by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Not too long ago, one of our neighbors was selling his house. We saw the sign but didn’t think much of it. It didn’t involve us. At least that’s what we thought.
And then one night, when we were out running wild in the cul-de-sac with our children, he followed his daughter out the door, presumably to watch her play. Except he headed straight for Husband and said, “Hey man, we need to do something about your bush.”
No preamble, no how are you, no small talk. Just straight to the point. I guess I kind of like that. I’m not much for small talk, either.
Husband and I both knew what bush he was talking about.
This bush is not really a bush at all. It’s just a plant. Every spring it blooms with beautiful orange flowers that brighten up the yard, and it keeps growing and growing and growing until it dies off in winter. Then it leaves its dried-out stems (that, by this time, look like trunks) in our little flower garden unless someone makes the effort to trim them. Every spring it grows back with a vengeance, offering its green and orange around all the dead parts that someone still hasn’t trimmed.
The problem isn’t that all those dead parts make this beautiful plant look ugly. It’s that when the neighbors’ trash blows out of their over-filled trash cans when they’re sitting out for trash pickup, this massive plant likes to eat it. And whoever is supposed to be trimming the dead stems also isn’t picking out of its clutches all the nasty pieces of other people’s trash.
Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be me.
There are some things you just give up on when you have as many kids as we do (Okay, many things. Lots of things. A whole life of things.). Like the yard. And a clean house. And spontaneously eating out for dinner. But that’s beside the point.
At any rate, this neighbor needed us to do something about that plant, because he was selling his house, and this plant was making his home value plummet.
I totally understand. I know we can’t control who our neighbors are, and our poor neighbors just happened to move next to the family with six boys and two parents who are drowning doing just fine.
We planted this flower garden back when we only had one child and one more on the way and life seemed so easy. We thought (such innocent kids we were) that we’d be able to manage. We’d be able to keep up with weeding and trimming back and watering. We would keep our yard pretty.
Turns out six kids 8 years and younger keep you really, really, really busy, and one of the things that falls from the idealistic we-can-handle-this list is, unfortunately, yard work.
It isn’t even because we’re lazy. It’s mostly because boys make it impossible to have a nice yard.
Case in point: The other day, my 5-year-old came to me with a digging spade. “I’m just going to dig a hole in the front yard so I can bury something,” he said, already walking out the door.
I caught his arm. “Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re what?”
“I’m going to dig a hole and bury something,” he said, as if this was the perfectly natural thing to do.
“What are you going to bury?” I said, because I wasn’t at all surprised by the first part.
“Nothing,” he said, but I saw what was in his hands. His brother’s favorite Hot Wheels car.
And then, when I was helping Husband save the grass from the gasoline my 3-year-olds dumped all over the backyard, my 8-year-old came out to the back deck and said, “I just planted some cucumbers and carrots out front. So we’ll have a vegetable garden.”
Um.
I now have renegade plants that are clearly not flowers growing in the flower garden I haven’t weeded in two years.
Another part of the problem is that every time we plan on having a yard work day, something else comes up. Something else like two 3-year-olds deciding they’re going to pull down all the clothes in their closet, even though they’d have to be Spider-Man to reach them now with all the creative safeguards we’ve put in their room (I don’t even know.). Something else like the 6-year-old deciding he’s going to get into the art cabinet during Quiet Time to cut up some tiny little squares of paper he’ll later put in a container and dump out on someone’s head in the front yard because he thinks it’s funny (So not). Something else like the 8-year-old deciding he wants to find out if a pumpkin will grow in the old tree graveyard beside the house.
This is how we got to be the terrible neighbors whose house looks like an orphanage. (“How many kids live there?” I imagine the people who walk their dogs in our cul-de-sac say. “We’re not really sure,” their walking partner answers.) Scooters crop up in the clearly dying grass; the herb garden off to the side is courting a weed tree, because I cannot even; and the boys ask to go gather wildflowers in our yard because it’s a whole wildflower field (“I brought some flowers for you, Mama,” the 3-year-olds say. “Thank you for weeding the yard,” I say.).
I know what you’re thinking. Why not just hire a lawn crew and take care of it the easy way? Well, my question to you is, have you ever tried to feed six boys who are always, always hungry? There’s your answer.
Also, one of these days we’re going to have a yard-working force, with six boys weeding and mowing and tidying up and trimming bushes and gathering herbs, and then our yard is going to be the envy of the block. But for now it most definitely looks like six children live here. Maybe more (because twins).
