by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
It’s time for another Dear Concerned Reader—because you know what happens when one of my articles gets popular on another platform besides my own: all the comedians start coming out. This time it was my “A Dad is Not a Helper or a Babysitter. He’s a Parent.”
So. Enjoy.
“In the grand scheme of parenting this is pettiness. Why would you worry that someone wants to praise your husband for being a good dad and doing what he is supposed to do? So he gets more credit than you…It’s not that big of a deal, lighten up. I think it’d be nice if dad’s that do parent didn’t have to feel shamed into silence about their role for fear of seeming to be too expectant of praise.”
I’m Better Than You
Dear I’m Better Than You: I would like to whine and complain about how I don’t ever get any recognition for all the things I do for my kids, because, after all, I’m inherently selfish and can’t do a single thing—not even lift a finger, if you want the God-honest truth—unless someone notices my efforts. That’s why I wash forty thousand cups every day in the dishwasher, only to have kids complain that they weren’t the RIGHT forty-thousand cups. That’s why I put their school folders where they belong so that the next day they can bemoan the fact that they can’t find them, because they were on the floor last time they checked. That’s why I change diapers and wipe bottoms and clean out noses and cook dinner and wash clothes and read stories, because I want the credit. All I’m really looking for is a little affirmation, a few simple accolades, because I don’t do what I do just because I love. Who does?
Now. Is that really too much to ask?
“As a responsible caring adult of two kids (and very little to no support from my ex) that having kids and doing what you naturally feel is one of the biggest thankless jobs in the world…so just deal with it…you are not getting a pat on the back for it.”
Pessimism Has Always Worked
Dear Pessimism Has Always Worked: I live for pats on the back, so I guess I’ll just…well. Keep living my senseless, purposeless life. No one’s going to pat me on the back. Poor, forgotten me. It’s not fair. Husband goes out places with the kids and doesn’t even have to try for that pat on the back. You know who deserves it more? Me, that’s who.
“So back to the author…do you want some cheese with that whine.”
I’m a Clever Devil
Dear I’m a Clever Devil: Yes, please. I love cheese. Please make it sharp white cheddar. Also, you misspelled the last word. Just thought you should know. I believe the correct term is “cheese and wine.”
Wait. Were you saying something passive aggressive? Did I miss that?
“She sounds very angry to me and I personally find it insulting that she seems to group all dads together as lazy or unhelpful. I work full time and my wife is an at home mom but I take every minute I can get with my little lady so I suggest you keep your essay to yourself because there are a ton of us FATHERS who are exceptional parents.”
Bone to Pick
Dear Bone to Pick: Believe it or not, there is such thing as Reading an Article, which you clearly did not do. So settle down, start at the top and read it all the way through.
“If the writer is this stressed out over child-rearing, she should see if her husband can babysit so she can have a night out.”
Ha Ha I’m So Funny
Dear Ha Ha I’m So Funny: No, you’re not.
“Typical fem-nazi bs, if men were to raise children like women then we would have vaginas, want equal pay, get away from answering phones and build a skyscraper or a bridge, are there some women worthy of equal pay yes there are, but 90 percent want equal pay for doing nothing which is why we laugh at you and yes when your husband is working all day while your sitting on fb or the phone, your job is to watch the kids cook and keep the house clean, his job is to climb said building everyday for your ungrateful asses, and you wonder why your kids dads are not around. But of course you will have men who stick up for this sort of behavior they are called ‘Pussies’.” (stet, to all of it)
Anti-Feminist
Dear Anti-Feminist: Wow. Rage much? Yeah, so I guess you could call me a feminist, because feminism isn’t what all you anti-feminists make it out to be (not even close to evil—it’s just about equal rights). Some men understand that. Some men, present company included, clearly don’t. I feel sorry for you.
That said, there is this neat little mind-blowing concept called Working Outside the Home. Most of the women I know choose to do it, which means they are not, in fact, sitting at home on Facebook or on the phone or not working their tails off around the house. But thank you for confirming that I sure am glad my husband is the father of my six boys and not someone like you. God help the world.
