by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Today chewed me up and spit me back out.
Boys are out of school for Thanksgiving holidays and I am off from work, and it should have been a lovely morning with all the warm and snuggly feelings of holiday weeks, where a mama and boys play games and talk and maybe even brave a Jedi fight with the light sabers we made last weekend for the oldest boy’s birthday.
It started that way, too, for a whole hour.
And then the world started crumbling apart.
Twins answered, “No,” along with a whole string of words that proved their opinions were not the same as mine, every single time I opened my mouth; and an 8-year-old left an explosion of Legos all over the playroom so we couldn’t even walk through the minefield of buttons and droid starships and headless Jedis without stepping on something that punctured our heels; and the 4-year-old pretended like he couldn’t hear me the six times I said, “Please stop touching the Christmas tree,” because he’s enamored with the ornament he and his daddy made last night.
I only got to lunch before I started thinking that I should have just gone to work and I wish there were holiday schools and, my God, what are we going to do this summer, when another baby will join their relentless ranks?
But then it was time for naps and quiet time, and I closed myself in my room, unaware that the worst was to come.
Because there, on my phone, was a text from my mom, about a family from my hometown who lost five of their six children in a house fire this morning, and my heart dropped all the way to my feet.
I didn’t know them, but I could easily be them. And that’s where my mind took me, to a place of unimaginable pain and sadness and loss.
I sat there, staring at words I could not even see anymore. And then I wrote myself into gratitude and whispered it all out loud, into the home that was quiet now, but not for long.
Thank you for sandy-brown hair that all looks the same whether they’ve just woken up or they’re going to bed, because I don’t have to brush it.
Thank you for patches of shampoo they forget to wash out of that sandy-brown hair.
Thank you for sturdy couches that will hold bouncing boys and for furniture arms like floor vaults that prove they could be gymnasts if they wanted.
Thank you for light saber fights that always end in someone getting hurt.
Thank you for water spilled on the floor and the culprit keeping their secret and a victim falling in a hilarious way we will laugh about later. Much later. And for years to come.
Thank you for chocolate smudges across cheeks on the rare occasion they get treats.
Thank you for snotty kisses because they’ve been playing outside all morning with no shoes on and it’s a little cold today and they just wanted to come inside to grin and say hi and love on a mama.
Thank you for big boys sitting in a lap when they’re not really paying attention to what they’re doing.
Thank you for sticky, jam-stained fingers because he likes to take his sandwich apart and eat the peanut butter side first and save the raspberry side for later.
Thank you for all the shoes pulled out of a doorway basket just so they could find flip flops five sizes too big and pretend to wear those.
Thank you for building and taking apart and building again all those Lego Star Wars creations so the pieces are scattered all over the house now, even though we told him it’s hard to build a Jedi Interceptor with that yellow wing missing.
Thank you for chocolate oatmeal the 2-year-olds decide look better in their hair than in their bowls.
Thank you for the same lunchtime story we’ve read together ten thousand times.
Thank you for blue blankets dragged downstairs so they all have to be carried up again for naps, all piled in the arms of a mama who almost trips climbing the stairs because the pile is too big to see over.
Thank you for brothers who love each other most of the time.
Thank you for twin laughs and twin grins and twin plots and twin kisses and twin curiosity and twin defiance and twin snuggles.
Thank you for 4-year-old whine.
Thank you for a baby who keeps me up at night because he likes to stretch and puts pressure on my bladder and is growing big and awkward and uncomfortable with 11 weeks to go.
Thank you for art papers under the table and all over the playroom and upstairs sitting like presents on a table and bed and desk, even though we told them to keep those creations in their notebooks.
Thank you for permanent markers they can always find, no matter how well hidden, and use to their heart’s content before we think to investigate why it suddenly sounds so quiet in here.
Thank you for a table that must be wiped down and a floor that must be swept three times a day.
Thank you for walking on hands and spinning in a circle and front flips on a carpet.
