshole dude.”
“Quit having babies. Please. Now. Good gawd.”
“Both EO Wilson and The Dalai Lama have called for smaller families as the only way to stave off the ills that beset our planet, our species, other species.”
“I always wonder why people think their DNA is so special that they need to overbreed.”
—Slightly Misinformed
Dear Slightly Misinformed: I wasn’t aware that having smaller families was the only way to “stave off the ills that beset our planet, our species, other species.” As someone who is very interested in conservation and environmentalism, I guess I mistakenly thought that things like conserving water, riding bikes instead of driving cars, eating organically grown whole foods rather than packaged ones, boycotting plastic, and reducing our reliance on oil (among many other things) would make a big difference.
I guess my seven years of study are worth pretty much nothing. I should have spent that time preventing pregnancy.
As for my DNA, it is really special. I’m a millennial, which means, by default, I think I’m very special, which means I think, also by default, that society could benefit from my passing along my very special DNA to as many people as possible. I’ve done the world a huge favor.
You’re welcome.
“Women want equality in the household until it’s time to rotate the tires, or change some wheel hubs, or clear the property of winter refuse.
“I have no problem doing laundry or dishes or helping out with any other household chores but don’t act like your everyday housewife is going to install a floor or change a transmission.
“And good for you if you can afford to have all the everyday logistics taken care of [with a “cleaning lady, a landscaper, great mechanics and tradesmen”], for some of us, assuming gender roles is necessary.
“(I say this as I am playing outside with my kids, while cooking dinner for them, while my wife works.)”
—Assuming Lots
Dear Assuming Lots: Let’s review some of your assumptions:
1. A woman can’t lay down a floor. (As a matter of fact, one of the first things Husband and I did when we moved into our current house was rip up the kitchen floor and lay down a new one. And, yes, I helped. And, yes, it’s still in tact. And, yes, we fought the whole time.)
2. A man can always fix a car. (We have a mechanic on speed dial because Husband doesn’t always know how to fix a car.)
3. I have “a cleaning lady, a landscaper, great mechanics and tradesmen supporting” me. (I have one out of the three. I’ll give you a hint: She fixes cars.)
You might want to reassess your gender assumptions and intrinsic biases while playing outside with your kids, while cooking dinner for them, while your wife works.
“[A dad being a parent] is exceptional if most people don’t do it. That’s the definition of ‘exceptional’. When it will be common practice, it won’t be exceptional. But while we are at a time with the social stigma of men not expecting to look after the kids, if a man chooses to be different, he is exceptional.”
—Arguing Semantics
Dear Arguing Semantics: Thank you so much for cluing me in to what exceptional means. I guess I’ve been operating under a false definition of that word for my entire life! It’s such a relief to set it straight and finally be able to use it correctly in my essays.
Which I see I’ve done.
A dad being a dad is not exceptional. It is, as I stated in my essay, being a dad. If we are lifting men up as exceptional for being a dad to their kids, then all the dads who aren’t being dads feel like they’ve been let off the hook. The standard, you see, is not being a dad.
Maybe I’m in the minority, but I’m not interested in granting that kind of leniency. I’m interested in celebrating the many benefits that involved and supportive dads bring to our society. I’m interested in changing the social expectations that have historically been heaped on moms and excused from dads. I’m interested in dads being what they signed up for when they contributed one-half of the chromosomes their children have: a dad.
The end.
“What type of jobs do they have that allows them both to be home at lunchtime to take care of daily duties, and still care for and feed a family of 8.”
—Nosy
Dear Nosy: Wouldn’t you like to know.
“I stopped reading at ‘he knows I’m a better mother because of my work.’ Bull. If you want to work, then work. But stop with the bogus lines to justify it. Funny how you never hear men use that line.”
—Calling Bull
Dear Calling Bull: I honestly didn’t realize that humanity was so far advanced that we could read minds. You are one special person; I bet, after posting this mind-reading observation, you’ll be inundated with requests for your exceptional powers.
I can hardly contain my curiosity now: When you look into my mind and heart, what do you see? Am I happier because I work? Am I not? Does being happier make me a better mom? Does it not? I would really, really, really like to know what you think.
