by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
It’s their first day back from the grandparents’ after a week of running wild outside in the country and swimming in a pool and watching movies for Quiet Time, and my boys have forgotten how to act.
We are incredibly blessed that my mom and stepdad took the older three boys for a week (and do every summer) and that my father-in-law took the Dennis-the-Menace-times-two twins for a few days (because that’s about all the time anyone can handle with these guys), but man. Detoxing stinks.
My parents eat a lot like us—no processed food, lots of fruits and veggies, no special “treat” with every meal. So I can’t even blame it on the food (which is my usual culprit). But when they come back from Nonny and Poppy’s house, they are bouncing off the walls (And that’s an understatement.). No one wants to go into the backyard when I suggest bouncing on the trampoline instead, because they all missed their toys “so, so, so much!”
No one remembers where to put their shoes (the shoe basket we’ve had by the door for YEARS). They don’t even remember how to get dressed. It’s like dressing for seven days in a row is enough effort to last the entire summer.
The first day of detox was the third son’s fifth birthday, which means tradition set a birthday treat in front of him at breakfast. I had a feeling it was a bad idea, but what are you going to do with tradition?
Ten minutes later they were catapulting over the side of the couch so quickly I didn’t know who to get onto because they were blurs.
They got crayons, coloring books, Hot Wheels and a bin of four million LEGOs out all at the same time, even though we have a very important rule about “only one thing out at a time.”
“I’d like to see one of you build something with LEGOs, color a picture and play with the cars all at the same time,” I said.
They looked at me like I’d lost my mind. (By that point, I already had.)
After dinner, they forgot how to put their plates and silverware away.
“We used paper plates at Nonny and Poppy’s house,” they said when I asked.
“But Nonny didn’t make you throw them away?” I said.
“Yeah,” they said, not noticing the glaring inconsistency here: They still had to carry their plates somewhere.
There is just something about not being in the house where your parents live that makes you forget all the rules. Or, worse, make up your own.
Detoxing day one was filled with rules amended by incompetent-at-logic children. Here are just a few of them.
Actual rule: Only one book down from the shelves at a time.
Amended rule by detoxing, too-creative-for-his-own-good 8-year-old: Except when I create this world called Animalia. You see, Mama? I brought all my twelve thousand stuffed animals up from the garage where I found them in a trash bag—why were they in a trash bag?—and made my room like a stuffed animal resort. They have a reading corner here. See? There’s a book for every one of them. I’ll clean it all up, don’t worry.
Yeah, right.
Actual rule: Before you get something else out to play with, clean up whatever it was you were playing with before.
Amended rule by detoxing, I’m-the-birthday-boy 5-year-old: Except I get to pick everything to play with for the day AND I don’t have to clean anything up, because I’m the birthday boy. What’s that, Mama? It’s clean up time? Well, I’m the birthday boy, so I don’t have to clean up. Nuh-uh. I don’t have to clean up even though I got to pick all the toys. I’m the birthday boy and I LOVE NOT CLEANING UP! IT SHOULD BE MY BIRTHDAY EVERY DAY FOREVER!
Don’t ever promise a birthday boy he’s exempt from cleaning up.
Actual rule: Stay at the table until you’re finished with your food and we say yes to your “May I be excused?” question.
Amended rule by detoxing, I-can’t-stop-moving-my-feet 6-year-old: Except that I forgot to show you this really neat picture I made at Nonny and Poppy’s house, and did you see this word search I colored instead of circling words on, and, oh, yeah, I made this really neat paper airplane out of a superhero drawing. Do you want to see it fly? And my brother just go new markers for his birthday and I have this blank sheet of white paper and I LOVE TO COLOR SO MUCH!
This is getting ridiculous.
Actual rule: Don’t touch the CD player when you’re only 3.
Amended rule by detoxing, strong-willed 3-year-old twin: Except I’m an annoying 3-year-old who won’t listen to anything you have to say. Touch, touch, touch. See me touch?
“Stop, son,” I say.
Touch, touch, touch.
[Sit him on the couch while I sit beside him acknowledging that I understand he really, really, really wants to touch those buttons and that I really wish I could let him but that he could break the CD player touching them all. Let him up three minutes later.]
Touch, touch, touch.
Long, long sigh.
