by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Kids have amazing imaginations. They can listen to a story and ask to see the pictures, even though there are no pictures to see, because their brains are constantly working out what it is they’re seeing in the words. They’re able to imagine things like a cross between Batman and SpongeBob Square Pants, which we’ll call Squatman for our purposes, and they’re able to imagine what they’d like for dinner instead of this nasty spaghetti squash, and they can efficiently imagine a better world without parents like us telling them to go to bed and put those LEGOs away and eat all their vegetables.
But sometimes their imaginations can come back to bite them. Say, when they’re in trouble and they are locked in an erroneous belief system.
Here are some of the most ridiculous things that kids believe:
1. They’ll never find out.
Every day, when I lay my twins down for naps, I post up a spot right outside their room, mostly because they cannot be trusted, even at 4 years old, to be in their room by themselves. Sure, we’ve cleared it of everything but beds and blankets and pillows, but I tried it out last week, that leaving them alone for nap time, because Husband and I were trying to design a book cover for a new book release, and they managed to pile their blankets and pillows on the floor of their closet, and, even though all the clothes are hung fifteen feet in the air, pulled down all their brother’s 12-month clothes and tried to squeeze into every shirt.
What I’ve noticed about my twins is they believe that if I’m not in the room with them, I’ll never know what they’ve done. If I so happen to leave my post for a minute, because I’ve finished a passage of the book I wanted to read and I’m going to get another one, they will sneak on silent feet out of their room and into their brothers’ room. They won’t even have the foresight to shut the door, so when I come back out, there they are standing by their oldest brother’s desk, next to the forbidden art supplies he got for Christmas. They’ll look at me like a deer in the headlights and go completely motionless, as if maybe I won’t see them if they stand perfectly still.
Kids believe that if we’re not right there with them, we’ll never know what it is they’ve done. Well they’re wrong. I know every time, kids. I know when you pee off the side of the van because you think it’s a great idea; and I know when you’ve had a couple of extra treats, even if you round off that cookie so it looks like a mouse has nibbled the sides of it; and I know when you sit down and stand up and when you’re awake and asleep. I’m like Santa Claus on steroids. I have eyes everywhere. So don’t even think about it.
2. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.
So many times this has happened. The twins are in their room, I’m sitting right outside their room, but I’m hidden behind the crib, and they can’t see me. So they think that means I can’t see them. I get a kick out of this, because they’re usually headed into the bathroom to try to find another tube of that yummy mint toothpaste they ate this morning. I’ll let them come all the way out, still oblivious to my presence, and when they’re dead even with me, I’ll call out their name. They’ll startle and go screaming back to their room.
Gotta do what you gotta do. Natural consequences and all.
3. Even though we’ve done the same thing every night for the last six years of my life, tonight is probably different.
This is just ridiculously ridiculous. We run our house on a strict routine. Every single night we have dinner time and after-dinner-chores time and bath time and then story time and then mama-reading-a-chapter-book-out-loud time and then silent reading time and then prayer time and then snuggle time and then bed time. We’ve done this every single night since the oldest was born nine years ago. And still the boys seem to think that somewhere in there is a jump-on-the-couches-naked time and a play-freeze-tag-in-the-house time and a throw-books-in-the-air time. Nope. That’s never been a part of the routine, kids. Get back in your chairs, open your books and read.
4. If I complain/scream/whine enough, I’ll get exactly what I want.
You know what complaining/screaming/whining actually makes me want to do? It makes me want to take away anything I’ve ever given my kid in the first place (life being the exception. I don’t want to take away their lives). Doing it longer or louder or more annoyingly is only going to guarantee that the crazy will come unleashed. And I can’t be held responsible for whatever happens when the crazy is unleashed. Whoops. Sorry I just threw away all your LEGOs. You were complaining too much about how all your friends have the newest Minecraft set and how you really think, because you’re so great at school and all, that you should be able to get the new one, too, and can I take you to the store right this minute so I can buy you the latest $90 set?
Whining/screaming/complaining doesn’t work.
5. Making myself into a boneless puddle means they’ll let me stay at the park longer.
“Let me stay at the park” could be replaced with anything a kid wants. It’s just that the park experience happened more recently than anything else.
You know, we get these crazy ideas sometimes, like, “Hey, let’s a have a picnic out at the park and so the boys can play after they’re done eating.” Which ends up more like, “Hey, let’s have a picnic out at the park so we can drag one of the boys kicking and screaming away from the slide he wanted to go down one more time.”