“Probably written by a woman sitting at home typing on her computer in her robe already worrying about making sure her husband can’t sit down when he gets home until 10PM because she’s had such a hard day socializing and taking care of those children for the 2 hours between school getting out and dad getting home. ‘Oh sorry honey I couldn’t do dishes or laundry in the 6 hours the kids were at school so you watch them while I sit here and pretend to fold laundry while playing on social media.'”
I Make Great Assumptions
Dear I Make Great Assumptions. You sure do. You totally nailed it, because here I am, sitting in my robe, playing on my computer (mostly Facebook), scribbling down the honey-do list for Husband when he gets home (oh, wait. He works from home. So…I guess when he’s done with his workday?) so he can’t sit down for a single minute (he’ll thank me later) and I can go out with the ladies. You know, adult interaction. I’ve been sitting alone in the house all day (SO BORING!). A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right? Here, honey. You take the kids. Thanks! Don’t wait up.
You missed one thing, though. Before I leave to go out with the girls, I usually sit in the car and pretend to be doing something really important on my phone when I’m really typing out a nasty comment to an essay I didn’t even read. So maybe you’re not as great at assumptions as you might think.
“There are plenty of men out there that do everything for their kids. You picked him now stop bitching and take a little responsibility for your own actions.”
I Don’t Know How to Read
Dear I Don’t Know How to Read: I’m sorry you don’t know how to read. I have some great resources for mastering this important skill, if you’re interested. The first is a pamphlet called “How to Read the Entire Thing.” I think you’d like it.
“Wasn’t aware men were put on pedestals, but it is a fine idea. I’ll want a pedestal to stay above the whiny din of those that liked this ‘article.’”
Witty Guy
Dear Witty Guy: May I please build your pedestal? Watch your step, now.
“No… Dad babysits while mom takes a shower or cooks dinner. I love him but he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Lol. When my hubby can lactate and feed our baby at 3AM from his body so it not only fills her tummy but fills her heart, I’ll change my opinion. Until then. It’s a mom’s world; stop trying to act like a man can fill my shoes.”
Part of the Problem
Dear Part of the Problem: Dad doesn’t babysit. Maybe your husband really does know what he’s doing. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to, because you don’t trust him to take care of things the way you’d take care of them. Maybe he just needs the chance. I bet he could figure it out. I hope it’s not a mom’s world. I don’t want to live in a mom’s world, because I want to be more than just a mom, so I’ll let Husband fill my shoes any day. He can do it just as well as I can.
“I stopped reading before the end of the first paragraph.”
Sometimes I Get Ideas
Dear Sometimes I Get Ideas: Welp. There’s 99 percent of your problem.
“It would be nice to live in a world where women quit bitching about shit.”
It’s a Mad World
Dear It’s a Mad World: Well, THAT’S never going to happen. You’ll never live in a world without women bitching because you’ll never live in a world without women. In the words of Meredith Brooks: “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother…”
“Someone’s tired.”
I Tell the Truth
Dear I Tell the Truth: I am. I’m so tired.
“Get over yourself.”
I Heart Myself
Dear I Heart Myself: Meh. I’d rather not.
“What’s next, a piece to educate women about their proper role vis a vis burned out light bulbs?”
In Vague
Dear In Vague: I don’t even know what this means. Women’s role facing burned out lights? All I know is I change them when they’re out.
Here’s a little secret: Sometimes we appear more intelligent when we speak in simpler sentences.
“Well Rachael and hubby, good luck with the double-parent burnout. Why are people so ashamed to be a stay-at-home Mom and working Dad couple these days? Do what works best for you but I would bet the husband only goes along with it because the wife will leave if he doesn’t.”
What’s Your Name Again?
Dear What’s Your Name Again: Hey, man, my name is right there. It’s RIGHT THERE. R-A-C-H-E-L. You added an A. That’s, like, my pet peeve from my school days. And it was right there. You didn’t even look.
Anyway. Sorry I discredited you there for a minute. I spent a decade in journalism, and misspelled names were the mark of lazy reporting. Now that we’re past that, you’re right. I don’t know how you people know exactly what happens in my house, but it’s astounding how much you know just from an article I wrote on a whim. Husband is on a leash (and it’s a pretty short one). The only reason he stays married to me is because he’s terrified I’ll leave and his whole life will be over (you should see me in yoga pants. You’d understand). Because that’s the healthiest way to live in a good, long-lasting marriage. Isn’t it?
