I used to lie in those woods and stare at the trees and imagine they were us, bound together at the top. Me, Mom, Dad, Riley, Jake. Families like us were supposed to stick together.
The woods are gone now.
Ongoing challenge: Find (or take) a picture. Write exactly 40 words about it. Post.
(Great practice for brevity.)
The kids are home for summer break, and time feels shorter than ever.
During the school year, we put the boys at home on a strict schedule: breakfast, lessons, playtime, lunch time, nap time and free play in the afternoon.
But during the summer, the time is a little more fluid, which means all those areas where I usually take some work time to catch up on whatever I can with divided attention no longer exist.
The summer is different, because the entire dynamic of our house changes. Time feels tied in knots, with six of them asking for help and making a mess and running wild, instead of just four.
This is the dilemma for every parent writer. We want time to write, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day.
One of the most difficult things we’ll have to do as a writer parent is make space for our writing.
Because there are always dishes to do and children to put to bed and time we need to spend with our partner, and where in the world can we find the time to pursue our writing?
I got up at 5 a.m. today, because it was the first day of summer vacation, and surely my children would sleep until 7 or so. That would give me at least two hours to work on some reading and writing.
Except they woke up at 6 a.m. instead of 7, and I was right in the middle of something I needed to do when they came tearing into the room.
Some days, I swear. It just feels…impossible.
People tell me all the time that they just don’t have the time to do what they love. But if we really love doing it, won’t we find the time?
When people ask me how I possibly find the time to write so much and read so often, I have a pretty short answer for them:
I have to.
I have to read and write to become a better writer, and I have to read and write to become a better person.
I am not who I was made to be if I’m not reading and writing in the spaces of my life. But I had to make those spaces. I had to talk about them with my family. I had to ask for their help.
My boys know the days I didn’t get to read and write much, because they can tell. I am grouchier, touchier, more easily annoyed.
They wouldn’t know how to say it in words, but they like me better when I’ve made space to do what I love.
So how do we make space when it feels impossible?
1. Enter into an open conversation with family members.
If our children and our partner don’t know about our dreams or how important they are to us, they will not give us the space to create. If they don’t give us the space to create, or if expectations are not talked about and worked through, we run the risk of feeling bitter about what time we do or don’t get. It’s worth it to open a conversation exploring times when you might be able to work, whether it’s early morning or late night or the middle of the afternoon while someone else watches the kids.
2. Brainstorm solutions for who has kid-duty.
None of my boys are old enough to be unsupervised for any stretch of time beyond about five minutes (even if they were, I don’t know if I’d trust them). So my husband and I worked out a solution early on. We trade off kid-watching hours during the day. He works seven hours in the morning (beginning work at 6 a.m.), and I take the rest in the afternoon (ending work at 5:30 p.m.). Sometimes we work early, early mornings or late nights. We piece together the hours we need, and we gain the benefit of learning the meaning of true partnership and enjoying the best years with our children.
3. Use time wisely.
Sometimes all we’re going to get in a day is 30 minutes. That means it’s especially important to use that time in a way that will get us what we need and want, whether that’s specific word counts or just a quick essay we can post. Know what you’re going to work on before the time comes around so you don’t spend the whole 30 minutes trying to figure that out. So much can be done in 30 minutes of uninterrupted time. Make sure it’s the right kind of work, and not work you could do while watching your kids.
4. Remember it may not look perfectly.
Sometimes kids will interrupt. Sometimes they will wake up too early or stay up too late. Sometimes we won’t get a dang thing done because we’re just so tired. That’s okay. Get back on the road tomorrow and try again. If interruptions are normal occurrences, try to get someone else to watch the kids while you work. It’s worth it for your family and yourself.
Making space is possible, but we can’t do it alone. We have to ask for help.
But our lives—and careers—will only change for the better.
This school year went by way too fast.
And now all my boys are at home, all together for every hour of every day for the next several months. It’s the first time we’ve encountered this boy-count for a significant stretch of time since we had our sixth boy in January.
I tell you, I don’t know if I’m going to make it.
Naturally, I woke up that first morning with a massive headache, because life is hilariously unfair like that.
There was a foreboding that was more than just the headache, right behind my eyes, because I’ve been entrenched in edits for a middle grade novel and the house is a disaster and the boys came home with all their leftover supplies and fifty-thousand pieces of paper yesterday.