Actually, I wouldn’t. Because here’s the thing: When I say I’m a better mother because I work, I mean it. I’m a better mother because I work. If you don’t like that answer, then it’s your problem, not mine.
Writing happens to be how I take care of myself, which is something every parent should do. I’m just lucky enough to be able to call writing my work. When I work—when I write—I feel more relaxed and happier. Feeling more relaxed and happier makes me a better mother. Therefore, my logical mind, which was honed in Mrs. Allen’s calculus classroom, says that taking care of myself by writing (my work) makes me a better mother. This breaks down even more simply into the following equation:
Me + work = Better mom.
Logic is pretty amazing when you use it. You should take it out for a spin once in a while.
“This lady and her husband need to stop having kids. Who needs 6 children? Lets keep having articles like this to encourage irresponsible breeding.”
—Totally Got the Point
Dear Totally Got the Point: Yes. My essay really was about irresponsible breeding. I’m glad you could see through the rhetoric.
Thanks for reading so closely.
“Maybe stop sh*****g out kids like a cockroach and you wouldn’t need so much help. F*****g breeders.”
—Potty Mouth
Dear Potty Mouth: Essays wouldn’t be essays without a visit from you and your friends, so thank you for stopping by.
I prefer to think of myself as a bunny, rather than a cockroach. My kids are much cuter than cockroaches, and, frankly, I’m much hotter than a nasty little bug (according to Husband, who is the father of—yes—all six of my children).
So let’s amend your statement to be a little less…prickly:
“Maybe stop popping out kids like a bunny and you wouldn’t need so much help. Cute little breeders.”
There we go. Sounds much better.
“Do they need condoms? Ill get them a case of like 100 if it’ll help”
—Family Planning Expert
Dear Family Planning Expert: Thank you for thinking of us. You can send your case to:
35 Mind Your Own Business St.
Trojan, XL 40589
“I can literally smell the menstruation all over this article and comment section! I bet your cycles have all synced up at this point.”
—Woman Wannabe
Dear Woman Wannabe: I’m sorry you can’t be a woman. You are really missing out, let me tell you. Blood shooting violently from your lady parts, cramps doubling you over in your bed, kids asking you if you’re dying, because, after sixteen years of menstruating you still haven’t mastered the art of removing a tampon without getting something on your hands.
If you need to talk to someone about your massive jealousy, I’m sure any woman in your life would be happy to tell you what it’s like being a woman living in a man’s world. Here’s a preview of what to expect: derision from society for your body’s natural cycle of ovulation and menstruation, mood swings blamed jokingly on “that time of month,” and sarcastic, distasteful comments from men like you.
“I bet he has to plan a 7 day Disney trip just to make this chick slightly impressed and all his paychecks go straight to her bank account [laugh emoji]. She sounds like he HAS to do the sh*t because he a parent… No b***h he’s CHOOSIN to be that helpful and supportive regardless of whether he’s a parent or not…It’s definitely his choice to be a great parent and not just be there.”
—I Know Everything
Dear I Know Everything: Man, it feels good to have all my secrets uncovered. I’m only slightly impressed by the Disney trip, and I control the bank account. If Husband asks me for a little extra spending money, the answer is almost always no (I need my new shoes, after all; what’s he gonna buy?). I leave him an endless list of chores to do after he finishes his day of work: wash the dishes, cook dinner, sweep the floor, put the kids to bed.
You might wonder what I’m doing while he’s taking care of, well, pretty much everything. Or maybe you already know what I’m doing, because you’re so smart.
That’s right. I’m sitting on the couch, nagging him, complaining about how he’s not doing a single thing right.
Sure is good to be a woman.
As always, thank you for stopping by. If you ever feel the urge to send me your thoughts and opinions about my parenting and kid-count, feel free to email me at idontcare@babymakingfactory.com.
I always love hearing from my fans.
This is an excerpt from Hills I’ll Probably Lie Down On, the fourth book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
(Photo by David Solce on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Wing Chair Musings
I was stirring some oatmeal, having already ruined a pot with cayenne pepper when I mistakenly grabbed it instead of the cinnamon. I was still getting over the flu, and my brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.