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 or…anything!
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Being a parent changes you in ways you may never have expected (or even wanted). It is undeniable that they destroy us completely. Mostly, though, they make us better people in a way that only caring for illogical human beings can make us better people.
But they also change us in other ways—ways that I, myself, did not notice for quite some time.
Did you ever think that when you were out to dinner with some new friends and your kid suddenly started throwing up mashed potatoes with the exact consistency of vanilla frozen yogurt, you would catch it in your hands? Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.
It sounds gross when I say it like that, but you never know what you’ll do under pressure. Sometimes you’re so desperate to make a good impression on these new people you’re meeting, because you desperately need some adult interaction, that you will not even think about sticking your hands out to catch your son’s puke so it doesn’t dirty the floor. You will watch in horror as it fills your cupped hands, and you will wonder what in the world you’re going to do with it now—let it drip all the way to the bathroom? Release it onto your plate of fries? Let it slip out through your fingers onto the floor? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH IT? You will, of course, not even dare to look those new potential kidless-friends (it was over before it even started) in the eye. You will only look your partner in the eye, and from his will be coming the same words that are pounding in your head. “They’ll never call us again.” And they won’t.
When you’re a parent, you suddenly find great satisfaction and pride in pulling a gnarly booger from a kid’s nose.
Sometimes you’ll hear that little infant breath wheezing, because his nose is so stopped up with snot that you know it’s time to bring out the trusty old nose sucker. And you’ll crack your fingers and stretch your neck and shake out your hands, and you’ll lay him on the floor and go to work. You’ll exclaim over every “schhhhhleppp” that issues forth from that nose sucker, and sometimes you’ll turn around and show your partner, who is trying her hardest not to notice. And then, when an especially massive one comes out, and you say to that infant in a triumphant voice, “Now you can BREATHE!” you will turn to your partner and say, “Check this one out,” and it will be on your HANDS. Because you’re proud. Your partner will throw up a little in her mouth.
Or maybe that’s just how it goes with Husband.
You will also begin to notice every person who speeds through your neighborhood.
You didn’t used to be this nitpicky, but my gosh. You will now have the most well trained ear around. You will know the road noise of every car going faster than 20 miles an hour in your neighborhood, and you will give those drivers the evilest eye they’ve ever seen if they’re speeding. Because you’re walking your kids to school, and the lives of your kids are important to you, and you don’t really care if the driver is late to work or the airport or gym class, the life of a child is NEVER worth a few extra seconds.
If a driver happens to be going faster than 30 through the school zone while you and your kids are walking to school, you will bravely step out into the road and tell them to slow down. You don’t even care what they think. They should pay attention. They should stop looking at their phones. They should watch out for the nails you just dropped. Nothing slows a person down better than a slow tire leak.
You see? You get a little crazy when you’re a parent.
As a parent, you also get really good at eating delicious food in secret.
Maybe it’s a little cliche, but it’s also true. You will order food and eat it in secret, because you know it’s not the stuff you want your kid eating. Well, really, it’s because it’s too dang expensive to take a whole family out to eat, especially when you’re my family. So you’ll call it a “date night” when the kids come knocking because they smell the fries all the way upstairs. They’ll ask you why you didn’t just get a babysitter, and you’ll tell them it’s because neither of you felt like going out tonight, and then they’ll ask why you have dates three or four times a week (It’s not really that bad. They’re good at exaggeration. Have no idea where they get it.), and you’ll say it’s because you love each other, which is a good enough answer, now get to bed so I can eat my delicious food in peace, while it’s still hot.
I wish I could tell you it wasn’t true, but when you’re a parent, grocery shopping becomes your treat (or break or vacation, whatever you want to call it).
Unless, of course, you’re taking the kids. Then it’s a hellish nightmare. I don’t have the luxury of grocery shopping without my kids, but, hey, enjoy that. If I do get a day, I bet I’ll think it’s like a vacation to Disney World, except with more affordable food. And no fun rides, unless you ride the cart to the parking lot, which I’m totally going to do next time I go kidless.
When you’re a parent you also don’t really care what your home looks like anymore.