Actual rule: Body excrement belongs in the toilet. Please, for the love of God, don’t poop in your underwear.
Amended rule by detoxing I’m-the-other-menace 3-year-old: Oops.
I finally had to lock them all in the backyard (cruel, cruel mother) just to regain my sanity.
I am incredibly grateful for the time our boys get to spend with their grandparents, no matter how challenging it is to get them back on a schedule and remind them of the rules they’ve known since the beginning of time (at least their time). They are not only spending valuable time with another generation but they are also giving their daddy and me the opportunity to spend some beautiful time by ourselves, reconnecting and engaging in conversations where we actually get to finish our sentences and remembering how much we liked each other in the first place.
The time we spend detoxing is definitely worth that reconnection. Every single time.
P.S. Just power through that first day, Mama and Daddy. It will get better. Remember? It always does (not before you add a few gray hairs, though). Pretty soon you’ll be right back to counting down the days until you can send them away again.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
We’re finally all packed up, and everyone is buckled and already said their piece about how Mama’s driving (because I never choose to), and Daddy has his laptop open, ready to work.
We’re going to get moving, after two hours of trying.
That’s right. It takes two hours just to leave the house.
And then.
Then I turn on the car, and the gas light is on.
Son of a—
I know what this means. A stop. A stop that will turn into a potty break that will turn into five potty breaks that will turn into thirty minutes (or more!) of wasted time.
It’s only a three-hour trip. It will take us five.
When we stop, after I’ve huffed and puffed about how someone should fill up the car once in a while and why can’t whoever was driving it last just fill it up before the gas light comes on (pretty sure it was me, that day I was running late to get dinner started and the three older boys had just effectively made me lose my mind fighting over two computers in the library, so I didn’t want to stay in the car with them one second longer), I tell them we are NOT getting out to potty, because this is not a scheduled potty break. This is just an inconvenient, necessary stop.
Scheduled potty breaks happen when the baby needs to eat.
“But I really need to go!” the 8-year-old says. It’s been a whopping three minutes since we left.
“Did you go before you left, like I told you?” I say.
“I didn’t have to go then,” he says.
Welp, you don’t have to go now, either.
There are so many kids. It’s like a field trip traveling with all these boys. When one needs to potty, they all do. When one falls asleep, the others don’t. They just get louder.
Every two minutes a different one asks, “Are we almost there?”
We’re not even out of the neighborhood yet.
At first we answered no. Then we answered yes. Then we tried to ignore it. Then we told them to stop asking. Then we told them the truth.
“Two more hours.”
“One hour and forty-eight minutes.”
“One hour and fifty-six minutes.”
Then we turned it into math practice.
“One hour and fifty-four minutes. How many minutes have passed since you last asked?”
“One hour and fifty-two minutes. Do you notice a pattern between your questions?”
(Even that didn’t discourage them.)
In the end, this is the question that will break us. It’s the one that will make my husband and me look at each other with those crazy eyes and mouth, “Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER again,” so the kids can’t hear.
I took some traveling notes I wanted to make sure to remember next time I think it would be a good idea to pack six boys into the van and travel more than the five miles to the grocery store:
Don’t even think about it, woman. But if you do, here are some tips.
1. Bring some oversized cups.
It’s never too early for boys to learn the art of peeing in cups. When our 3-year-old twins are playing free at home, they will go hours without having to visit the restroom. When they’re in the car, their bladders shrink to about the size of a peanut. They need to pee every half hour. So make it a game: They have to pee in a cup without unbuckling.
On second thought, that’s a losing game, Mama.
2. Bring treats for every mile you go without hearing, “Are we almost there?”
This one will drive you absolutely bonkers, because when you have multiple children, they each take turns asking, as if the answer you gave their brother just wasn’t good enough for them. As if their asking may change something. As if something has changed in one hundred twenty seconds.
One kid might ask it 2,000 times. Six kids ask it 13 billion times. So reward them for keeping their mouths shut.
3. Don’t bother putting shoes on the 3-year-olds.
They take them off as soon as they get in the car anyway, and they’ll get buried under all the jackets that somehow keep ending up in the car even though it’s 200 degrees outside. Some of them will get shuffled under seats. One will probably fall out the door and you won’t notice (true story). You’ll waste way too much time (and remember: minutes are precious when traveling with kids) looking for shoes, especially when one has gone missing because it was left in the last town. So just don’t bother.