And, because my brain felt foggy and unfocused (or, perhaps, in spite of it, though my life often feels like a tapestry of irony), my second son chose this morning to ask me, “What makes people be mean to each other?”
I turned down the burner, knowing that this question would take all of my attention to answer. I stirred one more time before turning around to face him. I said, “What makes you be unkind to your brothers?”
He shrugged.
“Sometimes when you feel angry, are you unkind?” I said.
His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yeah.”
“Or if you feel sad, sometimes you say something unkind, right?” I said.
“I think I understand,” he said. I could see that he was thinking, turning over my words in his mind. I wanted to add another important thought.
“People aren’t usually unkind without having a reason. They feel sad, they feel angry, they feel disappointed, they feel lonely. Those feelings are hard for them to feel. They’re hard for any of us to feel.” I looked at him to see if he was still listening. His blue eyes fastened on me, like he waited for more. By this time, his brothers had joined him at the table, and they were all listening.
“Sometimes people choose unkindness because they think it will make them feel better. It never does,” I said.
My son shook his head.
“We should always work to figure out why people are being unkind,” I said.
We’ve been telling him and all his brothers this very thing since they were all too young to understand it. In fact, it’s hidden in many of our family values: believe the best about people and seek to find out why they make the choices they make. Don’t judge. Accept, embrace, and help heal their hurts.
Love the unlovable. Find the lonely and make them feel full. Defend the defenseless.
They can hear the shift in our voices when we talk about these things—the slight hitch in our breath, the upward turn of our tone, the urgency of words and sound that fly straight from our hearts. They know it’s important—no, vital—to listen.
When I turned to stir the oatmeal, it had burned a little on the bottom.
But no one complained.
(Photo by Brooke Lark on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
11:41:49
I wanted to read
today, but someone in my
house kept on talking.
11:41:50
Interruptions, I
say, are not polite. You can’t
hear the story well.
11:41:51
He keeps talking, wants
to finish what he’s saying.
One book takes hours.
11:41:52
(Not really. It takes a
a few extra minutes to
answer his questions.)
11:41:53
(It’s just that I’m more
than ready for nap time. It’s
been a long, wet day.)
11:42:20
They never want the
reading to end, because they
know stories are gifts.
These are excerpts from The Book of Uncommon Hours, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by This is Now Photography.)
by Rachel Toalson | Books
As I’ve stated before, I’ve been working my way through novels in verse, and Joy McCullough’s Blood Water Paint was one I’d been eagerly anticipating for a while. It just released this year and is a phenomenal book based on the life of painter Artemisia Gentileschi, who lived during a time when women were not recognized for their art and were, in fact, stifled in their art.
This was such a lovely book that it’s difficult not to go on and on about its language and its structure and its beautiful yet difficult narrative.
Here are three things I enjoyed most about it:
- The strong character. Artemisia was a strong woman living during a time when women weren’t supposed to be strong. She also had a talent that was highly desired in her community, which means she painted many things but did not get credit for it—because this was the reality for a woman during her time period. I hated this but also loved it, because it was a good window into the history from which we come.
- The painting. Many of the poems in this book shared the emotional elements of painting, and I really loved that. The poems were spectacular in communicating how important painting was to Artemisia.
- The structure. Not only was the poetry in this book compelling and lyrically satisfying, but it was also interrupted by stories Artemisia’s mother had told her about Susanna and Judith, strong women in their time, and whom Artemisia would paint at different times in her life.
Fans of novels in verse will love the beautiful language and sparse prose and the way they are woven together. Blood Water Paint was an incredibly powerful book.
The above is an affiliate link. I only recommend books that I personally enjoy. I actually don’t even talk about the books I don’t enjoy, because I’d rather forget I ever wasted time reading them. But if you’re ever curious whether I’ve read a book and whether I liked or disliked it, don’t hesitate to ask.
by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test Parents
The rapid decline of focus and care that families experience at the end of a school year is not always a sudden decline. For some people, it’s a steady one that takes months and months to reach complete burnout. For some it never happens at all.