Thank you for toilets that never get flushed and lights that never get turned off.
Thank you for a sink full of dirty dishes.
Thank you for sixteen cups used every day, even though there are only five of us who use them.
Thank you for eight loads of laundry a week.
Thank you for strong wills that don’t take “no” for an answer.
Thank you for emotions that turn a whole world upside down…and then, with the right response, snap a day and a relationship back in place, better than before—because the ones who anger hard and cry hard and explode hard are the ones who love hard, too.
Thank you for shirts used as napkins, even though there’s a real napkin sitting right beside their plates.
Thank you for the “need-to-go-potty” cries from twins that may or may not mean anything, because they’re strapped into their high chairs, and they really just don’t want to be there.
Thank you for laughter that shoots milk out of a nose and mouth into the bowl of broccoli and cheese we haven’t yet dished out.
Thank you for the broken picture frames everywhere you look around the house and the crayon art in unexpected places and the holes in random walls.
Thank you for scooters left in driveways and art notebooks forgotten outside and sidewalk chalk crunching under tires.
Thank you for handprints and footprints on the windshield of a van because boys wanted to be on top of the world and thought the top of a car would be the way to get there.
Thank you for water wasted because twins want to wash their hands 6,000 times a day.
Thank you for a door opening at 4:55 a.m., five minutes before the alarm will chime, because someone had a bad dream.
Thank you for dirt smudges in the bathtub I don’t get to use anymore because half the boys have taken it over and they’re.just.so.dirty.
Thank you for eyes that don’t see all I do to make a home home and the hearts that don’t understand how much I love and all the heads I can smell and kiss when they are lost in sleep.
Thank you for a job that never, ever ends (but may get easier?).
Thank you for naptime. And bedtime. And storytime. And dinner. And silent reading time. And playtime. And lunch and breakfast and the whole long day with boys who make a life brighter and harder and much more beautiful.
Thank you for naming me Mama to all these boys.
I don’t want to change this life, as it is, right now. I know the years will take care of that, but this moment, frozen in time, is full and loud in its wild chaos, and sometimes it drags me fast toward crazy, and sometimes I wonder how much easier it would be if…
But always, at the end of my wish-I-could-do-it-over or longest-in-the-history-of-the-world or easiest-one-ever day, I end with this:
Thank you.
Because family, being a parent, watching boys grow and learn and become, is the best treasure in all the world.
Rachel is a writer, poet, editor and musician who is raising five (going on six) boys to love books and poetry and music and art and the wild outdoors—all the best bits of life. She shares her fiction and nonfiction writings over at her blog, and, when she’s not buried in a writing journal or a new song or a kid crisis at home, she enjoys reading Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner and the poetry of Rilke. Follow her on Twitter @racheltoalson.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog, Stuff Crash Test Kids say
We’ve got a couple of stories to share with you today:
“I’m Batman!” “I am Groot.”
First, I have become a fan of a YouTube video channel called “How it Should Have Ended” or HISHE for short. They recently put out a video for Guardians of the Galaxy which I showed to our 2 year old twin boys. They really enjoyed it, especially this part:
So they did this for the rest of the day:
Almond Joy Fib
This is a first for Hosea (4). He had just gotten a treat (from his leftover Halloween candy) after finishing his dinner. We watched as he unwrapped and devoured a fun-sized Almond Joy candy bar. I saw him walk over to the trash can, drop the wrapper in and walk back to the table. Apparently, after considering how delicious this treat was and how much he’d really like to have another one, he decided to try something.
Hosea: “Can I have my after dinner treat now?”
Mama: “Didn’t you already have your treat?”
Hosea: “No, I haven’t had one yet.”
Mama: “But we saw you holding the Almond Joy candy bar.”
Daddy: “Yea, I even helped you unwrap it.”
Hosea: “I put it back in the wrapper and put it in the bag.”
Daddy: “Did you really?”