4. Bring audio books. (They’re more for you than for the kids.)
They’re so the next time they ask, “Are we almost there?” you can say, “I’m trying to listen to the story.” They’re so when they say they need to go to the potty again you can say, “Let’s wait until this story is over” (they don’t have to know that will be another hour). They’re so when they’re rocking the back of the car because they want to move it faster, you can retreat into your own world and try to ignore the way the van is not moving any faster—probably slower, because everything is slower with children when children try to help.
5. DON’T INTRODUCE I SPY. OR KNOCK KNOCK JOKES.
Notice this one is in caps. There’s a good reason for that. Three thousand rounds of I Spy. Five hundred knock knock jokes. Do you remember? Of course you do. Your eye is still twitching.
The “Are we almost there” question is nothing compared to this. So just close your mouth and keep your eyes on the road.
6. Use a better reservation system than the husband.
“Shoot,” he says when we’re turning into our destination. The sky fell dark hours ago, the kids are tired and I’m feeling especially grumpy.
“What?” I say.
“Nevermind,” he says. But I know. There is always a reason he says what he says.
“What?” I say again. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
“Well, I can’t remember which condo is ours.”
At this point nothing could really surprise me. I don’t even blow up or rant about how could you not write it down and do I have to do everything and how about we just turn around and go back home. I’m too tired for that. So I just put my head down on the steering wheel and sigh a long, long sigh.
“They left the key under the mat,” he says, looking at the row of fifty condos.
“Have fun looking,” I say.
At the last minute he remembers. It was the first one we passed through the gate.
We all pile into the 500-square-foot condo that looked bigger in the online pictures and collapse on our bed.
Nothing like traveling together to ensure a good nights’ sleep.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Some men don’t recognize the many perks of being a dad.
My husband, though, gets to spend half his day hanging out with our boys while I work, so he understands them quite well. He knows that kids will always prefer their mamas (at least when they’re young), but he has the opportunity to be a few things in their lives, too.
Namely:
1. A human jungle gym.
My husband likes to spread out on the floor and read books aloud or silently during our evening reading times. Every single time he does it, my boys climb on top of him. There are elbows and knees and chins everywhere. And I mean everywhere.
When he’s standing still, they’ll wrap their arms and legs around his feet and shins and “ride” to the dinner table. At bedtime they’ll fight about who gets to climb on his back for the horse ride to their room. When he comes home from work they’re already barreling toward him.
Not too long ago, when I fell down our stairs and broke my foot, my husband carried me out to the car so we could go get it X-rayed. He injured his back in the process (you have to bend your knees, honey. I’m heavier than I look. You know, all that baby…muscle.)
When he saw the doctor about his back, the doctor told him it should be treated like any other injury. He should rest it. That night he stretched out on the floor to read a story (as if daring the powers that be), and one of the 3-year-olds did a cannonball onto his back.
Good luck with the resting, dear. That back pain just might be around forever. Small price to pay, though. At least you still have your bladder function.
2. The yes man.
My kids go to their daddy when they want a yes.
“May I use the scissors to cut this paper into tiny little pieces you’ll never be able to clean up?” they ask. (Not really. They only ask for the scissors. But a mom always knows what that means.)
“Yes, as long as you clean it up,” he says.
Yeah, right.
Our twins have bladders the size of walnuts. We remind them to go potty before we sit down to dinner, because if there’s one thing I hate (there are more, I promise), it’s interrupting dinner with a bathroom break. And yet, inevitably, after they’ve used the potty and have been strapped in their booster seats for all of three bites, this is what happens:
Twin 1: I need to go potty.
Me: You just did.
Twin 1: I need to go again.
Twin 2: Yeah. Me too.
Me: Of course you do.
After this annoying exchange, I’ll usually say something like “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait until after dinner,” because the time it takes my boys to inhale their food is only about 16 minutes, if we’re lucky. If we’re really lucky and we’re having pizza, it’s about 17 minutes, because they just keep inhaling until it’s gone.
And then the twin will say, “I not talking to you. I talking to Daddy.”
Because, apparently, they’ve caught on to the fact that he doesn’t really pay attention to conversations like the one above.