So I had my suspicions about how this day would go.
Here’s a rundown of the highlights:
5 a.m.—I get out of bed to write for a couple of hours before the boys are expected up between 7:30 and 8 a.m., because they’re surely going to sleep late this first day of summer vacation. Surely.
5:12 a.m.—The baby starts fussing, even though he usually sleeps until 8.
5:19 a.m.—The baby goes back to sleep.
5:42 a.m.—I hear footsteps. Surely not.
6 a.m.—Still writing, but those footsteps are sounding more and more suspicious.
6:17 a.m.—Now I have to investigate, because it’s completely quiet. That never means anything good.
6:24 a.m.—(Because it takes that long to get down the stairs with a stupid boot cast). I find them, one school boy and his next-in-line brother using the scissors they left out last night to cut tiny little confetti-sized pieces of paper out of the 6-year-old’s final kindergarten report card.
6:31 a.m.—I start breakfast, trying not to stare at all.those.pieces of paper. The awake boys disappear, and before I’m three minutes into fixing breakfast, they’ve woken every other boy in the house, and the walls are shaking.
6: 34 a.m.—I’m hungry, Mama. Yes, I know. I’m working as fast as I can. May I have an apple while I’m waiting? No, you may not. This will be done soon. But Mama! I’m starving.
6:35 a.m.—I try to listen to the talking ones and get breakfast in the oven while trying to keep the twins out of the markers and glue sticks and sharpened pencils that have multiplied overnight, I swear.
6:43 a.m.—Someone throws a pillow at someone else and accidentally breaks a picture. Clean it up.
6:48 a.m.—Someone dumps out the entire bin of LEGO pieces on the dining room table where the clothes were all folded and ready to be put away. Seriously, guys. BREAKFAST IS ALMOST DONE. JUST SIT IN YOUR CHAIRS.
6:56 a.m.—Smoothies are ready! Come get them at the table. Eggs will be done shortly.
6:57 a.m.—A twin plays with his fork and knocks his smoothie cup off the table. Clean it up.
7:04 a.m.—The eggs are ready! Watch out, it’s hot. Blow on it before you eat it. (Fantasize about how maybe this will give me 4.7 minutes of relaxation time.
7:07 a.m.—We’re done! Let’s dump out more LEGOs!
7:09 a.m.—Mama, may I have some milk? Will you play LEGOs with me? Will you come outside with me? I want to color, Mama. Too many people talking at the same time. Lock myself in the bathroom.
7:12 a.m.—Yeah, that was a bad idea. One of the twins found the 150 manuscript pages I brought downstairs (wishful thinking that I’d actually get a chance to work on them) and made it rain paper.
7:34 a.m.—Turn on an audio book. It usually quiets them for a while.
8 a.m.—Feed the baby while they are (mercifully!) listening to the audio book.
8:02 a.m.—The 6-year-old skips to the refrigerator to get an apple, even though he just had two smoothies and three eggs. Um, no.
8:17 a.m.—Baby is finished, twins asked for some crayons.
8:20 a.m.—Twins decided paper wasn’t working for them today and now have colored in one of their brother’s library books he left on the table.
8:31 a.m.—Someone left the door open. I yell at them to close it. It will not be the last time I get to practice my delivery, though. I will get to perfect it six thousand other times. I discovered there are quite a few variations of this phrase.
“Shut the door, please.”
“Please shut the door.”
“Close the door, guys.”
“Hey, guys, close the door.”
“Ohmygosh, close the door.”
“Hey! How about you close the door?”
“How many times do I have to tell you to CLOSE THE DOOR?”
“Are you forgetting something? How about CLOSING THE DOOR?”
“CLOSE. THE. DOOR!”
I love my boys just as much as any other mother, and I really am excited about having the bigger ones home for the summer, because they’re awesome people and I enjoy talking with them anytime I feel like it.
But the dynamic of six home at the same time, asking for something, getting into things, leaving the door open is just…crazy.
It wasn’t all crazy, though. It was also really fun and beautiful and wonderful.
