by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
My boys are playing together just fine over in a corner of the dining room, on the glass table we never use for eating, (because it’s glass and kids have twelve thousand sticky hands). They’re occupied with the Contraptions, these really fun wooden planks they like to make into tracks, so it looks like the perfect opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and cram down another of those dark chocolate brownies I made last night, even though I just got done telling them, when they asked, that it’s too early in the morning to have one.
I should know better by now. I mean, I’ve been a parent for 8 years. I should know that in a household of kids, there is never, ever, ever a perfect opportunity. But sometimes I go a little wild and get my hopes up.
So I’m in the middle of cramming, hiding in the pantry just in case they come wandering into the kitchen, when the 8-year-old catches me, red-handed, with chocolate all over my fingers (the curse of gooey brownies).
He looks from my face to my hands and back again. And then he tosses out that bad word I just love to hate: “Aw, no f**r. You ate a brownie. You said it was too early for us to have one.”
I think fast. “Well,” I say. “I’m a grownup. When you’re a grownup you get to eat whatever you want in the morning.”
Real smooth, I know. Real good example of the way I DON’T want my children to eat. Well, parenting and paradoxes go hand in hand.
Hours later, when it’s time for lunch, I pile some strawberries and sliced cucumber on their plates beside their PB&J sandwiches. Off to the side, I put a handful of raisins on everyone’s plate except the 8-year-old, who doesn’t like raisins. I give him pecans.
His brothers notice, of course. “No f**r,” the 5-year-old says. “He gets pecans.”
“You have raisins,” I say. “Jadon doesn’t like raisins. I’ll take your raisins and give you pecans, if you want.”
He shuts his mouth and shakes his head, because, of course, he prefers the sweet raisins to the pecans.
I get so tired of the phrase, “No f**r.” They have several variations. They might sound like “It’s not f**r” or “That’s not f**r” or “You should be f**r” and so many more I can’t even remember right now, in my annoyed, flustered, I’m-so-sick-of-this state of mind. All I know is I hear them 15 billion times a day.
When someone goes out to play because he’s finished his after dinner chore: “That’s not f**r. He gets to go play already, and I’m still stuck here doing dishes.” When someone pours his own milk and it’s half a centimeter more than I gave the brother: “It’s not f**r. He got more milk than I did.” When someone comes down the stairs with a red shirt on: “No f**r. I never get to wear a red shirt.”
What I want to say every single time I hear these delightful words is, “Welp. Life’s not f**r. The sooner you can learn that and accept it, the better.”
What I usually do, instead, because I’m a good parent, is empathize with their feelings and then explain exactly why fair isn’t equal. Sometimes they understand. Most times they don’t.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take incredible strength of will to keep calm when they’re throwing out and kicking around the f-word. In fact, this is what it usually sounds like in my head:
When we’re eating dinner, and their daddy and I have a glass of wine:
3-year-old: “No f**r. You get wine.”
What I want to say: “If you only knew who I’d be without it…”
What I say instead: “Want to taste?”
He gets close enough to smell and picks up his cup of milk without a single complaint.
That’s right, son. This stuff is NASTY, because it’s cheap and it’s survival.
When we’re watching a movie and the boys get their cups of popcorn.
6-year-old: “Hey, no f**r! He got more than I did!”
What I want to say: “Wow. Aren’t you an efficient counter? You know fractions already? Because he has half a kernel more than you.”
What I say instead: “Here. Have another.”
Because, dang, I don’t want this fight. I know what it will look like. It will look like five cups of popcorn dumped onto the floor so they can count it, and the 3-year-olds can’t even count past 12, which means this will take ALL DAY.
When the older boys are sitting around during art time, and the 8-year-old decides he’s going to make the most epic paper airplane ever.
5-year-old: “No f**r. Jadon knows how to make a paper airplane.”
What I want to say: “Stinks to be you.”
What I say instead: “Here. Let’s learn how to make one.”
Forty minutes later we have a paper airplane that won’t even fly, because making paper airplanes is much more complicated than it looks.
When it’s almost nap time, and I’m telling the 3-year-old twins what they need to do next.
3-year-old: “No f**r. My bruvers get to have Quiet Time and I have to take a nap.”