But if you’re an overachiever like me, this decline requires only a few weeks before you’re gracefully accepting the Failing at School Award.
Husband and I do fairly well at the beginning of every school year, for at least the first couple of weeks. Everyone has matching shoes when they get to school. No one forgets their backpacks. Sweat pants, which are part of my boys’ daily wardrobes, don’t have holes in them yet.
And then my boys get really tired of being in school, and they become a bit more to manage. Husband and I don’t really have the time for “a bit more to manage.” And it starts weighing on us in increments: so many folders to sign, not enough pens that work, so much reading time spent with kids who take ten minutes to sound out four sentences.
We start giving up.
So by the time we get to the end of the year, our failures have accumulated in massive quantities. Recently I noticed it in the frequency with which our boys showed up at school the day of their field trips with no signed permission slips.
I won’t tell you how many times this happened, but, for context, we have three boys in school. The number of no permission slips was greater than the number of boys in school.
Don’t ask me how that happened; I’m still confused, too.
Half the time, I did not even see these permission slips. My sons’ teachers emailed me the day of their field trip or field day or movie day, asking me if I’d let them go or play or watch, and, if so, just send a note with the boy. If they only knew how hard it was to find a pen. I wrote my notes in crayon.
We missed all the teacher appreciation activities this year, not because we don’t appreciate our sons’ teachers but because it always happens the week of the second-born son’s birthday and I’m so busy planning a party that I can’t really juggle anything else. We know what the Age of Pinterest has done to parties, and even though I’m an underachiever when it comes to parties, I still try minimally hard.
So this year all the teachers got their thank you notes and treats a whole week late. Well. Good enough.
It seems like, at the end of every year, the kids are invited to a billion birthday parties. We receive about fifty percent of these invitations. We notice about thirty percent of the fifty percent we receive. We respond to about ten percent of the thirty percent we notice, and the boys make it out to about one percent of that ten percent.
Whatever grade you made in your statistics class, you can likely see that those are not great odds, but when you have a family with as many people in it as ours has, you have to make concessions everywhere. The five-year-old cannot go to twenty parties every year. The six-year-old cannot go to a party the same weekend his brother is playing a chess tournament. The nine-year-old cannot go to a party that starts in two hours because he “forgot” to show us the invitation four weeks ago.
One of my sons had a missing library book at the end of this school year, and I didn’t even realize it until I got this nifty little slip of paper that had the name of the book and a mug shot of my son. In large print, it said, “Book still missing from the library. Please return.” So we did, and the boy didn’t have to go to jail today for the crime of keeping Creepy Carrots here at home.
Since last September, I’ve been getting annoying calls from the school district cafeteria office, because on the same day, two of my boys decided to charge their lunch, even though they had a perfectly good lunch packed and ready for them. Another day, the third boy decided the cafeteria pizza looked better than his PB&J, so he joined his brothers with a lunch charge. And because schools don’t make it easy to pay for school lunches anymore, unless you have an online code that we lost way back on the second day of school, they’ve been calling three times a day (one for each boy) since the fifth week of school. I have three hundred forty-three messages from the cafeteria office on my phone. If you call me and my mailbox is full, that’s why.
They even called on Christmas. That’s dedication.
The boys’ wardrobe has gone seriously downhill, because, honestly, we’ve stopped caring. On the first day of school, my kids were dressed like the cool, clean boys they are. Now they wear sweat shorts with soccer socks pulled up to their knees, along with the dirtiest-looking shirt they could find in their closet. The oldest, this morning, stepped out of the house with both his knees flapping through his sweat pants and his ankles showing because he grew three inches over the course of this school year. It’s not important. They can look like orphans if they want. School’s almost out, and they’ll probably just stay in their pajamas all summer. Or, better yet, their underwear. It’ll save me a few loads of laundry every week.
Related to this wardrobe decline is the deteriorating state of their shoes. These poor shoes are only hanging by a thread (I know how you feel, shoes). The problem is, my boys are required to wear tennis shoes for their physical education class. And here at the end of the year, I don’t want to buy new tennis shoes, because summers in Texas cannot be borne in anything but flip flops. So if we buy them new tennis shoes here at the end of the school year, they won’t get worn. And by the time my sons start school in the fall, their feet will have grown three sizes. I’ll save my cash, thanks. Son number two can walk with flapping soles, for all I care.