You’ll fight it for a really long time. You’ll probably still care, just a little, what your house looks like, but you just won’t care as much. You’ll try harder to not let it bother you, because you’ll know how inevitable the destruction of it is, and you’ll mostly get tired out trying to clean up every day and watching your kids undo it in 3.4 seconds of being in a room.
There’s a hole in the wall? Eh, well, you’ll get around to fixing it, eventually. There are drawings on the doors? Well, it’s like a kid-art mural. Now you look like the really cool parents who let their kids make art on the walls. The couches are sagging in the middle? Welp. You’ll just have to deal with that, because you’re not buying furniture until the kids are grown and gone. You’ll give them all the broken stuff to furnish their first apartment.
And, probably the biggest and most drastic change: You could fall asleep anywhere.
You’re so tired all the time that you really could fall asleep anywhere. Waiting in the doctor’s office? There’s a fish tank to entertain the 3-year-olds. Sat down on the couch for “just a minute to rest?” You’ll be out in no time, even while the kids are having a dance party around you. Sitting on a cement bench out at the park? Doesn’t matter. You’ll still close those eyes and enter dreamland in 30 seconds flat, especially since the other parents are watching your kid. You’ll just pretend you’re a homeless person if they ask whose kid that is.
The truth is, there are many, many more changes that happen when you become a parent, but there’s not space for them all here. Besides, I’m standing at my standing desk, and I’d really like to take a nap real quic—aioer’kowcls;,
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Before I became a parent, I was an uptight woman who tried to achieve perfection in every single thing I did. If I made a 97 on a test, I would cry because it wasn’t a 98 (I was dramatic in every sense of the word). When I forgot the words to a song during the middle of a set, I would beat myself up for it, because this was imperfection of the worst kind. When I tried anything at all, I had to do it the best that I could possibly do it.
And then I had kids.
There is something about kids that wrestles control right out of your hands. There is something about them that turns us into different, better people. There is something about them that destroys everything we have known and builds it all back up better.
What I didn’t know about children before I became a parent is that
They will destroy a world.
We have this nice little picture of the way we want things to be, and we know the way we want to parent, and we know what will work for us and we have it all planned out—we’ll put them on a schedule immediately and they will eat when we want them to eat and sleep when we want them to sleep and play when we say they can play. We think we’ll be able to take him to all those outings, all those gigs, that he will sit there all nice and happy, and we’ll be able to continue life just as it’s been always.
And then we have a strong-willed child, and we realize that we know nothing about parenting, because here is a heart that still needs to be valued and protected and shaped by hands that are gentle yet firm, and it’s not an easy task, because he takes our definitions and our schedules and all our expectations and tears it all up in our face so those tiny little pieces float out on the wind and don’t have a hope of finding each other again. And then we take that destroyed world that we thought we wanted, and we build another.
They will destroy a home.
Everywhere I look there are holes in the walls and nicks in the furniture and bookshelves with drawings on them and doors with crayon art, and I don’t even know what to think sometimes when I walk into the 3-year-old twins’ room and there’s another cave painting in chalk I didn’t know they had or when one of them walks into a room I’m in with a permanent marker in their hands and I know I’m probably not going to like what I find. They have no idea what they’re doing to this home, and that used to bother me, because they needed to respect our home, and they needed to take care of stuff, and they needed to be different, mostly.
And then the 8-year-old started having problems with anxiety and depression along all the edges, and we had to visit a counselor, and he remembered this time after I’d just had one of his brothers, when we had a glass ball in his hand and thought, as a 3-year-old, that it was just what it looked like—a ball—and he threw it to me as if I would catch it. And I stared at him with an open mouth and probably murderous eyes, and I stood in the kitchen and screamed. Just screamed. Because I was sleep deprived and stressed out and that was it. That was it. I couldn’t do it anymore.
He taught me that things aren’t as important as hearts, and just because a heart thinks it would be a good idea to doodle a name all over a little shelf, doesn’t mean that a heart should be broken, only taught, and so this destroyed home, every time I look around it, reminds me that a home is not made of perfection but imperfection, mostly—memories in unintended murals on the wall and cracks that tell a story, every one of them, and broken lights that shatter expectations.
They will destroy a heart.