(This is changing. My husband’s response now is “What did Mama say?” No more yes man, twins. Sorry you don’t get to go potty three minutes after you already went.)
3. The I-don’t-care man.
My husband takes things in so much better stride than I do.
“I used all the computer paper,” the 8-year-old says. “But look at all these airplanes I made.” (One hundred of them.)
“Wow,” my husband says. “That’s a lot of airplanes.”
Where I might have said: “Well, you’re going to buy us a new package of computer paper, because I need that paper to print the second draft of my book in a couple of months.”
I will cry over spilled milk and gripe about dinners wasted and stress about the lost library book, because we just paid for a lost book last week, and we can’t keep doing this. But my husband just lets it roll right off. It’s a little maddening. And also refreshing.
4. The Rule Relaxer.
Once a month I get together with a group of ladies to discuss life and work and the book we’re supposed to read that month (but don’t always get around to). This is Daddy’s time to shine.
When I come home from these book club nights, at least two of my boys are passed out in the library, where they’ve been reading since he “put them to bed,” one is still working on a picture book in his bedroom with the light on, and two others are sleeping nearly on top of each other in a massive pile of blankets, trying to get closest to the sliver of light streaming through their door.
On the mornings he watches them they know they’ll get blueberry muffins with real sugar instead of honey or pancakes with extra butter or a lunch that doesn’t have any vegetables. It’s like a surprise vacation for them.
5. The Life Speaker.
Dads have this amazing ability to be a life-speaker in the worlds of their children. My husband does this well.
When the 3-year-old stood up in his chair for the six billionth time during the same five-minute stretch of dinner and I wished, for the six billionth time, that I had my voice recorded so all I had to do was press a button to hear, “Sit down on your bottom,” he executed an epic fall, his legs and head facing straight up and his body caving toward the floor in the perfect pilates butterfly (if a little crooked).
My first thought, on seeing him, was, “If you had been sitting in your chair like I told you, that wouldn’t have happened.” But the only thing my husband did was comfort him about how much it hurt to fall out of a chair he was standing in. And then he brought the lesson home.
A much better way to discipline, I think.
When Daddy is on duty, my boys get to watch more television, eat popcorn for lunch and change their clothes as many times as they want. I used to hate all these seemingly huge inconsistencies until I remembered how fortunate they are to have a loving dad in their life.
So many kids don’t.
My boys will never be the same because of their daddy. Their lives are richer for his presence and care.
I’m so very thankful he recognized the perks of being a dad.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
It’s the fourteenth time he’s come to our room tonight, and we still have to get up at 5 in the morning to get anything done, so his daddy leads him out and says, “It’s time for you to go to bed, for the last time.”
“But I don’t have school,” he says, as if we didn’t just have this conversation fifteen minutes ago. “It’s my summer break.”
Oh, well, in that case, why don’t you stay up all night, and, while you’re at it, go ahead and disregard all the rules, because IT’S SUMMER VACATION!
When I tilt my head and squint my eyes just so, I can almost understand why they would equate summer vacation with do-whatever-I-want time, because summer means they are no longer trapped at school for seven whole hours, listening to someone else giving instructions. They don’t have to write their name on fifty math or reading or science worksheets, and they don’t have a half-hour time limit on lunch and they don’t have to finish all their work before they get to do the fun stuff like reading and drawing and playing.
But what’s getting old in my house is that every day there’s another fight—not because we’re coming up against new territory. No. We’re coming up against the same old territory that the boys have forgotten because apparently summertime is synonymous with short-term memory loss.
Dang summertime.
Sometimes I wish summertime meant exactly what they think it means—relaxation of the rules. I really do.
But last time I relaxed the rules and let them have a little more freedom, they pulled out the economy-sized glitter I didn’t even know we had for some horrifying glitter projects we’re still cleaning up. Also, the 8-year-old somehow climbed to the top of the bathroom door, where he positioned a cup of water so it would fall on someone’s head when they opened the door. And someone else put thumbtacks in the twin’s booster seats.
So no. Rules still intact.
I wrote a note for my boys, reminding them of the most-frequently-forgotten rules. Feel free to use this letter as many times as you need. I’ve already read it to them twenty-six times, because that’s how often they’ve forgotten.
Dear kids,
It’s summertime. Not I’m-a-grownup-now time.