Hosea: “Yea, it’s in my candy bag, so can I have a treat?”
Daddy (Looking down into the bag): “Hosea, I don’t see the Almond Joy wrapper in there. Are you sure you put it back?”
Hosea: “I did put it back, it’s just dark at the bottom of the bag.”
Daddy: I can still see the other pieces. I don’t see it in there.”
Hosea: “Well, I put it back so can I pick another treat?”
Daddy: “I thought I saw you throw the wrapper away in the trash. If I look in the trash will I see it?”
Hosea: “No.”
Daddy (After picking up the empty wrapper from the trash): Here it is Hosea. You’ve already had your treat.”
Hosea: “Ooooh. I put it in the trash and the chocolate fell out into the trash. You can’t see it now. Can I have a treat?”
No treats were awarded after this exchange. We did our best to explain to him in terms he could understand why honesty is so important. You’ve got to hand it to him for staying so committed though.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Disclaimer: This post is, in no way, intended to make light of the serious illnesses that can beset children. It is unfair and awful and cruel to see children suffer, and we grieve with all the parents raising children who are seriously and gravely ill. May every child be healed of their chronic illnesses.
It’s been a madhouse lately.
There’s a birthday coming up, and there’s Thanksgiving and Christmas and all the preparations that go along with birthdays and holidays, and then there’s the massive amount of school papers falling at random on our countertop, drowning us, and the list of homemade Christmas gifts we’re WAY behind on that keeps getting lost in all the shuffle.
Add to that twins and potty training and how they must be reminded every 20 minutes to keep their underwear dry and clean.
And then on top of all that, add twins transitioning to big boy beds and how they must be put back in their beds twenty times every night.
Like I said, it’s a madhouse.
But then one of our twins got sick with a mysterious fever that only brought with it a headache and an uncontrollable urge to sleep it off.
One 2-year-old down and I thought I could conquer the world.
My boy slept all day, and the next day the virus hit his 4-year-old brother, and the twins felt incredibly easy without the extra dynamic of an older brother. And then it hit the other twin, and another 2-year-old slept all morning on the couch and gave his mama a break.
I don’t always approach sickness with this thank-you embrace, because sometimes there’s vomit (times five), and sometimes there’s so.much.snot I could fill a factory order for glue, and sometimes there are sore throats and achy chests and rashes that can worry a mama sick.
But this was just a low-grade fever, and we put cold compresses on their foreheads and thieves essential oil on the bottoms of their feet and then tucked them away in their beds, where they slept for half a day and got up only to drink some water and then slept the rest of the day, too.
It took one of them down at a time, and my household felt remotely manageable. It felt weird and eerie, too, but I wasn’t about to begrudge myself the enjoyment of a much-needed, unexpected break.
The whole dynamic of a house can change when one boy is out of commission, curled up with a headache and a fever.
By the time the virus finished with the fourth boy (it never hit the oldest), I felt like a superhero, because I had:
1. Cleaned out all the closets, eliminating the clutter I so desperately hate.
2. Rearranged our entire library—furniture and books (about 500 of them).
3. Rearranged my oldest son’s room and closet.
4. Packed away unnecessary clothes.
5. Colored with a 5-year-old, who had to stay home from school one day.
6. Rocked the 4-year-old to sleep (never happens).
7. Held the 2-year-olds for half an hour at a time (never happens either).
8. Tidied the entire house without clothes and shoes and toys undoing all my hard work BECAUSE KIDS WERE SLEEPING!
9. Spoke in complete sentences when talking to my husband.
10. Slept. I went to bed without having to tell kids to be quiet and settle down fifteen thousand times. And it was AMAZING.
I wouldn’t wish my children sick all the time, of course I wouldn’t, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this recent break.
Today, the twins are flipping over the couch and the 4-year-old is walking on his hands through the living room and the 5-year-old is shrieking and spinning until he falls and the 8-year-old is turning up his Harry Potter audiobook loud enough so he can actually hear it over all the noise.