It’s when they forget who they are and we are challenged with trying to remind them, even though they have fallen so far from “good” that we don’t know if we’ll ever remember, either, those are the time a heart snaps clean in two. It’s when they’re afraid someone is bullying them, when they have a fight with a friend they really love, when they feel alone because they’re not sure anyone at school really likes them, since no one ever plays with them at recess, because, you know, kids can be cruel just like we can be.
But it happens other times, too. When they smile at me. When they hug me. When they look at me. Every single moment destroys a heart, and we learn that we are worthy of this great and brilliant love that is like a hurricane, rooting up all the parts of us that don’t belong. We learn that they are the best teachers we have in the whole wide world.
We will let them.
I did not know that I could possibly reach a place where I would let my children destroy a life and a house and a heart like they do and be perfectly okay with that destruction. I did not know that I would ever reach this moment in time where I could give up my grip on a life that mattered so much to me but doesn’t any longer. I did not know that I would ever come so far on my own, only to be led by the children into a completely different life, one that is much greater and wilder and truer than the old one.
We will like it.
Who would have thought that one day I would look around my house and see a broken toilet paper holder and think about how that was the time when one of the twins was trying to change the roll out themselves and used a little more force than necessary? Who would have thought I’d see the life before kids and sometimes, in my frustration moments, wonder if it would have been better to just keep it kid-less and then, in my saner, less angry moments, realize that I could never have created a life even close to this one without all these boys tearing everything apart? Who would have thought that I would feel this destroyed heart and think it looks so much better, so much more whole, today than it ever did before?
Kids have a way of changing lives and homes and hearts in ways we might never imagine, and I am so glad I have six of them destroying everything I’ve ever known and building, in their place, a better me.
After all, this is love.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
There are some great inventions out on the market today that have made my life easier. We don’t always have the funds to invest in something new and wonderful, but when we do, watch out. A crockpot? Yep, made life easier AND my kids actually get dinner now (there is a Before Crockpot life and an After Crockpot life, and let me tell you, the After Crockpot life is much better). The Internet? Hey, that’s Husband’s livelihood, so I sure am glad for that. An app for tracking my last period? I don’t know who I’d be without that one.
But there are still some gaping holes in the make-life-easier, especially when it comes to parents. I would like the inventors to get on these asap (and you’re welcome for the ideas).
1. Divider glass between the front seat and the back seats.
I own a minivan. It’s the only vehicle large enough to hold my six kids, but it is not a vehicle large enough to make ignoring them a possibility. Every time we load up to take a trip, even if it’s to the grocery store ten minutes down the road, the first question we hear, before we pull out of the drive, is “Are we almost there?” If we happen to be traveling farther than fifteen minutes up the road, we’re in for a very long trip with billions of opportunities to exercise our patience. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m bored, my back hurts, I dropped my pencil, you made my book fall, he hit me, he’s copying me, he’s laying on me, he’s touching me, he’s looking at me, are we almost there, are we almost there, are we almost there?
I don’t want billions of opportunities to exercise my patience. I would like a glass divider between my seat and theirs so that when things get out of hand, all I have to do is touch a button, wave in the rearview and say, “You’re on your own now, kids.”
2. A cone of silence to put over my face.
Let me just tell you, this would have to be a really strong cone of silence. My kids speak at an average of 3,000 decibels. I am an introvert who, by dinnertime, has had it with the noise six boys can create. I would put on this handy cone when they’re losing their minds about is dinner ready they’re really hungry they’re starving I’m such a mean mom I won’t let them have a snack two minutes before dinner no they haven’t had forty snacks I’m not remembering correctly. I would put it on my face when the 9-year-old starts talking about Pokemon. I would put it on my face when the twins figure out another way to scale the wall and get to their clothes in the closet so they don’t hear what I have to say about the way their closet is now, for the twelfth time this week, all over their floor.
I don’t even care what this looks like. It could look like a giant black spider for all I care (I’ll make that sacrifice). In fact, that might be better. Then I’ll have extra protection, because the kids would be too afraid to come near.
On second thought, maybe I just need a mute button.