With six boys, it’s highly probable that I’ll have at least one of them who’s not ready to leave the park when it’s time to go home. It doesn’t matter if we’re going home to eat dinner or if we’re going to another friend’s house for a playdate or if we’re doing something fun like seeing a movie and we’re going to be late if we don’t leave right this minute. They’re not ready to leave, so they’re going to collapse into a boneless puddle, at which time their daddy or I will drag them to the car, trying to ignore the way the asphalt is tearing at their jeans—not so much because we’re concerned about scraping their knees (natural consequences and all) but because those jeans still have to make it through one more kid.
What turning into a boneless puddle really means is that I get to work on my strength training for a second time today, and, also, we’re not coming to the park again for at least a year.
6. That’s not going to hurt me.
There are so many times this comes into play when you’re the parent of boys. But the one that sticks out most, right now, today, is when my boys are sliding head-first down our stairs, just for the fun of it. When the stairs snap into their rib cages, they shout their laughter, and they can’t stop. It’s the most hilarious thing ever, apparently, to have a rounded bit of wood jab into their internal organs and bruise them from the inside out. I watch this, horrified, from the bottom of the stairs. Someone is going to break something, but they are disturbingly unafraid. They have no idea how much it will hurt if this little slide goes wrong.
This erroneous thought also drives them to play bounce-wrestling games on the trampoline and ride bikes without helmets and soar down our cul-de-sac hill lying flat on a skateboard.
7. Vacuum cleaners can suck you up (or other crazy terrors).
When our oldest was little, around 3, he was scared of the vacuum cleaner. He would have nightmares and tell us all about them. In his nightmares, there was such thing as a vacuum cleaner that could suck up a person, and he was terrified that our vacuum cleaner would come into his room in the middle of the night and suck him up inside it. The vacuum cleaner could not be anywhere near his bedroom or he would spend sixteen hours awake instead of sleeping. We could not turn it on without one parent being very near him so that he could clutch an arm or a leg or whatever appendage may be closest. Ear, eye, lips. Didn’t matter. As long as he was assured someone was there protecting him.
I remember being more terrified of escalators than a vacuum cleaner, but maybe that’s just proof that I need to get my kids out more.
Fortunately, as kids grow older, they give up these ridiculous beliefs. They learn better. They do better.
So maybe it’s cute while it lasts. Or something like that.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
My house hears so many words. If these walls could talk, they would never, ever stop—because my kids never, ever stop, either.
I’m in the word business. I write for a living. I’m used to sorting through words all day, and I’m used to hearing a running commentary in my brain. But if one were to spend three seconds of time in my living room, one might think that being in the word business also means being in the listening-to-kids-talk-all-over-each-other business, because that’s clearly what my kids believe. Someone is always talking. Someone else is always talking over the first one. And then someone else is always talking all over that noise. I go through a system malfunction every ten minutes.
Even though I’m in the word business, I use few of them to communicate verbally. This probably comes from my journalistic training. When I need to say something, I say it succinctly and clearly and leave it at that. None of my kids got this trait. Every one of them inherited the communication style of my husband, which is rambling and sprawling and way too many words for not enough time. When one of the boys (or the man) in my house starts talking, I could catch the first couple of sentences, go out back and mow the entire yard and come in and not have missed a thing, because everything in the middle was just “thinking out loud.” All I need from them is the intro and the conclusion, and I’m set. I know exactly what needs saying.
Now. This is not to say that I am not very, very glad that my kids enjoy talking to me, because the oldest is turning double-digits in November and I know that the days of talking for hours are about to come to a close, and I’m going to be begging him to talk to me soon. So I always try my best to wear a straight face, keep focused eyes trained on their face and give the proper responses to let them know I’m listening (even if I’m not). This was also acquired in my journalistic training, when I would conduct interviews with people who would tell me all about their nephew who’d been put in prison for embezzling the funds of his stepfather rather than telling me about the hand-carved chess set he’d made for the International Chess Tournament, which is why I was there (I have one of those faces, I guess. And I’m also really good at listening. Or am I?).
But when my 9-year-old starts telling me about how he traded this one Pokemon card to get another Pokemon card and how he’s really glad that his friend had this one that he’s been trying to find for a while and how he’s going to keep saving his money so that he can make sure he has enough money to have it for a new package of Pokemon cards, or maybe he’ll buy the 15-card pack, no maybe he’ll just save up for the 100-card pack, and this is what you have to look for when you’re trading Pokemon cards, energy power and the exact fighting power and evolution pieces, and do you want to know how many Pokemon cards he has right now? my teeth start falling asleep.