What I want to say: “Only boys who know how to say ‘brothers’ get to have Quiet Time. Besides, I don’t need a break from your brothers. You, on the other hand…I need a thousand year break from you.”
What I say instead: “Do you want to crawl like a dog to your bed or run like an ostrich?”
During dinner, the oldest is sitting beside his littlest brother, watching me feed him.
8-year-old: “No f**r. You get to feed him.”
What I want to say: “What the—?”
What I say instead: “You can do it if you want.”
Two minutes later, the baby sneezed sweet potatoes all over his face, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing hysterically. Not so fun now, is it?
Everybody in my house knows this bad word. Everyone uses it. We’re born knowing how to use it, I think.
Kids have such a messed up definition of what f**r really is. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make the feeling of unf**r any less real to them.
The other day, when we were playing a game and one of his brothers drew a yellow card he needed, my 6-year-old said, “That’s not f**r.”
“What does f**r mean?” I said.
No one answered, because none of them knows. All they know is they want life to work for them right now. They want it to be perfectly smooth and perfectly easy and perfectly their way.
And, honestly, so do I. But I’ve been alive longer than they have, and I know it’s just not. I know it’s not f**r that some lose babies while others get to keep them. I know it’s not f**r that some business deals fall through and we suddenly can’t make our mortgage payment this month while others have more than enough. I know it’s not f**r that the store was out of raw oats so now I have to think outside the box for Wednesday morning’s breakfast.
So much about life is not f**r. So many times I want to stomp and complain and throw out those same words my kids overuse. Because it’s not f**r that my air conditioner broke and we had to try to sleep through four days of 1,000-degree heat. It’s not f**r that my kids don’t listen to what I’m saying 99.7 percent of the time because they have better things on their minds. It’s not f**r that last night, when I had just slipped into dreamland, one of them came knocking on my door to say he couldn’t sleep, and then it took me three hours to get back to sleep so I’m more exhausted than normal today.
In a child’s life, f**r means get-what-I-want. Everything they want to be f**r—a game, the ability to make epic paper airplanes, a treatment—is strictly for their own benefit. They want a f**r game, because they want to win. They want a f**r ability, because it means they wouldn’t have to ask Mama’s help and their paper airplane would actually fly. They want f**r treatment, because they’re afraid they’re missing out on something special.
We’re born with this complex. We all know adults who still have trouble accepting its reality in their lives. That, to me, means it’s good for our kids to practice surviving “unf**r,” because they get to learn, in the process, that life doesn’t end because something doesn’t go exactly the way they planned or even hoped.
That’s what develops grit.
So, today, when the 8-year-old plops on the couch and says, “I want to watch a movie,” and I answer in the negative, and he says, “It’s not f**r. My friends get to watch TV all day,” and it’s the sixtieth time I’ve heard those blasted words in an hour, I send them all outside to jump out their frustration on the trampoline. And when the last one gets out the door, I turn the lock. No one’s coming back inside until dinner.
Life isn’t f**r, after all.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
I used to be a perfect parent.
Well, actually, who am I kidding? I still am. Between the hours of 9:30 p.m. and 4:30 a.m.
Unless, of course, one of the kids wakes me up.
The rest of the time, (which is anytime my kids and I are awake at the same time, in case you didn’t catch that) I’m a less-than-stellar parent. I hate to admit this, because I really wanted to join the Perfect Parents (P.P. from here on out) club, and I know there will probably be a whole lot of P.P.s out there lamenting the fact that I have six boys who should probably only be trusted to P.P.s.
Well. I remember being one of those. I remember Husband and I would go out to eat before we had kids, and we would see a kid throwing a tantrum, right in the middle of the restaurant floor, and we would look at each, our eyes screaming it if our mouths couldn’t. Never, ever, they said. Not in a million years would we let a kid lose his mind like that.
I would meet a stay-at-home mom in her home to interview her for a news story I was working on, and her kid would be climbing all over the back of the couches and her head and the table while his mother was otherwise occupied, and I would leave thinking, My kid will never be that kid.
I would hear an 8-year-old talk back to his mother, and I would shake my head. Absolutely not.
I wish I could laugh in that clueless woman’s face.