The thing is, when you’re a parent, some things have to slide until you can get your head above water (which is probably never. We’re all just lying to ourselves.). Our head hasn’t been above water for quite a while now, because there are six of them and only two of us, and they’re still young. That’s okay. It’s what we signed up for. I’m not complaining. I don’t really care about our yard, truth be told.
If you accidentally bought a house next to us, I’m just warning you now, even though it’s too late, that we’re not going to be winning “best block in the neighborhood” anytime soon, and it’s mostly our fault. Sorry if we’re ruining hopes and dreams by being the weakest link. We just have better things to do. Like setting our kids free out front on a summer evening and playing with them an epic game of chase on scooters and roller blades, which your kids will want to join (you’re welcome).
Chances are, next time you stop by my door, you’ll have to step over a scooter obstacle course just to make it to the doorbell, because boys are really bad about putting them away where they belong. So just watch your step (and maybe take a couple to teach them a lesson in natural consequences).
We’re really awesome people once you get past the trash cans that are perpetually left between our vehicle and our garage (lifting the garage door is just too much work when you’ve been wrestling six kids into bed) and the grass that’s always just a little bit (or maybe a lot) higher than the two inches it’s supposed to be and the bushes that look like bears might live inside.
If you’re judging us by the state of our front yard, you’ll never get to know that.
Thanks for cutting us some slack. You’ll be glad you did.
by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test featured, Crash Test Parents, General Blog
A few weeks ago I got a text from my sister, who had her third baby in February. The text said, “Tell me you have days when you just can’t handle it. When walking out of the house is all you can do to survive. I just need to hear it from another human.”
I laughed out loud, even though I knew she was dead serious. And in my head were responses like “every damn day” and “just this morning” and “on a minute-by-minute basis.”
Parenting is hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I used to run six miles every morning in 10,000-pound humidity before commuting an hour to downtown’s Houston Chronicle office. I used to marathon-train on 10 miles of hills pushing a double baby stroller that carried a 4-year-old and a 3-year-old. I used to work for a narcissist.
Parenting is still the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
There are so many hours of my day that I just feel like giving up and hitch-hiking to downtown San Antonio’s Riverwalk, where Husband and I had a life before children—a life that didn’t include a panic attack every time a kid steps too close to the edge of the path and I imagine having to jump into that dirty black water to save him.
Like the morning last week, when the 3-year-old twins went outside into our very safe (normally) backyard while I transferred a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer. Two minutes, tops. That’s all it took. By the time I finished, one of the twins had come back inside, and the whole house smelled like gasoline.
“Why does the house smell like gasoline?” I said, to no one in particular. The twin looked at me. I looked at him. He had his guilty eyes on.
“What were you doing out there?” I said.
“Nuffing,” he said.
I knew it was definitely something, because of those guilty eyes. A mom always knows, after all.
His twin brother came in smelling like a gas pump, so I looked out on the deck, where they didn’t even have the foresight to hide what they’d been doing. There, on a deck chair, was their daddy’s gas can used to fill up the lawn mower the three times a year he mows. That gas can is stored behind a locked door. A locked and sealed door that somehow, SOMEHOW, these Dennis the Menaces had cracked open in less than two minutes.
They poured gasoline (less than half a gallon, for those who are concerned) all over the back deck, the grass and themselves. It’s a good thing no one in my house smokes, because we all would have been blown to high heaven.
I put them both in the bath (which was not on the schedule for the morning) while the baby stayed downstairs in his jumper seat wailing because he doesn’t like to be alone, and washed them, rinsed them, scrubbed them, rinsed them and washed them again. Husband sprayed off the deck (which also wasn’t on the schedule for the morning) and saturated all the grass, because a Texas summer hits 4,000 degrees, and we were afraid the sun might make the gasoline-drenched grass spontaneously combust and blow us all to high heaven anyway.
That morning was one of those give-up days, because there’s no way to be one step ahead in my house. There’s no way I can fully toddler-proof every room. There’s no way I can keep them out of every single thing they find to amuse themselves. It would take 23 of me.
That morning I wanted to walk out and let them fend for themselves in gasoline scented clothes that spread their stench all over the house in less than two seconds.
I used to feel guilty when feelings like this crept up. I used to beat myself up for sometimes wishing that they just weren’t twins, that there weren’t two of them ALL THE DANG TIME, that they weren’t so insatiably curious and 3 years old and nearly impossible to parent right now.