I sure am glad they’re back, madness and all.
Rachel is a writer, poet, editor and musician who is raising five (going on six) boys to love books and poetry and music and art and the wild outdoors—all the best bits of life. She shares her fiction and nonfiction writings over at her blog, and, when she’s not buried in a writing journal or a new song or a kid crisis at home, she enjoys reading Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner and the poetry of Rilke. Follow her on Twitter @racheltoalson.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
I am a highly sensitive introvert living in the middle of a crowd.
Here is what my daily overstimulation cycle looks like:
Boy #1 wakes in a bad mood because he stayed up too late trying to finish the Star Wars graphic novel he was reading, and now his foul mood has followed him down the stairs and to the table, where it sits between his brothers and his mad-scientist hair spearing that crumpled-with-grouch brow.
Boy #3 must be carried downstairs because, apparently, his 4-year-old legs don’t work in the morning.
Boy #4 and Boy #5 wait at their baby-gated bedroom door because we have to cage them in or else they’ll wander and destroy all night, and I’m not quite ready to set them loose, since it’s an ordeal just to get them to follow the simple instructions “Go downstairs” and I don’t want all the books pulled from shelves before I’ve even finished changing out of my pajamas.
Boy #3 says he really wanted the blue plate instead of the green one that sits before him.
Boy #4 and Boy #5 say they need to potty before I strap them in a chair (yet another cage for our sanity) and then spend the next eight minutes chattering nonstop about pee pee and toilet paper and flushing a potty and things I can’t really understand.
Boy #2 interrupts the morning devotional to say I forgot to give them all milk. And I did.
Boy #1 races up the stairs, so he can pick out the book he wants to take to school and then forget to put in his backpack because he discovered, upon looking at the walls of his room, that he forgot to hang up one very important poster that must be hung up right this very minute.
Boy #3 needs me to get him some underwear out of his child-locked drawer (locked to prevent emptying all over the room every time they decide to wear mittens and put underwear on their head) because he slept without any last night.
Boy #2 squeezes the toothpaste while trying to open it because his toothbrush, which I already swiped with toothpaste, fell on the floor and now it’s dirty, and his squeezing makes a sticky mess all over the counter, but don’t worry, he’ll clean it up, and he does. With his tongue.
Boy #1 gets the first of a thousand reminders that he needs to finish packing up because we’re leaving in 10 minutes.
Boy #3 needs me to help him find his shoes, which I saw this morning in the basket where they’re supposed to be.
Boy #2 skips from the bathroom with tongue-cleaned countertops into the room he shares with his brother, who is supposed to be downstairs putting on his shoes, so he can more efficiently distract him at closer proximity.
Boy #3 is now whining that his shoes are not ANYWHERE.
Boy #1 is telling me about a dream he had last night while I pick out clothes for Boy #4 and Boy #5, while Boy #2 is telling me I forgot to give them a piece of their Halloween candy at lunch yesterday and they should get two pieces today because of that mistake, and Boy #3 is saying something about how no one will help him and everyone keeps interrupting him.
Boy #3 is yelling that Boy #5 is climbing out of his seat and sitting on his high chair tray.
Boy #4 is screaming because he can’t figure out how to do the same.
Boy #3 is saying we’ll never, ever, ever find his shoes, while Boy #2 is reminding me that I forgot to give him his focus factor vitamin yesterday and why didn’t I give it to him and what if I never give it to him ever again, and Boy #1 is asking why can’t he wear dirty sweat pants from the to-wash hamper to school like all the other boys in his class.
Boy #1 gets his thousandth warning, and I race Boy #2 down the stairs so we can find Boy #3’s shoes and get Boys #4 and 5 dressed and get.out.the.door, even if Boy #1 is still not ready.
Boy #4 is screaming while I buckle him into his stroller, because he wants to do it himself, except it takes him five extra minutes.