This kid will hijack a whole afternoon if you mention the words “LEGO Minecraft” or “What do you want for your birthday” or “Pokem—” (you can’t even finish that one before he’s off and running). He’ll follow you around while you’re changing the baby’s diaper and while you’re stirring soup on the stove and while you’re pouring all the milk and setting the table, back and forth, back and forth, like an extra appendage I keep tripping over. He won’t stop talking until all his brothers come crashing to the table and he can no longer talk over the voices vying for attention, and we all just give up on having conversation until they’re actually shoveling food in their faces.
Get the 6-year-old started on talking about what he did in school today, and he’ll tell you what he did and what all his classmates did, too, because he’s the kind of kid who notices everything, and you’ll never get a word in edgewise until you ask him if he wants a fruit dessert tonight, okay, then, start eating your dinner.
And then there’s the 5-year-old telling me about all the ways he could have killed himself today, because he’s the daring one in the bunch, who hangs upside down off the monkey bars and tries to jump over a 15-foot fence while bouncing on the trampoline. I’d rather not hear what he has to say.
My kids get better with practice. They’re so skilled now at beginning to talk about one thing and ending up on another subject entirely that I don’t even feel bad about getting lost along the way anymore. It’s anyone’s guess how we got here.
Because one kid can use up a billion words in one “quick” answer to a question, I’ve settled into a bit of a habit lately. I’m well aware that it’s not a good habit. But it’s one that keeps me sane, until we can figure out how to slow down the word vomit rocketing straight from their brains out their mouth. When one of my kids opens his mouth and I know it’s going to be a while before he closes it again, I find myself daydreaming a little. (I don’t miss much, because I could say in 40 words what they say in 15,000. So I don’t feel so badly.)
My daydreams go a little something like this.
What would it be like to have a clean house?
I wonder if we could budget in a house cleaner this month. Geez, I would have to clean up the house before I even let anyone come clean it. Look at that sink. Disgusting. What kinds of pigs live here? I don’t even want to think about the bathrooms upstairs. Someone would come here and walk right back out, because it would be too hard to get a house like this one clean. They wouldn’t be able to offer their money-back guarantee. It’s probably too far gone for eco-friendly supplies, too. I wonder if any of my friends have a good recommendation for a good house cleaning serv—
That sounds like he’s finishing up. Time for me to pay attention.
I wish it were the weekend.
I’m so glad Mom’s taking the kids this weekend. It will be so nice to sleep without six other bodies in the house. All these words. Sheesh. Are they ever done with words? Maybe I’ll have some time to just lie on the bed and read without anybody wanting anything from me. Yeah, right. That’s a dream that will never come true. I wonder what they’ll do at Mom’s. Probably play out in the dirt piles, which means I’ll have to wash their shoes again, because they’ll bring it all home, and the detoxing time. I forgot about the detoxing time. I’m going to have to add that into my schedule next week. It’s always a pain getting them back on the schedule. I’m not going to think about that right now. They’ll be nightmares, but I’ll be coming off a blissful no-kids weekend.
“That sounds interesting,” I’ll say, because I’ve noticed that a boy is finishing up.
Someone please send me to bed.
I’m so tired. All these words make me more tired. I have a word limit, and I reached it half an hour after they got home from school. I need a break. What time is it? Five more hours. The bed is going to feel so nice.
(At this point, my eyelids start drooping, and I require a pinch, which I fully recognize and execute efficiently enough to make my eyes water. The boys hardly ever notice their mama is almost crying during their story about how they did 98 consecutive jumps over the jump rope in P.E. (That’s the gist, anyway. It’s not anywhere close to that concise.)
We should learn sign language.
We really should. I bet that would keep my attention better, and, bonus, they wouldn’t use so many words, because it would actually be work. This is a brilliant idea.
“I think we should learn sign language,” I say, interrupting the 5-year-old reading me an Elephant and Piggie book to demonstrate all the new words he knows now (He’s been telling me about them for the last half hour).
Well, you know, it’s not foolproof. I don’t always get it right. But then I just bring it around to a lesson. “Remember how you interrupted Daddy when he was trying to talk to me earlier this morning? That’s exactly how it feels. I was just trying to show you.”
Works every time.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Dear Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress, my fellow Adult Americans, and, especially my two parents, sitting over there, shaking their heads:
Today marks the end of the third year I’ve been alive, and let me just tell you, this year is going to be hell. Sorry for the dirty word, Mama and Daddy, but I’m so not joking. Buckle up, because here I come.
I understand that because this is my third birthday, you’ll be going out of your minds over the course of the next year, but I’m just going to tell you, I got this. I know everything about everything, and so you can just stop trying to teach me the proper way to do things according to you. I know how to do EVERYTHING myself.