I got to see them play with LEGOs together, constructing fire world and ice worlds and grass worlds together. I got to see them waiting at the table when I came down to make breakfast, dressed as Spider-Man and Starscream. I got to see the 6-year-old read a story to his little brothers and run to kiss “his baby” whenever he felt like it.
I got to see the 8-year-old settle into an old story, and I got to laugh with him about how the boy in the story told his school counselor that he likes to eat dog food, and I got to see him teach his twin brothers how to build a LEGO car that actually works.
It really wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought.
Of course there’s always tomorrow.
There are many great mysteries in the life of a parent.
One of the biggest, for me, are these stuffed animals. They’re all over our house, because my boys love stuffed animals and their grandparents know it.
Stuffed animals aren’t all that unusual in the world of a child. What is unusual is that these stuffed animals are DRESSED.
They are dressed when my children are not.
“I have to take you to the store with me,” I say. “Please go get dressed.”
Fifteen minutes later, I trip over Sully, who is dressed. Sitting beside him is my 6-year-old, who is not.
This is a great mystery to me, that my boys liked dressing their stuffed animals better than dressing themselves. That most of the clothes in the laundry are clothes their stuffed animals have worn.
“I don’t have any clean underwear,” he says.
“Maybe go check Mike Wazowski. He probably knows where some are,” I say.
Two minutes later, he comes back. “You were right, Mama!” he says. “Mike Wazowski had my underwear!”
And we laugh about it like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I can let them have a little fun, I guess.
Until…
“Mama, this one’s a girl. I need some of your clothes this time,” one of them says.
Nope. Absolutely not. You are NOT raiding my underwear drawer.
I have to draw a line somewhere.
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 8-year-old walk the stage for his second grade completion ceremony, where he got the “Artful Artist” award. Yesterday I watched my 6-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 and video cameras and smartphones where I could actually see them. I ducked and turned and moved, and everywhere I went there was another camera or phone 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.
///
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 just watch him, 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 just the right 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.
///
We miss something in these moments we work so hard to preserve.
We miss living.
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 missed something. Like I had lost an opportunity.
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 18.
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 that 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 just 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.
///
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 of the room where we took turns reading for pleasure.
I remember blue mats on the floor and laying 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 popsicle and my brother choking on a chicken bone, back when the cafeteria chicken noodle soup was made from real chicken, and the first time I slid down the metal slide in shorts and burned the back 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 something 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.
///
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 that 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?
Could I remember the way 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 8-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.
On my shelf this week:
The poetry of William Blake
The In-Between: Embracing the Tension Between Now and the Next Big Thing, by Jeff Goins
Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank, by Erma Bombeck
This week I’m spending time in the poetry of William Blake, reading about how to gracefully spend time in the “waiting room,” reading an old classic and studying a humor master.
Best quotes so far:
“Life does slow down, inconveniences do occur and delays happen to the best of us. The challenge is what we do with these times, how we use—or waste—our waiting. The slower times contain a wealth of wisdom for us to tap into, but only when we recognize them.”
Jeff Goins
“All this waiting is not an accident: it’s a call to slow down. These delays are meant to point us to a deeper truth: we are not finished. If we relish this reality and embrace the opportunity it holds, we may be able to grasp a depth we’ve not yet reached. We may find this abundant life, after all.”
Jeff Goins
“A life filled with movement, with constant motion and no rest stops, isn’t a life at all.”
Jeff Goins
Read any of these? Tell us what you thought.
This city has a lot of secrets. Like who stole the money from my family’s store and where they got the key and what they did with Grandpa, who was running the register that day.
I don’t much like secrets.
Ongoing challenge: Find (or take) a picture. Write exactly 40 words about it. Post.
(Great practice for brevity.)
Lately I’ve been having trouble finding balance.
I have heard it said that in order to be prolific at what we do, balance is not something we can achieve. But I don’t believe it. Or maybe that’s just not the kind of prolific I want. Balance is important in my life.
As writer parents, it’s essential that we find balance in both our professional and personal lives.
Parenting can feel all-consuming, because those babies are precious, and they don’t stay little for long, and shouldn’t we be using the time we have to just enjoy everything about them?
And writing can feel all-consuming, because those stories come knocking, and it’s not easy to put down the pen once we get started, and writing isn’t always something we can do in bits and pieces and fits and starts, and shouldn’t we be using the time we have to create?