Boy #5 fights the dressing because he knows what just happened to his brother, and he screams, too, when I buckle him because he, too, wants to do it himself.
Boy #1 is begging me to help him with his shoes because he “doesn’t feel like tying them this morning” and Boy #2 is talking about how I forgot to let them play outside last night and Boy #3 is lying on the floor whining because he still hasn’t found the shoes that I put right beside him.
Boy #1 must be reminded to get his backpack on the way out the door, and just before I lock the door because we’re finally ready to go, ten minutes late, Boy #2 says I forgot to get him a jacket and I also didn’t give them all their vitamins today and I just have to give them their vitamins before they go to school because they need them so they don’t get sick.
Boy #2 holds to the side of the stroller, waving at all the high school students we pass on our walk, and Boy #1 hangs onto my arm ignoring the world around him because he wants to tell me about this new science experiment he’s going to try when he gets back home today, and Boy #3 falls behind, whining that he cannot go fast uphill on a scooter.
Boy #3 whines that we’re leaving him behind because he’s not moving at all, and he makes a little effort to catch up and then whines that he just can’t do it, see? and I take a deep breath and just keep moving.
It’s only 7:25 a.m. and I’m already exhausted.
About a year ago I read Susan Cain’s book, Quiet, and I learned valuable truths about the introvert’s stimulation cycle, about how overstimulation can leave one feeling fatigued and irritable and anxious, how this is all perfectly normal and fixable, as long as we can recharge with quiet solitude throughout our day.
I don’t think it’s just introverted parents who need this. We all do.
It’s not easy, as parents, to take a time out of our own, to close our bedroom door for just a minute’s peace, to send children outside for the relief of 10 minutes alone. But in all those daily overstimulation pieces of my days, I have recognized the desperate need for space and freedom—because I am a better mama and wife and person for it.
Sometimes the work of self-compassion is the hardest work of all, because children must be dressed and vitamins must be parceled out and toothpaste must be wiped from sticky countertops.
Always, something else begs our attention.
But we cannot offer others the best version of ourselves if we are not caring for ourselves.
Parenting is hard work. It’s world-changing work. It’s sacred work. It’s also never-ending work.
We can only healthily approach the every-single-second raising of all these precious little people if we are resting ourselves.
It’s worth it to find those moments when responsibilities can be set aside and a door can be closed and a lock can be turned without separation guilt, because we find our center again in the calm expanse of solitude.
Our children will be glad we did.
Rachel is a writer, poet, editor and musician who is raising five (going on six) boys to love books and poetry and music and art and the wild outdoors—all the best bits of life. She shares her fiction and nonfiction writings over at her blog, and, when she’s not buried in a writing journal or a new song or a kid crisis at home, she enjoys reading Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner and the poetry of Rilke. Follow her on Twitter @racheltoalson.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Being a parent who cares is exhausting.
Let me explain. There are so many things that you HAVE to care about when you are raising another human being. You have to care about making sure their bodies are properly nourished with food and water. You have to care about them having the right kind of shelter. You have to care about them getting enough sleep. You have to care about them wearing the appropriate amount of clothing to protect them from the elements (or to keep them from running around naked in public places). You have to care about how their excrement is handled. You have to care about good hygiene. You have to care about their health. You have to care about the 1,476 ways they can harm or end themselves because of their gross lack of experience and judgment and general lack of motor control. This is the basic stuff. You also kinda have to care about their emotional well being and development, their ability to learn the skills necessary to function in society, and their ability to cooperate with others and not be self-centered little goblins for the rest of their lives.
Hills I will no longer die on.
As we parents often do, we take even more care than these basic few things, pushing the limits of our emotional bandwidth until something gives, either in small, periodic ways or big explosive ways. There are “hills that we should die on” for sure, but I just wanted to share a handful of hills that I’ve chosen to abandon. I have simply stopped caring, and my heart and my children’s ears are better for it.