The end of every school year cannot be mentioned without this failure: an increased number of tardies. I used to care about my boys being late to school, but, honestly, we’re all a little tired of trying to get to school by 7:40 a.m. When someone didn’t even climb out of bed until 7:15 because he stayed up too late eating the frozen pancakes I put in the freezer so they’d have breakfast this morning, there’s no point in really trying. It’s gonna be a late day.
When I was in eighth grade, I ran track and won the district gold medal in the four-hundred-meter dash. The first track meet of my freshman year of high school, my track coach thought it would be a good idea to put me, who was only used to running the four-hundred-meter dash, in the eight-hundred-meter run. This is not a dash, it’s a run.
I ran it like a dash.
I started out the race in first place. I finished the first lap with all the other runners two hundred meters behind me, and then I remembered I still had another lap. And then, because I still had another lap and my legs had already turned into floppy limbs made of pudding that I couldn’t feel anymore, all those runners passed me.
My pride was so wounded by that appalling race that I crossed the finish line with the biggest, most sheepish smile I could muster. When my coach angrily strode over to me, she said, “If I ever see you cross another finish line like a beauty queen, I’m going to put you in the mile.”
Well, personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with finishing a race dead last and looking like a beauty queen.
So I’m finishing this school year strong, with a sparkling smile and a wave.
This is an excerpt from Hills I’ll Probably Lie Down On, the fourth book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
(Photo by Feliphe Schiarolli on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Wing Chair Musings
It’s the last week of school, and I am a weeping mess. It’s not a sad weeping, really. It’s a bittersweet weeping, a proud weeping, because every step they take on this road that is education and growing up and moving on is another step they take out of my home.
Those heartstrings tied to them want to pull tighter, shelter them from the heartache I know is coming, because it always does. I want to protect them and hold them and keep them.
Mostly I want to keep them. Keep them small. Keep them safe. Keep them here. And yet this week has reminded me that keeping them is not something I can do.
Two days ago I watched my eight-year-old walk the stage for his second grade completion ceremony, where he got the “Artful Artist” award. Yesterday I watched my six-year-old sing and sign and accept the “Best Reader” award during his kindergarten completion program. Today I watched them both dance their way into summer.
Or I tried. It was hard to find a window between hands and arms holding video cameras and smartphones and iPads where I could actually see them. I ducked and turned and moved, and everywhere I went there was another device recording the moment. I had to squint and tilt my head just the right way to see my sons.
At first I felt angry. Annoyed. Because I was a parent, too, and I deserved to see my sons bust a move just like the next person did.
And then I remembered: It wasn’t so long ago that I did the same.
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Two years ago, when my first son was a kindergartener, I stood in the throng of parents and tried to take a video of him dancing, because his daddy wasn’t able to come and his daddy needed to see, but mostly because I wanted to keep the memory forever and ever and ever. The whole time my Canon 7D kept slipping away from him because I was trying to watch him in person, not on a screen, so the video isn’t even a very good one.
I watched him stand on his tiptoes waiting for the music to begin and I watched him strike that last pose and I watched him walk away with a grin I could barely make out on the screen of the camera. I could not see that grin shine. I missed the way he made a goofy face at his brothers in the crowd and made them all burst out laughing, because I was so intent on getting the perfect shot. I missed the way his feet fairly flew off the blacktop because he was so excited that he’d nailed the dance. I missed looking into his eyes and letting him see the pride that shouted from mine.
I missed. And to this day, I wish I had the vision in my memory store more than I had the video on my computer’s memory store.
When my boy got home from school, he didn’t even ask to see the video. He didn’t care that there was one. He only talked about when he had done that jump move and did I see him throw some break-dancing into the free form section? And I had to admit, at least to myself, that no, I hadn’t seen it, because I was too busy trying to capture video.
I missed.
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We miss something in these moments we work so hard to preserve. We miss the living of them.