Balance can sometimes feel impossible when kids are sick or the epiphany we had while making breakfast flew right out of our heads while we were opening our notebook to write it down.
Today, while my kids were playing with cars right in front of me, I was crafting pitches to send out to various publications. And right in the middle of my writing, that voice came creeping in.
Shouldn’t you be enjoying the last mornings you have with your boy?
My third son will go to kindergarten in August, and lately I’ve been meaning to spend more quality time with him, because in two more days his big brothers will be out of school and this house will turn into a madhouse.
At the same time, this house will turn into a madhouse, and my work will slow down, so if I want to get these pitches done and out, I need to do them now.
I feel this tension all the time—play with my kids or try to get more work done.
There’s always so much work to do and so many new things to learn about in the life of a writer, and there is always so little time in which to create and still enjoy my children without deadlines hanging over me.
It’s possible to achieve balance, but it may look differently than we think it should.
Here are some ways I’ve tried to find balance in my writer-mom life.
1. Quit looking at the competition.
There are many writers out there cranking out stories at an impressive rate. Many of them are not parents. We should stop trying to be like them. We move at our own pace. Maybe we can’t write a book every 30 days or 60 days or 200 days. That’s okay. If we are doing the daily work of it, we will, eventually, have a book.
We have time restraints, and sometimes that can seem like it’s a handicap. But according to research, restraints can be good for us. They can make us more creative, if we use them to our advantage.
2. Invite the children in.
If you’re having trouble achieving balance, invite your children in to your work. My children know that, every morning at 8:30 a.m., we will listen to an audio book while I gaze lovingly at my four-month-old during his feeding, because reading makes me a better writer.
They know that once a week, during Family Time, we will have a writing night—and sometimes that means collaborating on a story together and helping Mama work out a plot line where she’s stuck. Sometimes it means reading excerpts from writing books we’ll read together.
There is something sacred about that shared space.
3. Establish set hours.
Parents who work from home can have a tough time with balance if we have no set hours. My kids know that from 9-9:30 a.m. I am catching up on emails and business matters, but the rest of the morning, I am available to them. If I receive an email outside of those morning “office” hours, it can wait until later.
They know that during their naps and Quiet Time I will be working but am available for emergencies. They know that from 1 until 5 p.m. their daddy is on duty.
If I am doing any business outside of those hours, they will call me on it.
Sometimes, when a deadline is looming, it’s necessary to work on finishing a story during Family Movie Night, but open lines of communication are important for those instances when office hours creep into family hours. We don’t ever want our children to believe that our work is more important to us than they are. But we do want them to understand that our work is important.
4. Adjust your mindset.
Some days we just won’t get a whole lot of work done, because a boy was feeling sick or lonely or doubly mischievous. If we can shift our mindset from “I didn’t get everything done that I needed to get done today” to “Today’s work is enough for today,” we will be happier people, and so, by extension, will our children.
Balance and brilliance are not opposite poles. They can exist together. But it will take great intention and focus and compromise.
It’s a good thing we’ve already mastered that as parents.
The other afternoon I was sitting in our library reading a book, because it has a direct line to my 3-year-old twins’ room, and they’re not traditionally great nappers.
I guess they didn’t know I was watching, because one of them was hanging from his top bunk like a monkey, trying to swing into his brother’s bottom bunk. The other was laughing hysterically.
“Get back in your bed,” I said, startling him so much he lost his grip and crashed to the floor.
“You scared me,” he shouted as he was climbing back up the steps to his bed.
I didn’t feel sorry for him, though, because how many times have I told him not to hang off the side of the bed like that? At least twenty billion.
There is something I’ve noticed about my boys. When they think they can get away with something—not because they’ve gotten away with it before, ever, but because they think someone’s just not paying attention—they will do it.
It’s easy to understand in a house with so many kids, but there’s something they haven’t quite figured out.
This mom sees and knows everything.
So, in the interest of helping them out with this hard-to-understand mystery, I’ve compiled an easy-to-read list of everything a mom knows.
1. I know what you’re doing, even if I can’t see you.
Call it eyes on the back of my head, call it intuition, call it whatever you want. I know. I know that when you go to the bathroom, you are probably going to play with the plunger because you’ve done it six thousand times before. I know that when you go upstairs (and I know when you do), you will head straight for Daddy’s forbidden computer and that your inexperienced fingers will close out PhotoShop, along with the latest project your daddy forgot to save, on your way to Cool Math.