1. I don’t care if you wear mis-matched or non-appropriate clothing.
A red sock and a green sock? Are there two of them? Great, get your shoes on, let’s go! A tennis shoe and a boot? Are they the opposite foot from one another? I call that a win! Put ’em on. Yes, that black shirt goes perfectly with your brown sweatpants. Sure, you can wear a scarf, gloves and knit cap in the middle of July! You want to wear pj’s to the store? Are your privates covered? Then, we’re good to go. You want to wear your batman costume (that’s a few sizes too small) out to dinner tonight? Don’t forget your cape! I exercise this lack of care in most cases. I do make the rare exception for a handful of special events or for family pictures, otherwise, I don’t care.
2. I don’t care when you have an emotional melt-down in the middle of the grocery store.
My lack of care in this case is not so much directed at my child as it is at the other shoppers. I don’t care that the horrible noises my child is making are disturbing your perfect shopping trip. I don’t care if you have opinions or thoughts about why my child is having a meltdown or what I could have done to prevent it. I don’t care about what kind of parent you think I am. My child is obviously having a problem, whether it’s making a scene so he can get what he wants, or that he’s legitimately sad, upset, frustrated, overwhelmed, and is still learning how to handle his emotions. I either need all of my emotional resources focused on helping him through his emotions, or to steel myself against giving into an unhealthy request for attention, and either way, I don’t have any cares left to give you Ms. Disapproving Glare lady. Sorry. Not sorry.
3. I don’t care if you say inappropriate or embarrassing things.
Go ahead. Make your uncensored observations about the world around you. Yes, daddy’s belly is getting big. Yes, that is a hairy man over there. Yes, that lady is wearing a LOT of makeup. Oh, you are test-driving some interesting new words there. Go ahead and take them for a spin. Words can be powerful. What a wonder it is to speak and to watch the room react. You just said one word and the whole place became alive with chatter, laughter and gasps. I might give you some mild corrections/suggestions for now, but there’s no way I can explain to you in this moment the complexity and importance of good, healthy communication. I’m just going to have to demonstrate it for you over time and hope that you catch on, the way that you caught on to my, not-so-healthy speech patterns.
4. I don’t care if you accidentally break, spill or destroy things.
You tried SO hard to carry that cup of milk from the table to the kitchen sink. You made it a whole 3 feet before you spilled it all. Good job! You wanted so badly to bring me my favorite coffee mug, but your fingers don’t work sometimes and it shattered into thousands of pieces against the tile floor. It’s the thought that counts. You peed all over the carpet, instead of into the toilet which is just 10 little baby steps away from where you’re standing. You wanted to practice your throwing inside this time, with rocks you found outside. You didn’t realize, as you jumped on top of my head, that I was wearing my glasses, and they crunched under your butt. I don’t care. Okay, I care… but not so much that I freak out. These things are just things. This is the first and one of the most important lessons I want to teach you WHEN things break, and they will break. I can only teach this to you if I don’t blow my top. In time we’ll get to those lessons about motor skills, appropriate uses of items, and not jumping on daddy’s head.
5. I don’t care that you NEVER use toys/games /things according to the instructions.
Yes, you can mix the Star Wars Legos with the Lord of the Rings Legos, they totally go together. Sure, you can make up your own rules to Monopoly, collect all of the money, have multiple player tokens and own all of the houses. You’re right, the plastic pipes holding together that soccer net do come apart and make excellent swords. As a matter of fact, yes, all of the long stick-like things are actually swords. While I appreciate the imagination required to invent games and build toys that children will enjoy, I hold a much, much higher appreciation for the imagination my child uses when the toys stop being things that have a single function, and become tools that he can use in a world he has invented.
Don’t spend your care on things that don’t pay off.