Unfortunately, that means there are still rules in our house. Here are some you seem to have forgotten.
1. No, you may not snack all day.
We just had breakfast, and you ate twelve pancakes and five eggs. How in the world are you still hungry fifteen minutes later? That’s called boredom, son. Boredom is not a good excuse to eat. Get thee outside. Thou shalt dig in some dirt. Or do art (without glitter). Or read one of your books. Or chew on your fingers. Whatever keeps you out of the refrigerator. Because, good Lord. The grocery store only has so much food.
2. Close the door behind you.
This rule has been in place since you were old enough to walk, but you’ve conveniently picked now, when it’s so hot it’s painful to wear clothes, to forget? That’s called irony, kids. It’s ironic that you’ve forgotten how to close a door in the middle of summer.
Here. I’ll help you out. Closing is the opposite of opening. So, if you pull the door to open it, you’ll push the door away from you to close it. Push it away from you. Away from you. Away from you. There. Hear that sound? That’s the sound of a door closing. Amazing, isn’t it?
Now that we’ve had this nice little refresher, next time you leave the door open, I’ll take a portion of the electricity bill out of your college fund. You won’t be laughing when you’re 18 and you don’t have enough money to pay for your first semester of books (because, by the time college rolls around, that’s about what the money we’ve saved will be worth. If you keep forgetting the close the door, it’ll pay for your first dinner out.).
3. No, you may not stay up all night.
Believe it or not, even though you’re not going to school for the time being, we are still concerned that you get enough sleep. Because we love you, and we know sleep is important for you to grow and function well. Also (mostly) because you turn into a horrid monster when you haven’t had enough sleep. So turn out the light. Put away the book.
And for God’s sake, stop coming to our room when we’re almost asleep, asking if we remember where you left your special pencil with the blue eraser. Some people want to get some sleep around here.
4. Things that were not allowed before are also not allowed now.
This would be things like walking across the table with dirty, dirty feet, getting five games out that, all together, have a total of forty-thousand pieces, sneaking onto the computer to play your Cool Math game when a parent is not present and before you’ve earned your technology time.
Nope. Still not allowed in summer.
What? Every other kid gets to do what you can’t? Well, it’s too bad those aren’t your parents. Huh. You got stuck with us. It’s a hard knock life.
5. Any mess you make, you still clean it up.
What’s that? You dumped out all the glitter on accident? Well, it’s a good thing you know how to wipe off a table and sweep a floor, so get to it.
Wait, you want to play outside with your friend, but you were playing throw-them-in-the-air-and-see-where-they-fall with the markers? Welp. You know the rules. Clean it up first.
You don’t like this game and want to play a different one? CLEAN IT UP.
6. You may not wear your swimsuit for more than 20 days in a row.
It’s time for a dress code, kids. I know your swimsuits are comfortable and you’re hoping that, by wearing them every hour of every day, we’ll say that, oh, look, it’s time to go to the pool, but no. A swimsuit is not an appropriate choice for 20 consecutive days. I’ll give you five. Maybe even six.
It’s been longer than that, so let me have them. Let me have them. LET ME HAVE THEM. I just need to wash them, and then you can have them for another six days. Now. Go get your underwear on. Remember the other unspoken rule: No skivvies, no service.
7. Pool time is not bath time.
I know, I know. Chlorine, soap, what’s the difference? It’s so fun to play in the pool and pretend it’s a bath, and it’s no fun to come home and get wet again in a tiny little bath tub. But the thing is, chlorine. And kids peeing. And all those other bodies.
A dip in the pool does not qualify for a bath. Get on out. Come home. And wash those smelly armpits (you too, kids.).
8. If you know the rules and break them, there will (still) be consequences.
I know it’s hard to believe that your parents are still enforcing these stupid rules even though it’s summertime and you should really only be experiencing great freedom and wonderful fun, but you see kids? Consistency is important, too. Without consistency, you would feel like you were just trying to navigate life without an anchor tethering you to reality. Living life without an anchor isn’t as much fun as you think. Just ask any kid without a parent.
I know these rules seem ridiculous and arbitrary, but we enforce them because we want you to have the best possible family life experience you can. We have them because, more than anything, we love you.
Now. Go play outside so I can have a little quiet time and try to remember why these rules are so important.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
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.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
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.