3. An invisibility cloak.
This, of course, would be for those moments when the baby is down and ready to go to sleep, even closing his eyes, but the moment he spots you, the whole world is ending and you’re going to have to pick him up, because he’ll cry for 32 hours straight. But an invisibility cloak would also help us smuggle restaurant food into the bedroom when the kids are supposed to be asleep (there would be an extra feature to neutralize the smell of chips and queso and the medium well burger). It would also help a parent successfully sneak out of the house to get a minute to themselves without someone following them, whining at them, asking for something, like another orange or the answer to 147 times 89 or the miracle of turning back time.
4. Toilet paper rolls that have a lock and key.
This would save me considerable money. My 3-year-old twins, you see, are really, really good at experiments like “What happens when you throw a whole roll of toilet paper in the toilet I just peed in?” They do it about every other day. They think it’s funny to watch the edges of the paper curl and the way white caves in on itself. It’s not funny. These experiments cost me an average of $15 a month. For the mathematically impaired, that’s $180 a year. That would pay for my electricity bill any month that’s not part of a Texas summer (there aren’t many).
I would like a toilet paper dispenser that’s not afraid to stand up against 3-year-old hands, please.
5. A magic pill that makes a kid feel full.
I am telling you, boys are something else. They can eat a whole pound of strawberries, and they’re still hungry. They can eat twelve bananas and they’re still hungry. They can stuff an entire loaf of bread in their mouth, along with a stick of butter, and they will still be hungry. A pill that could tell them they’re actually just bored would be fantastic.
6. A mobile shoe-tracking app.
I would love to download an app onto my phone that would tell me where every right shoe the 5-year-old owns is hiding, because this is getting a little ridiculous. He wasn’t born with two left feet, but looking at his shoe basket, you would think someone thought it would be funny to put us in an episode of Punk’d: What Happens When All the Right Shoes Disappear. Every morning he’s supposed to be getting ready for school, and it’s the same old story. Only left shoes for every pair of shoes he owns. Can’t find the other one. I spend hours of my life looking for this right shoe and finding it only so it can get lost again.
No, Apple, there’s not an app for everything. This is a giant hole in the app world. Somebody needs to get on this. I would, but I don’t really have what’s called an “inventing mind.” In fact, I don’t really know where my mind is now that I have kids. It’s certainly not where it used to be—or what it used to be.
I guess that’s why all these inventions-that-haven’t-been-invented-yet all seem so brilliant.
Let me know when these inventions are available. I’ll be the first in line to buy…if I’m not already brain-dead from the effort of raising six boys without them.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Every now and then, I reach this mysterious place where parenting feels really easy. The boys are behaving perfectly (as if that’s the measure of easy parenting), and everyone is loving each other well and, most importantly, no one is complaining about what I just put on the table for dinner before they’ve even tasted it. We are all a happy family. I like them. They like me.
It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, watch out. They wake up different people the next day, and I find I’ve told myself a whole parcel of lies like this one:
I have really easy kids because I’m a really good parent.
Fortunately, this one gets knocked off-kilter quite regularly by my oldest, who is a practiced diplomat who never lets an answer stay an answer until he’s rolled it all over on the ground and wrestled it to near death.
After nine years of parenting this kid, I know better than to believe this lie. I don’t have really easy kids because I’m a really good parent. I have really easy kids because they were born easy. I have a few of those in the mix, and they’re delightful. They’re also easily forgotten, because they don’t require as much work. I could leave the 6-year-old home all day alone, and the only thing I’ve have to worry about is the state of the refrigerator when I get back (this kid once ate three pounds of red grapes when I raced upstairs to take a record-breaking shower). The others, well. They’ll argue with a sock, if it told them them to put it on.
There are a lot of other lies we tell ourselves, too. Like:
It’s going to get easier.
This is your lifeline when you’re the parents of twins. You spend the first year telling yourself it’s going to get easier, because they’ll be able to feed themselves, and then you spend the next year saying it’ll get easier when they’re 3, because they’ll understand things like “Don’t take the cover off that baby-proofed light socket. It will kill you,” and then you spend the whole third year dying, because you have not known fear until you see 3-year-old twins with their guilty faces on standing outside a bathroom door they just closed, saying they did “Nuffing.”
Crap. It’s not ever going to get easier. I’m just going to tell myself that, and then maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised (but probably not).
The other day I found myself thinking of another lie while I was scrubbing the dish that had somebody’s sour ranch dressing caked on it.
Eventually they’ll do the chores to my standards.