It takes us a while to see it, because we are the first generation of parents growing up in a world of technology that puts access to video at our fingertips, without having to set up the perfect shot or figure out the best lighting or get as close as we possibly can. We have zoom lenses and autofocus and cameras that can take five pictures per second.
And everything feels so necessary. I know. I felt it this year.
I purposely decided, before each of the school events, that I would not pull out a video camera this year. But when the second graders walked across the stage for their completion certificates and awards and the principal announced that the center aisle of the cafeteria was reserved for parents taking video and pictures of their kids, I wanted to get up. And when my son stood with his teacher and turned to the center aisle and no one was there, I felt like I had let him down. Like I had lost an opportunity. Like I had willingly given up recording a significant moment. But I just waved crazily from the back of the cafeteria and called his name and let that grin of his slide all the way down into the deepest places of my heart.
You see, our kids don’t have to know that we are recording their every step and capturing their every accomplishment and putting it all into a folder they won’t really care about when they’re eighteen. They just need to know we’re there. Watching. Enjoying. Marveling. It’s hard to watch and enjoy and marvel with a phone between us and every special moment. Sure, we may get to savor it later, but what are we missing right now, in this moment here?
There are some things pictures can’t capture.
The excited glow of his eyes. The way his smile lights up the whole room. How he grins even wider, if possible, when he catches your eyes and not just the camera’s eyes.
I understand how we can get caught up with every significant moment and want to keep it. Keep them. I know what it’s like to feel like you probably should order a class picture and those individual school shots, even though you take a billion better ones at home. I know how a yearbook in elementary school can feel necessary, because how will they remember if we don’t find a way to preserve those memories?
The thing is, they don’t really need our help remembering what’s important.
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My kindergarten year is hazy in my mind, but I remember balloon letters hanging from a ceiling and a gather-together rug in the middle of the room and a claw-foot bathtub in the corner where we took turns reading for pleasure. I remember blue mats on the floor and lying down too close to a girl who picked my chicken pox scab while I was sleeping and made a scar in the middle of my forehead. I remember pronouncing island like is-land and how Mrs. Spinks corrected me. I remember a playground with metal seesaws and above-ground culverts painted yellow and tractor tires cut in half. I remember losing a tooth in a Flintstone push-up popsicle and my brother choking on a chicken bone, back when the cafeteria chicken noodle soup was made from real, bones-included chicken, and the first time I slid down the metal slide in shorts and burned the backside of my legs.
My mom didn’t have to capture any of those moments for me to remember them.
There is something magical about remembering our pasts the way our minds want to remember them. That kindergarten reading bathtub probably wasn’t as pretty as I remember. That metal slide probably wasn’t as tall (or safe) as I remember. The cafeteria and gym and schoolyard probably weren’t as large as I remember.
And part of me is glad a video doesn’t exist to prove my memory wrong.
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Memories are so much more than seeing. They are hearing and feeling and smelling and tasting, too, and a video can only catch two of those. Our memories can catch them all.
I record so much of my kids’ lives. When they do something funny. When they wear something cute. When they sing one of their original songs or choreograph an amazing dance or write a play and perform it for us in our living room. I record because I want to remember.
But could I remember without the help? Will I remember how he moved his hands in that funky way during “Uptown Funk” without a video camera preserving it forever? Will I remember the hilarious poses he struck during the freeform part of the dance? Will I remember the way my other son tipped his head and made his body so fluid and waved his hands at just the right times during “Surfin’ USA”?
I’d sure like to try—because I want to be present in the moment. Right here. Right now. Looking at them with both my eyes open. I want my boys to know what it means to be fully present in a moment, to soak it up and let our memories do their work.
“Are you disappointed that we didn’t get a video of your dance?” I ask my eight-year-old when he gets home from school today.
“No,” he says. He grins. “I saw you dancing along.”
He knows the truth of it.
A mama can’t dance when she’s holding a camera.
This is an excerpt from We Count it All Joy, a book of essays. For more of Rachel’s writings, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a couple of books for free.
(Photo by Mattias Diesel on Unsplash)
