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.
by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test featured, General Blog
Sometimes I feel like I’m doing a pretty good job as a parent. Relationships are good, all those consequences we’ve put into our Family Playbook—a list of infractions and their expected consequences—are well understood, the house is in almost perfect order.
And then my children wake up.
It only takes seconds to realize that they are completely different people today.
Not only have they forgotten all the new infractions and consequences we brainstormed yesterday, but they also no longer care about getting to school on time or wearing clean clothes or keeping their room even the slightest bit tidy.
Yesterday my two older boys came down for breakfast fifty minutes before we had to leave for school. Today they were still not eating breakfast 10 minutes before we had to walk out the door, and I had to shout my last you’re-not-going-to-get-breakfast warning above the volume of an audio book, because I’m too lazy to walk up the stairs for the sixteenth time (I blame my laziness on my broken foot. And Post Traumatic Stress, which I feel every time I approach stairs).
Yesterday they liked the grilled broccoli and cauliflower and carrots we brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt and roasted in the oven. Today they gagged just looking at them.
Yesterday they all sat perfectly still in their separate spaces while their daddy read two picture books and I read a Narnia chapter book and again while we engaged in our ten minutes of Sustained Silent Reading time and then again while we did our meditation breathing and prayer time. We didn’t have to remind them once to get back in their spots or stop talking or that, no, an art journal is not a book you read and, no, the pen in your hand is not necessary during reading time (unless you’re taking notes—which he was clearly not).
Today they think reading time means chase-your-brother-around-the-library time.
It’s enough to drive a parent insane.
I’ve often joked that parenting is like living in an insane asylum. But the joke is usually true.
Insanity is defined by Albert Einstein as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
THIS IS WHAT KIDS DO, EVERY SINGLE DAY.
They try to write during story time, even though we’ve told them a billion times it’s not allowed. They try to sneak that LEGO toy into the bath tub, thinking this time will surely be different and we won’t object. They seem surprised that 8 p.m. is lights out, even though nothing has changed in their thousands of nights.
The problem is, our kids are the least consistent people on the planet. Every single day they wake up completely different people.
The bigger problem, though, is that they give us that one little taste of expectation realization, and we think they CAN sit still for two stories and a chapter book.
And we keep expecting it every other day.
For as long as we’ve had twins, I have fantasized about two boys napping in the same bedroom for more than an hour and a half.
We were spoiled, because our older boys took three-hour naps and could be trusted to sleep in their rooms with their doors closed.
The first time we left the twins for three hours with the door closed, they pulled down the forty-four shirts in their closet, painted with poop and ate the cardboard pages of Goodnight Moon.
So the next time I set a timer for two hours (because surely they’d just woken up early) and I sat outside their door to work on some deadline material. I could hear them shrieking, but we’d baby proofed everything, and there were only two mattresses on their floor (not even beds, because the twins could destroy furniture in 3.4 seconds). Nothing they could get into. Nothing that would hurt them. Nothing to occupy them for two hours.
They got really quiet, but I didn’t worry. We’re all quiet when we’re sleeping.
When the timer went off, I opened their door and found them sitting on clouds, all the stuffing ripped out of the lone Beanie Boo someone had left in their room.
The next day, I opened their door. I sat right outside. I corrected them when they so much as moved.
AND THEY FELL ASLEEP. FOR TWO WHOLE HOURS.
Oh, thank God, I said. It is possible.
So, of course, the next day, I did the exact same thing. Except as soon as they were asleep, I went to my room to do some more involved work and make a few business phone calls. Two hours later, they had knocked their closet doors off the hinges, strung all their ties from the ceiling fan and neatly lined up all their shoes under their mattresses.
Oh my word.
It’s maddening and confusing and impossible to keep up with these every-day-different children.
It’s impossible to know that today the 8-year-old only got seven hours of sleep but will wake up the happiest kid in the world, but tomorrow he’ll get 12 hours of sleep and will wake up gnawing on all the heads he bit off before breakfast.
It’s impossible to know that today the 6-year-old will follow all the rules and help with everything around the house, and tomorrow he will wake up a defiant little monster.
It’s impossible to know that today the 4-year-old will love reading those books to me but tomorrow he will wake up acting like he’d rather eat spinach than finish the last five sentences of that Little Bear story.
What’s a parent to do?