Eventually they’ll do the chores, that much is true. But it will probably not be up to my standards. I know, because I remember myself as a child. My mom had a rotating dish schedule, and after my shift, the sink was always splattered with water, and my mom told me over and over and over again that part of the dishwasher’s job was wiping up all the excess water, but yeah, yeah, I just wanted to get on to the part where I got to sit on the couch and read a book. They didn’t have streamed audio books back then. If they had, it would have been a different story, Mom.
And then, the other night, when I’d finished a dinner of sautéed pork chops with mushrooms and garlic sliced infinitesimally small so no one would complain about the unknown grossness caking their otherwise perfect meat, somebody, before he’d even tasted it, said he didn’t like what we were having and he wasn’t going to eat, and I discovered another big, fat lie.
One day they’ll stop complaining.
It’s a lie, too. I know, because the other day, when something was taking too long on my computer I started complaining about how you’d think we’d have faster computers in this century and how it was taking SO MUCH TIME and how I didn’t have all this extra time at my disposal and how I wished I could jut hire someone to do this part and blah blah blah blah blah.
The only way my kids will stop complaining is if I magically somehow stop complaining, which is probably not going to happen anytime soon, because have you seen the mess kids can make in two seconds of inattention? Complaining is my feel-better.
On Christmas morning this year, I found myself agreeing with the lie flipping through my head when my kids emptied their stockings and asked to eat a peanut butter cup.
It’s just a little sugar. Just this once.
“Just a little sugar” is like saying, “It’s just a few broken pieces of furniture and a few more holes in the wall and a few whiny kids at the end of this day. Giving kids sugar is like rubbing yourself with raw meat and walking out into the African bush. You’re going to die.
And, of course, we decided to have our first Family Fun Day on the first day of the new year, because our word for this year is “play,” and we wanted to end the boys’ Christmas vacation on a good note, on a day when we would all be able to enjoy each other and play, and twenty minutes into that day I found another lie sneaking in, like maybe I wasn’t paying attention:
One day it’ll take us less than 30 minutes to pack up and get in the car.
It seems like it’s taken longer the older the boys get, mostly because now they have wills of their own. There is always another shoe to be found. There is always a drink someone forgot. There is always something they need to “pack up real quick” because they want to take a billion art supplies to the zoo.
Another lie that happens to me often, when I’m posting a picture of my boys and I’m disappointed that only 157 people liked it is:
Everybody thinks our kids are as adorable as we think they are.
Nope. People think kids are cute, generally, but no one thinks they’re as cute as we do (except twins—other people think they’re cuter than they really are.). I’m speaking generally, of course. That’s not the case for my boys. Everyone in the world thinks they’re cute.
Some lies knock us right off our parenting pedestal, like this one:
Not giving in to bad behavior makes bad behavior magically disappear.
I remember the first time this illusion was shattered, when my oldest threw a major fit because he wanted the green plate instead of the blue one. But the blue plate was the only one clean. And thus began the oft repeated phrase in our home, “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.” I didn’t give in. Of course not. That meant the tantrums would go away.
Not what happened. In fact, I suspect he tried harder. And I stuck to my boundary harder. And we danced again the next time. And the next time and the next time. Now he’s 9. We don’t fight about the green plate instead of the blue plate anymore. We fight about things like how he needs five more minutes of technology time to finish this one thing, even though his time’s up.
Not giving in never solved anything in my house.
Every now and then, when a kid is talking about how they want to run away and how they wish they had different parents, I find myself thinking:
One day they’ll understand.
One day they’ll understand the boundaries we set, and one day they’ll understand why we said no, their friend can’t come over today because we want to spend some time together as a family, and one day they’ll understand why we limit that technology time and require creative time every day. But even if they don’t, that doesn’t change the fact that:
One day they will know just how much they were loved.
I’ve gone over and over this one, examined it inside and out, and I’ve come to the conclusion that this one is not a lie. They may not understand the love of it all right now, but one day they will. I’m certain of it.
Now, excuse me while I go fish out of the toilet a stuffed animal that wanted to “take a mud bath” in the present someone forgot to flush. It’s going to get easier.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
We all make wishes and we all have dreams. It’s the most hopeful part of the human condition, to wish and dream. But when those wishes and dreams land in the hands of children, well, we have a different animal entirely.