So I had kids. I had a toddler who didn’t want to leave the park, so he took off running hyper-speed, screaming bloody murder, so people who didn’t know I was his mother probably thought I was kidnapping him against his will. I had the boy who thought it would be fun to jump off the upright piano onto the couch and nailed the landing so impressively I was too shocked to even correct him. I had a spirited 8-year-old.
The thing about P.P.s is they either have a really short memory or they don’t have kids at all—in which case they should stop talking about parenting.
None of us is a P.P. Sometimes we get really lucky with a kid who has an easy-going temperament (I’ve got two out of the six). The rest of them trade off being devils on an hour-by-hour basis.
It’s not because we’re bad parents. We’re about as perfect as we’re probably ever going to be. And that’s okay. It’s perfectly fine, in fact.
I’ve worked hard on my parenting over the years. I’ve read books. I’ve intentionally used the knowledge I’ve learned from them. I’ve worked every day to improve my connection with my kids.
But I’m still far from a P.P.
If perfect parenting means I have the privilege of getting on a forum and pontificating on the virtues of P.P.s who raise perfect children, then I’m not interested.
Perfect Parent: Oh, come on. You know you want to be in our club.
Me: Thanks for asking, P.P. It’s just that I’m washing my hair. Yes, every night this week. For all the evening hours. What’s that? No, it’s just that I have dirty hair, because my kids like to play with it. And, well, do you know how many nasty things live on kids’ hands?
Perfect Parent: But don’t you want a kid like mine? My kid NEVER did THAT.
Me: Oh, I know what’s going on, P.P. Your kid was so bad your memory blocked out the trauma of whole years. Well, I don’t blame you. I don’t remember the first year of having infant twins, it was so hellish.
Here’s the thing. Memories are often faulty. Looking back, we don’t usually remember the hardest parts of parenting, the everyday stuff like tantrums over the blue plate instead of the orange one or the way he totally went all dramatic-crying on us when he stepped on a LEGO we’ve stepped on a million times and we had to stop the demonic laugh (ours) and the words it carried “YOU SEE? YOU SEE HOW IT FEELS?” We just remember the good stuff, the way he was such a good sleeper, the way he could stay buried in a book for hours at a time but couldn’t keep his attention on a math worksheet for two minutes. We remember those moments just before sleep, when he’d sneak back into our room (even though he was told not to) and give us “just one more kiss and hug.”
We remember life much better than it actually was. This is a good thing. When I look back over my journals recording my first year with twins, they are filled with desperate cries for help. But what I actually remember from that time is a sweet little baby sleeping on my chest while I tried to quick-clean the living room because the dust on the shelves was an inch thick. What I remember is watching them sit in their Bumbo seats and the way they’d laugh because it was just like looking in a mirror. What I remember most is the way they would smile when any of their brothers came into view.
Perfect Parent: My memory’s rock-solid, because, well, I’m perfect. My kid always did whatever he was told.
Me: Hey, I didn’t know it was opposite day! Well, in that case, my memory’s rock-solid, too, AND my kid always does whatever he’s told.
Also, on the off-chance that you’re not speaking in opposite-day language, that’s a lot of absolutes, P.P. I don’t like to speak in absolutes, personally. I do make an exception for this one, though: There is absolutely, positively no kid who does everything he’s told every single second. Absolutely. Positively. No way.
The easy kid who today will clean up all the Pattern Play blocks he got out at Quiet Time is the same kid who tomorrow will spend the whole of Quiet Time planning how he’s going to run away because he doesn’t want to clean up the LEGOs he dumped all over the floor. The kid who says this hour you’re the best mom in the whole wide world because you let him color in his coloring book is the same kid who, two hours later, will call you the worst parent in the whole wide world because you said it wasn’t time to turn flips off the couch while you’re reading stories together. The kid who wants to do a puzzle with you right now is the same kid who, come bedtime, won’t even want to kiss and hug you because he doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.
Parenting is full of paradoxes like these.
Perfect Parent: I guess we’re just meant to disagree. But you really should (fill in the blank).
Me: Nope.
Not interested, P.P. Not interested in what perfect parents say I should do. Not interested in who they think I should be instead. Just.not.interested.
Here’s the thing, P.P. There is no such thing as a perfect kid. There is no such thing as a perfect parent, either.
The sooner we can wrap our heads around that, the better.
We’re all just doing the best we can, m’kay, sweet pea? I make mistakes. I do better. I love.