We just keep doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results from this insane asylum. Because, you know. Consistency and all.
Also because sometimes it does work, and those times it works might just be enough to power us through the times it doesn’t.
And if they’re not, well. At least there’s red wine. And chocolate.
And a lock on our bedroom door they haven’t yet learned to pick (it’s coming).
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Not long ago I fell down our house stairs and broke my foot.
It’s not often that I am sick or injured. I’ve taken two sick days in eight years of parenting—because my appendix was about to explode and, after vomiting all night, I thought it was time to have someone take a look at it.
As the only female in this household of eight, my boys form quite a force when it comes to taking care of Mama.
They fight over who gets to take the laptop up the stairs so I have a free hand to hold onto the stair rail while carrying the baby. They throw away dirty diapers so I don’t have to walk the thirty-seven excruciating steps to the trashcan. They draw me pictures and pick me flowers and leave sweet love notes on my pillow.
I appreciate their help and care. I really do. But, three weeks in, there are some things I can just do without.
For instance: the constant Shadow following me around, asking me if he can inflate my foot cast. Him, I can do without.
I let him do it once, and now, every time I take my cast off to rest my foot on the couch, he gets this excited gleam in his eye, because he knows, eventually, the cast will have to go back on. He knows, eventually, the cast will need inflation, because I have to walk to the kitchen to fix dinner.
I’m tired of being stalked by the Inflation Predator, son. Thank you for your help. But no.
There’s another predator who lurks in the doorway when I’m struggling in and out of the bath.
See, it takes me ten minutes to remove the cast and ease myself into a bath balancing on both hands and one leg, and it takes practice.
So my triceps weren’t as strong as I thought they were. So a few times I’ve slipped. Big deal. I didn’t cry out or ask for help or shout curse words like I did when I was falling down the stairs. I mainly laughed hysterically because I didn’t die in a bathtub.
I guess this boy thought I was weeping instead of laughing, though, because he’s always lingering just outside the door, close enough to hear my every move.
“I’d like to take a bath by myself,” I say. “With no one else around.”
“I’m just making sure you don’t fall,” he says.
I appreciate your concern, son. But please. Leave me alone. Let me take a bath in peace.
Then there is the predator who walks behind me on the stairs.
To be fair, all my boys are a little freaked out that Mama, normally so athletic and graceful (HA!) fell down the stairs and broke the second bone she’s ever broken. Even my husband reminds me, every time I approach the stairs, to be careful and take my time.
But there is one boy affected more than the others, so he has taken to walking one step behind me on my way up the stairs so he can catch me if I fall (as if I don’t weigh four times as much as he does and wouldn’t flatten him on contact).
This would be all nice and sweet IF he didn’t also feel the need to make comments about my appearance as we’re walking up the stairs.
“You wore those shorts yesterday, Mama,” he says. He laughs. “Did you?” He laughs again. “I think you wore them the day before that, too. Did you, Mama?”
Truth is, I’ve worn them for four days straight, because they’re comfy enough to wear to bed, and I can just roll out and not have to wrestle into new clothes while balancing on one foot.
“What’s that blue line on the back of your knee, Mama?” he says.
It’s called a varicose vein, baby.
“Why is it there?”
Because I had a lot of children.
“You’re really slow, Mama.”
Thanks for noticing, baby.
“And your booty is bigger than my face.”
Sometimes I think about falling backwards on purpose.
The twins have excused themselves from this “help Mama get better” phase. They actually are working harder to NOT make me well. They leave blankets all over the floor so I can trip over them. They “accidentally” step on the boot. They drop water on the floor without telling anyone so I slip and almost break something else.
The constant questions are another way my boys express concern.
“Is your foot still broken, Mama?” (I hear this a billion times a day.)
No, I just like wearing this good-looking boot.
“Can I wear your boot, Mama?”
Of course, dear. I’m only wearing it because I want to. Also, even though it comes up to your thigh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to walk with a stiff leg where others have failed.
“When will you get better?”
Well, kids, that depends a lot on you.
The predators and booby traps and questions can all get pretty annoying, but mostly I’m just glad they care enough to ask about my wellbeing. I’m glad they want to do what they can to help me heal.
Or maybe they’re just worried that we’ll have tossed salads for dinner indefinitely because I haven’t cooked a decent meal since it happened.