I hope this gives you permission not to care. I hope that letting go of some of these things helps you to discover a deeper appreciation for and understanding of your kids, and the way they interact with the world around them as they learn and grow. I hope you laugh more. Our kids are hilarious in their lack of experience, knowledge and coordination. Enjoy it while it lasts. The more we are able to stop caring about trivial things, the more care we can give to the things that really matter.
What do you not care about?
Do you have examples of things you’ve simply stopped caring about? We’d love to hear about them. Leave a comment and let us know about the hill (or hills) you’ve abandoned.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
She walks through the door, this woman I haven’t seen in eight months but have known for years, because I’m sitting here waiting to do an interview for my job, and she says, “Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re pregnant again.”
And it’s obvious that my six-months swelling belly is not the bloating of a meal gone wrong.
I just smile and wait for the words I know will come, and she doesn’t disappoint me.
“Don’t you know by now how this happens?” she says.
No, I don’t. Would you please enlighten me? Because, good Lord, who wants six accidents like I’ve got? (This is what I sometimes want to say.)
I usually try to take these comments with good humor and lots and lots of patience, because I know people are just trying to make conversation and they think it’s funny and they don’t know how many times I’ve heard it before.
But now that we are entrenched in our fifth pregnancy, the comments happen nearly every time I encounter someone I haven’t seen in a while.
“You’re pregnant every time I see you,” someone else says today, and I just shake my head and flash my obligatory smile and wait for the next punch.
And it comes, just like I thought it would, from a guy who flippantly remarks, “Yeah, my wife and I believe in family planning.”
And it’s this misconception right here that makes me want to shout it from the rooftops: Just because we have a large family doesn’t mean we didn’t family plan.
Sure, maybe we didn’t plan the traditional ways, with birth control pills and barriers and prevent-a pregnancy cups, but there are other ways to family plan, like counting days and taking temperatures and being careful.
It may be news to many, but every one of our six babies was planned (well, except for the extra twin we didn’t anticipate).
I know it’s hard to believe that a family in our day and age and a society like this one would choose to have six children, and maybe it seems a little crazy (it is) and wildly expensive (yes), but we did. And even though there are days I wonder if we really were crazy and I shudder to think about our grocery bill in a few years and I cringe beneath the insensitive comments of other people, I wouldn’t change a thing about our lives.
I used to be one of the most annoying control freaks a person could ever be. I used to think a clean and tidy house was a non-negotiable. I used to walk through life distracted to the best parts—all those tiny little pieces I needed a child to show me.
Now I’m the mama who can’t keep up with school paperwork and says who cares, and I’m the mama paying library fines every few weeks, and I’m the mama stepping over a discarded shoe and laughing about how this one is here and the other is clear across the room, balancing on the edge of a couch top, and how in the world did that happen? Now I’m the mama who will slide down stairs in an oversized box just for a laugh from my boys, even though I almost break my back. I’m the mama who laughs myself silly at an ABC song boys recorded and turned slow motion. I’m the mama who stops on the walk to school so we can observe the way those squished earthworms look like a J and an L and an S and an e, and who cares if we’re late?
I like this person I’ve become.
So to all the people who feel the need to comment on how maybe we need to take our hands off each other until we can figure out where babies come from; and the ones who say we sure have a huge family and “better you than me,” like having a large family is some kind of curse; and the ones who want to educate us on their ideas about family planning, I say thank you.
Thank you for reminding me just how amazing my nontraditional-according-to-numbers family really is.
Thank you for helping me realize more clearly and firmly and surely that this is who I want to be, a mother of six boys, a woman losing a grip on her ordered-just-so life.
Thank you for showing me that this is family planning at its best.
Rachel is a writer, poet, editor and musician who is raising five (going on six) boys to love books and poetry and music and art and the wild outdoors—all the best bits of life. She shares her fiction and nonfiction writings over at her blog, and, when she’s not buried in a writing journal or a new song or a kid crisis at home, she enjoys reading Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner and the poetry of Rilke. Follow her on Twitter @racheltoalson.