And today I made it through all the hours without thinking about putting them on Craigslist.
At the end of the day, that’s really all anyone can ask.
by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test Parents, General Blog, Wing Chair Musings featured
I have a large family. Six children. In a world where people are choosing to have fewer children (or none at all), this can seem weird and crazy and, for some, unacceptable.
These people always come out to play when I mention anywhere in my article that six kids live in my house.
I get it. Six kids is a lot. Many people can’t imagine having that many, let alone choosing to have that many. It seems like a crazy, why-would-anyone-want-to-do-THAT kind of thing.
Their concerns range from whether these kids are all from the same dad (yes) all the way down to what my uterus looks like. So, since I don’t plan to stop writing about my large family, I thought it would be fun to have a page of FAQs and FCs (Frequent Comments) where I could just send them to save time. Because I’m considerate like that and wouldn’t want anyone to die wondering.
“You do know how they are conceived and (that) there are methods of preventing said conception, correct.”
-I’m Real Original
Dear I’m Real Original: This is certainly the mystery of the century. And, to be honest, I really have no idea. You know how people joke about that woman whose husband just looks at her and she’s pregnant? It’s not a joke. It’s me.
Please tell me how this happens. I really don’t want any more of these…things…wrecking my home. So let’s go get a cup of coffee and you can tell me the whole conception story. The more details, the better.
“I’d like to sit down with her and ask her exactly what she thinks she’s giving society by having six kids. These people are so selfish it makes me sick.”
-I Have No Kids
Dear I Have No Kids: Huh. That’s weird. I didn’t think I owed society anything.
(Also: My boys are awesome. I could care less what you think.)
“I think you have enough kids.”
-The Child Police
Dear The Child Police: I’m glad you noticed. Thanks for not being afraid to tell me, because now I can finally stop. Because I truly do care what you think, even if I don’t care what I Have No Kids thinks. You are the police, after all.
“I prefer a dog. I’ve always wondered why someone would bring another awful human into the world.”
-I Hate Everyone
Dear I Hate Everyone: I want to be offended by your words, but I just feel sad. I wish I could find you and let you know how important you are to the world. My guess is you didn’t have anyone to tell you that as a kid. Growing up in a world like that stinks. But not everyone is an awful human (I’m not. My husband’s not. My boys aren’t, either.). I hope you find some not-awful humans soon.
“Children can be taught to take care of their things. A quiet home may be impossible, but it can be a controlled noisy.”
“Do some parenting and much of that nonsense will stop.”
“Manners and chores are taught, not everyone who has boys has a torn up home.”
– Perfect Parent
There you are Perfect Parent! I’m so glad you could come around. I know you’re super busy raising your perfect kids. Can you do us all a favor and start a parenting class for the rest of us dopes? We could learn so much from you. Just tell us where to sign up and I’ll try to make sure I can’t find a pen anywhere.
“It just sounds like they run free, without any constraints. If something were to happen to the mother, who would want to care for them?”
-I Don’t Get Humor
Dear I Don’t Get Humor: Your name says it all. We’re speaking a completely different language.
“Take a step back and figure out routines to control their acting out behaviors.”
-I Know Everything
Dear I Know Everything: That sounds way too hard. I’d rather just let them run wild and terrorize the world while I lie on the couch and dream about my life before children.
“Why on earth do parents saddle their kids with ridiculous names?”
“What a bunch of bizarre names you’ve selected for your boys, lady.”
-Names Are My Business
Dear Names Are My Business: I didn’t realize I was in violation of the “Acceptable Names According to Society” list. Next opportunity I have, I’ll march on down to the courthouse and change their names to something that might be easier for you to stomach.
Or maybe I’ll just take a shower. Because it’s been a while, and opportunities are opportunities.
Shower or courthouse? Shower or courthouse? Shower or courthouse?
Aw, dang. Shower won.
Welp. Guess you’ll have to get used to those ridiculously bizarre names.
“What were you drinking when you named them?”
-I Know Names
Dear I Know Names: That would be peppermint Schnapps, straight from the bottle. Because, you know, they allow that at the hospital during a woman’s childbirth recovery. By the time the birth certificate official came around I couldn’t feel my tongue anymore. You know what happens next.
Let that be a lesson, people. Don’t drink while naming children.