My kids make wishes and dreams all the time. But do they make sense? Are they noble? Would they change the state of the world, for the better, I mean? Meh. It’s arguable.
If the dreams of my children came true, we would all weigh one thousand pounds.
This is because one of the recurring dreams of my children is to live in a world where breakfast is chocolate and lunch is chocolate and their afternoon snack is chocolate and dinner is chocolate and their nighttime nibble is chocolate. In their world, every meal, every drink, every single thing on earth would be made of chocolate. Now. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to live in this fantasy world, too, but I also happen to care about a little thing called health, and if all my kids eat is chocolate, the top floor of our house will no longer hold us. Also, have you seen my kids on sugar? No thanks. Find a kid on sugar and you find a parent far too close to crazy. Give my kids limitless chocolate and they’ll pull me right over the edge of madness, and I’d rather believe I have at least a small grip on sanity still. (It’s highly improbable, I know. I do have six kids.)
If the dreams of my children came true, they would own all the things.
It’s appalling how many things my kids want. You’d think we had taught them better than this, but, alas, it seems they have not learned the lesson of “be grateful for what you already have, because there are children starving in other countries.” If one were to ask them what they dream of most, you would hear things like “All the newest Beanie Boos” or “All the Pokemon cards in the whole world” (If you haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced to Pokemon, allow me to say you are really missing out. There are more than a billion of these cards in existence, and if it were up to my 9-year-old, he would own them all.) or “Legoland right in our house.” While it would be wildly impressive to live in a house completely made of LEGOs, I’m not quite sure that any kind of living structure made of plastic would even remotely stand up to the abuse of six boys. Also, Pokemon cards.
If the dreams of my children came true, the only music we would ever listen to is Kidz Bop or Minecraft music (Take popular songs! Add Minecraft lyrics! It’s delightful!).
If we tried listening to our 1990s Pandora station, which the 9-year-old calls “the worst music ever. It’s so bad it’s killing my ears,” all systems would shut down. And if all we listened to was Minecraft music all the time, I can guarantee I’d become one of those zombies you’re supposed to kill. Might as well shoot me now.
If the dreams of my children came true, they would never have homework.
Huh. You know what? That’s one of my dreams, too.
If the dreams of my children came true, the 3-year-olds would be allowed to do everything and anything for themselves.
This means it would take fifteen years to leave the house, because not only would we have to wait for them to button their jeans but we’d also be waiting for them to figure out how to turn the sleeves of their jackets right side out. They would be allowed to cross streets on their own and run through parking lots without holding a parent’s hand and ride the elevator whenever they chose, because they wouldn’t have the annoying rule about “staying within sight.” They would be allowed to jump in the river after the bread they just threw at the ducks, and they would be allowed to chase geese down a hill where a whole flock of them is waiting and they would be allowed to climb over the rails at the zoo so they could go wading with the black bear. They would, essentially, be able to kill themselves at will.
If the dreams of my children came true, they would be able to use some kind of screen all hours of the day, every day.
They would be able to watch so many hours of the boob tube that their brains would cave in. They would be able to play video games until their brains start frying in the oil of inactivity and overstimulation (“This is your brain. This is your brain on screens.”). They would be able dive into their phones without talking to anyone around them for years.
On second thought, that sounds almost…nice. Hang on while I rethink this one.
If the dreams of my children came true, we would never have such things as naps and quiet time and, God help us, bedtime.
There would never be such things as naps or quiet time, because children like to squeeze as much good out of a day as they can. Me? I just want to get two seconds alone where I can think a coherent thought without someone interrupting me with a crisis like “My brother peed in the trash can.”
And bedtime? If it were up to my kids, they would be able to stay up all hours of the night. They would not need sleep at all. They would walk around trying to remember where they last put down the baby, whining about how untidy the house is and how they’re too exhausted to do anything about it.
Oh, wait. That’s me.
I’m sure their dreams will become more refined over the years. Maybe they’ll even get to hang right up there with Martin Luther King Jr., inspiring people to dream for themselves and make change and dare to love. Or maybe I’m just kidding myself and the only thing they’ll ever want is the newest model Apple product.
So much for dreams.