On second thought, that’s probably what it is.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
This year my husband shared a birthday with Mother’s Day.
He’s been just the tiniest bit overlooked for most of our parenting life because his birthday falls so close to Mother’s Day, and all these boys in our house would much rather celebrate Mama than Daddy.
So I didn’t want the week to go by without expressing just what he’s meant in my life and the life of my children.
When we were 18 and 19, Ben traveled to my hometown with me, because we were in a band together and were booked to play a concert. He stayed with some of my mom’s friends.
“You’ll marry that man,” my mom’s friend told me on the last day.
It was before I was even interested in him THAT way, so I shook my head. “No way,” I said. “We’re just friends.”
My mom’s friend shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “But you’re going to marry him. Want to know how I know?”
Of course I wanted to know how someone knew who my future husband would be.
“Because of that,” she said.
She pointed at him, sitting in the middle of a circle of children. They were all giggling hysterically, and when he stood up, they followed him like the Pied Piper.
Two years later, I did marry him.
In the eight years we have parented our boys, I have watched him grow into one of the best fathers I’ve ever known. He has taught me better ways to love my children just because of the example he is.
Not only that, but he has taught me how to be a better parent, because it all comes so naturally to him.
He has taught me
1. Giggles are never too costly. He will do anything in the world to elicit giggles from his children. He will try to break dance on the carpet, tripping over his own feet. He will bound around the room on his hands and feet like a Daddy gorilla. He will read stories with their names replacing the words (“Shaggy dog, waggy dog, don’t-do-as-you’re Jadon dog.”). He will trip himself on purpose or run into a wall or pretend he’s slapping himself. He will turn them upside down to walk on the ceiling or body slam them on the couch or ask about their feelings in a robot voice. There is never a price too high.
2. There’s no such thing as an embarrassed parent. When his son picked Treasure Island as his birthday party theme, my husband borrowed a pirate costume from his brother and stole my black eyeliner to rim his own eyes and read A Pirate’s ABC with a roughened-sailor accent to all the kids gathered in our living room. When one son started dancing in the middle of the grocery store, because his jam came on over the loudspeaker, my husband joined him. When another son melted on the mulch of the neighborhood playground because he wasn’t ready to go home yet, my husband bent beside him and acknowledged his feelings and the time and what he was expected to do next, instead of walking away and pretending that child wasn’t his (which is exactly what I did).
3. Stories are much more fun when there are accents. My husband reads to his boys every night before they go to bed, and it’s not unusual for me to hear an Englishman reading Imagine a Day or a Spanish man reading Skippyjon Jones or a dopey man reading The Book With No Pictures. When we’re reading Elephant and Piggie books, he has voices for all the characters. He uses his hands. He makes it a show. He says I’m the reason they love to read, but the truth is, he has made books come alive for them. They love reading because of his theatrics.
4. Play is so much better than work. My husband has passed over good jobs because he wouldn’t be home in time for family dinner. He has turned down promotions. He has limited work-from-home hours because he wants to protect family play time after dinner, when he’ll run around the cul-de-sac playing kickball or trying to get a kite in the air or chasing all the kids for an epic game of tag. When it’s raining, he pulls out Jenga and Monopoly and Battleship or makes up his own game of charades. His boys know their relationship is more important than what work their daddy might have to get done at night.
5. Kids are not too young to add value to the world. So many kids feel like they have nothing to offer the world, but my husband lets our boys know they do. He encourages their creativity. He makes up secret codes with them. He designs the book covers for the books they’ve written. He lets them use all the computer paper to make paper airplanes they’ll sell in their art stand out front. He writes silly songs with them. He outlines that hand-lettering piece he drew and lets them color it in. He teaches them, and he lets himself be taught by them. He believes in them, and he teaches them to believe in themselves.
The other day, we were leaving a meeting when all five of the potty-trained boys announced that they needed to go potty. I rolled my eyes, because it happens EVERY time, but my husband laughed and raced them out of the car.
They were walking up wooden stairs, the boys behind him and all around him, and I saw the same picture I’d seen fourteen years ago, all these kids gathered around him just because they love being around a man like him.
I couldn’t help but smile—because it’s plain to see the love he has for them and the love they have for him and the rock of a relationship that has been building since they slid into his life.
How fortunate I am that my boys have a daddy like him.