“If they are anything like the Duggars…”
“Is she related to the Duggars or just another dimwit breeding for the heck of it?”
“Trying to be like the Duggars or something?”
-I Can’t Count
Dear I Can’t Count: I know, I know. Six is so close to 19. Scarily close. Turn around, and I might have more children than the Duggars tomorrow.
Truth be told, we’re trying to be like another famous family. Just call us the Weasleys.
“What I learned from six boys: have a vasectomy.”
“Should’ve had an abortion at some point.”
-No Tact
Dear No Tact: What an educated, insightful answer. I’m so glad you could contribute something valuable to this discussion.
“Maybe booze has something to do with you guys getting pregnant so many times?”
-Stay Away From Alcohol
Dear Stay Away From Alcohol: I don’t really remember. All I know is every day I had to buy a new bottle of red wine from the corner store because the old one just kept mysteriously disappearing.
“She should have told her husband to put that thing away after birth #3.”
-Sexpert
Dear Sexpert: I did. Didn’t work. Mostly because I look dang good in yoga pants and an unwashed-hair ponytail.
“She is discusting.” (stet)
-The Educated One
Dear The Educated One: Sorry, I don’t take insults from people who can’t spell. Maybe that’s snobbish. But I’m just being honest. Come back to visit once you learn how to spell the word “disgusting.”
“They sound like the worst parents ever.”
-I Share Opinions
Dear I Share Opinions: We are the worst parents ever. Just ask any of our kids when they have immediate lights out for getting out of bed for the third time and someone’s not dying (which constitutes an emergency). Just ask them when they get an extra chore for getting down from the table without being excused. Just ask them when they aren’t allowed to watch the new Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie like all their friends do because the content is too mature.
“No wonder there’s not a husband in the picture. She’s ugly.”
-Fugly and Fffffpppsmart
Dear Fugly and Fffffpppsmart: I know it’s really hard to understand, but there is this thing that happens when someone takes a picture. It’s called Standing Behind the Camera. You see, someone has to stand behind the camera in order for a picture to be taken (unless you set an auto-picture, which I have no idea how to do. Technology’s not my strong point. Having babies is.). Husband was behind the camera.
Please don’t let your brain explode with this amazing revelation.
“I know your hands are full, but you chose to have a large family, and it is time for you both to step up and be responsible. Do them a huge favor and try to have them become gentlemen. Make them pick up their own clothes instead of leaving them all over the floor. The world will thank you.”
-Concerned Non-parent
Dear Concerned Non-parent: Well, this just dashes all my parent-hopes. I guess I thought my boys would leave their clothes on the floor forever, or at least until they found a wife to pick up after them. I definitely didn’t plan on teaching them to find the hamper or clean up their own messes or do their own laundry. Mostly because I LOVE BEING A MAID.
(Said no mother ever.)
“Her uterus must be dragging the floor just like her vag.”
-Crude Dude
Dear Crude Dude: Kind of you to be concerned. As far as I know, I haven’t tripped over either yet, so I think I’m doing okay.
“Women like this keep popping out kids to try and remain relevant because they have no skills or talent. Get an education, lady…they will teach you how to keep ur legs closed.”
-School Fixes Everything
Dear School Fixes Everything: I must be dumber than I thought. What does “ur” mean? I’ve never come across that word in my study of the English language.
Oh, wait. Study? I’ve never done that. It probably wouldn’t surprise you to know that I did not graduate valedictorian of my high school class, and I didn’t get a full ride to a university of my choice, and I most definitely didn’t graduate four years later with a 4.0 GPA and a degree in print journalism and English. Because, you know, women like that don’t have trouble keeping their legs closed. They know where babies come from, and they make sure they don’t have six of them.
I’m sure it also wouldn’t surprise you to know that I’ve never, ever, in all my life, won a writing award or been recognized for any of my work, because, of course, I have zero talents.
Now I feel sad that I didn’t do more with my life. Guess I’ll go open that new bottle of red wine and have another baby.
Thanks for commenting! If you have any personal issues with any of my answers, please email idontcare@babymakingfactory.com.
See you next time I write an article about my big family!
This is an excerpt from Parenthood: Has Anyone Seen My Sanity?, the first book in the Crash Test Parents humor 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 Helen Montoya Photography.)
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.