I know how to put on a jacket, even though you say I put it on inside out and upside down, Mom. You don’t know what you’re talking about. The hood is supposed to be on my booty. Just let me do it. I also know how to put on my shoes, even though you say I put them on the wrong foot. The toes are supposed to point out. That’s the way everybody wears them. You obviously don’t know anything.
I especially know how to plunge a toilet, so please stop trying to hide the plunger from me. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.
I hope we can work together this year on pretty much nothing, because I want to be the one who does everything. By myself. You want to help me into the car? Nope. I will walk back to the place you started helping me, and I will do it myself. Put my shoes on the right foot? Nope. I will take them back off and put them on the way I had them, because I will do it myself. Help me cross the street safely? Nope. I WILL DO IT MYSELF!
Don’t worry. I’ll go a little easy on you, at least when you’re sleeping. Wait. On second thought, that’s probably the time when I will attempt everything I shouldn’t do when eyes are watching, because everyone’s asleep, and what better time to sneak into the bathroom and drink a whole vial of Peace and Calming essential oil? What better time to sneak downstairs and drag a kitchen chair across the floor so I can reach the pan of brownies I saw you put in the microwave for safe keeping last night? What better time to pick a lock on the front door? You don’t even know what I’m capable of. But I’m about to show you. Oh, yes I am.
We are living in a time of extraordinary change—change that is reshaping you but is keeping me the same, because, you know, I’m perfect just the way I am. But you, you need to change. You especially need to stop telling me I need to get in the car 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0. You need to stop telling me the orange plate is not clean when it’s the only plate I want to use today. And you need to remember that I like the green car grocery cart on Tuesdays and the red car grocery cart on Fridays. I don’t know why you can’t keep it all straight, because it’s the same two colors every week. Except when it’s yellow or blue. So you: change. Me: stay the same.
We’ve been through extraordinary change before. Remember when I first climbed out of my crib, and me and my twin brother would play with our poop and leave you a really nice painting on our walls and clothes and faces? You didn’t think you were going to make it out of that time alive, did you? And look at you now. You’re still alive, I’m still alive, we’re all still alive. And I will do greater things yet, and you will survive them, too.
You know, what was true then can be true now. All you have to do is let me do what I want, with no repercussions. This is really how kids want to live, you know, and it doesn’t matter what their parents say, this is actually the best way to live. Let us do whatever it is we want to do. If we want to take a black Sharpie marker and draw a lion’s mane on our face, let us. If we want to wear our 1-year-old brother’s pants in the dead of winter, let us. If we want to play with the cars instead of trains, but the trains are out and scattered everywhere, just let us play with the cars, too. Cleaning up is no fun, and we should never have to do it, ever again. That’s the first law I’d like passed.
Remember, it’s my spirit that has made the last three years so fun. You used to say that I had a lot of spirit. Well, it’s about to be a whole lot more, because I just figured out that I know how to take the toilet paper roll off the dispenser thingy, and now I will never tire of throwing the brand new toilet paper roll in the toilet and watching it curl at the edges. It always plugs up the toilet when I try to flush down the evidence, but that’s okay. I know how to plunge a toilet, remember?
You face some choices right now. Will you believe that I know what I’m doing, or will you constantly try to thwart me? I can tell you what I’ll do if you thwart me. I’ll cry at the top of my lungs for half an hour to the tune of “I dinnent have our lunch” so all the people in the park will stare at you. I’ll say I hate you and sometimes I’ll even hit or kick or bite to get my point across, because you’re unreasonable people, you parents. I’ll dump out a whole container of shape blocks, and I’ll throw a car across the room so it dents a wall and I’ll slam the door so the walls shake and your favorite picture falls down and breaks. That’s why you should never thwart me. Learn from your mistakes and move on, and we’ll all be that much happier. Me, especially. Which is all that really matters.
So let’s talk about some of the problems we have. First, there is you. And then there’s you. And then there is…you.
I know this isn’t easy. You always say that nothing worth doing is ever easy. You never know what you’re going to get when I get out of bed in the morning. Is it the clever one or the devilish one or the argumentative one or the loving one or the sad one or the angry one or the millions of other versions of myself? But I can promise you that in more than a year, when I am no longer 3, you will be so glad that time marches on, because it means I won’t stay 3 forever.
It will get better. I mean, no it won’t. Because I’m still here. But I’m clear-eyed and big-hearted and undaunted by challenge. You’ll still love me when this year is over.
Thank you. God bless me. God bless me, and God bless…me.
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.