I know that when you think you escaped unnoticed from the house, you will immediately run toward the neighbor’s rock path you’ve been told not to touch. I know that when you disappear into the pantry you are looking for the raisins, because they’re still spilled on the floor from the last time you tried, unsuccessfully, to sneak a snack.
I know that if you beat me to the library by half a second there will already be fifty books scattered on the floor that you’ll try to hide by shoving them all under the couch.
2. I know you don’t think I’m paying attention, but I am. Always.
When that phone call comes through and you think my attention is split, you should know that I’m still paying attention.
I know what you’re doing on the stairs because I can hear the footfalls leading up to the baby gate you’ll dismantle in three seconds. I know the sound of the closet door opening means you think you can sneak Battleship from its hiding place and dump out those red and white pieces without getting caught.
I know that because it seems like I’m paying full attention to the phone conversation and not at all to you, you will try to get a cup out of the dishwasher and fill it with water you’ll spill three steps from the water dispenser, even though I gave you milk in your Thermos sixty seconds ago.
3. I know as soon as I leave the room you will think about doing what you’ve been told not to do.
I know that if I go upstairs to get your baby brother, you will try to take the lid off that LEGO container Daddy left on the counter so you can scatter the pieces into a land mine before I get back (and if you can’t get the lid off you will destroy the container).
I know that as soon as I go to the bathroom you will climb onto the table and steal that crayon you wanted from your brother. I know that as soon as I disappear to put your baby brother down for a nap you will open the refrigerator and try to stuff as many grapes as you can get into your mouth before I get back.
I know what’s in your mouth and the toy you snuck up to naptime and the thing you’re thinking about right this minute.
4. I know quiet doesn’t always (hardly ever?) mean good.
I know that sometimes it means you’re coloring your carpet red with a crayon you found hidden in the cushions of the couch. I know it means you have unraveled the whole roll of eco-friendly paper towels because you wanted to make a paper bag for your cars. I know it means you’re probably trying to fit into a shirt for a six-month-old, even though you’re 3. Your quiet isn’t fooling me at all.
I know all of this mostly because
5. I know you.
I know your adventurous spirit that catapults you out the door and halfway down the road before your daddy and I can even get out of the kitchen. I know your creativity that turns a door into a canvas. I know your curiosity that puts a cup with a car submerged in water into the freezer to see what happens.
I know your playful nature that sees everything, a plunger, a roll of paper towels, butter knives, like it’s a new toy. I know how hard it is to tame the strong will that sees a challenge in every don’t-do-it.
I know you, all the wild and all the crazy and all the most beautiful pieces, too.
And guess what? I love it all.
But next time you decide to see what happens when you put a balloon in the toilet and try to pee on it, just remember, you will be caught. I promise.
A mom always knows.
So don’t even think about it.
Sixty seconds, y’all. SIXTY SECONDS OF LEFT-ALONE TIME IS ALL IT TOOK FOR THE TWINS TO DO THIS.
I don’t even know what happened here, because they’re 3, and when I asked, it sounded like this:
Boaz: “Zaggit did it.”
Zadok: “NO! I DIDN’T!” (even though he was laid out on the floor with his foot stuck underneath the table and Boaz was clear across the room by the time I got down the stairs. Clearly implicated, Zadok.)
Me: “What happened, guys?”
Boaz: “Zaggit trying to move the table.”
Me: “Why? Why would you try to do that, Zadok?”
Zadok: “…”
These guys. I swear.
All I really know for sure is that I went upstairs to find a missing shoe, because we were already late to my older sons’ reading award ceremony, and dang it if the shoes went missing five minutes before we were supposed to leave. I was gone for no more than sixty seconds before I heard the crash. I thought about sliding down the stairs in the 4-year-old’s fort-box (because I still have a broken foot and walking downstairs quickly would probably end in a broken neck) until I saw that no one was seriously hurt.
These guys are truly the reason I’m one step away from crazy every single day.
I have a sneaking suspicion they want me to lose the battle.
So, on that note, anyone want to brave these twins for a while? They really aren’t that bad.
When they’re sleeping.