But there is something important I’ve learned in my years of parenting: Just because there are moments when we want to run away, when we want to flat-out give up, when we want to trade our kids for easier kids for just this little moment in time so we can catch up and learn to appreciate them again, it doesn’t mean that we don’t still love them with a love that is never-ending.
These little, irrational humans can be the best and worst people we know on any given day at any given moment.
There are days when I want to sit down and color next to my 3-year-olds, because they’ve just been playing so well together and the morning’s disasters have been minimal, and, gosh, I just love them so much, and then there are mornings when I want to put them on Craig’s list’s free page (I’d have to lie to really sell the idea, though. Something like “Two well behaved twins, of undetermined age.” Because what kind of crazy person would want two 3-year-olds voluntarily?)
There are hours when I love to comb through those old picture albums that show these two hooked up to machines because they were premature and remember how I fretted and cried and tried my best to help them learn how to eat, and there are days when those first moments feel like entire lifetimes apart from this moment, when they stuck their whole arm in the just-used toilet to see what poop floating in pee feels like (They already know. We’ve done this drill before.).
There are minutes when I pull them into my lap and kiss all over their faces until they’re giggling uncontrollably, because they’re getting so big and so fun, and then there are minutes when I’m half-heartedly holding their big brother away from them so he doesn’t clobber them for marking all over his journal with a giant red permanent marker they found lying around somewhere (who keeps giving us permanent markers? Please stop.).
Parenting is not for the weak. This is the hardest responsibility we will ever have in our lives. Raising another human being to be a decent person is not easy, and there are many times along our journeys when we will feel like giving up and giving in and giving out.
It just comes with the territory.
So I fire off my response to my sweet sister. “Yes,” I say. “Just about every day. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad mother.”
Because it doesn’t.
These moments when we feel the tension between wanting to give up and knowing we can’t make us stronger parents. They make us better people. They drag us into a deeper understanding of love.
Good thing, too. Because my toddler just figured out how to open a can of paint Husband left unguarded and now the pantry wall has a Thermal Spring scribble-masterpiece drying on it.
I’m going to be one amazing person by the time this is all over.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Every year in Texas there’s this wonderful weekend where shoppers get to take advantage of tax-free shopping on school supplies and clothes. Hundreds of thousands of people head out in droves, hitting all the local stores and cleaning out school supplies and every rack of clothes those stores possibly have stocked—all within the first three hours of tax-free weekend.
I just love large crowds with all those excited kids who aren’t mine, weaving in and out of the guarantees-an-anxiety-attack-aisles, so, of course, I’m always one of them. Because, you know, tax-free weekend saves me $5.47. Totally worth it.
This year my mom offered to take my 3-year-old twins for the weekend so I could take the three going-to-school ones out for a few necessities and a handful of new clothes (because their jeans are now capris).
Strangely enough, I always look forward to this day. It’s sort of a tradition in our house now, the squeezing through sweaty crowds to get that perfect Spider-Man backpack, the yelling at my kids because they picked out five lunch boxes and they only need one, the robot-like explanation (because it’s so oft repeated) that their daddy and I have a thing called a budget, and this little personalized pencil with a neon green zipper bag is not in that budget. And every time tax-free weekend starts creeping up on us, I can’t sleep for days I’m so excited, almost as if I’m shopping for me (I’m not. I haven’t shopped for me in eight years).
Let me just tell you what you probably already know: Shopping with kids is like walking through hell with a checkbook.
And yet, every year I forget the horror that was last year, and I convince myself that this year will surely be different, because the boys are older and more mature, and they understand the whole budget thing and, because of all this, they won’t annoy me 12 seconds after we get to the store.
We started out well, a whole 600 seconds of not-annoying. We stopped first at an arts and crafts store, where we picked out a chalkboard and some chalk markers their daddy could use to hand letter their morning routines, personalized and artsy (incentive for getting out of bed on school mornings: they get to see art!). They helped me put the chalkboard and chalk pens carefully in the cart, and we headed for the register and paid with little or no fuss beyond their asking if they could please, please, please look at the Beanie Boos, just real quick. Okay, I said, because they were so good.
And then there was Target.
Now. I love Target. It’s the closest department store to my house, so it’s where I get the majority of things like paper towels and toilet paper and replacement toothbrushes after I caught one of the 3-year-old twins trying to scrub-clean the toilet with the existing ones and then putting them all in his mouth (“Look at my teef!” he said, and I threw up a little in my mouth.).
The first thing they asked when we walked through the sliding doors was whether we could go look at the toys.
Um, no. We’re here for school stuff, I said. We’re on a time budget. And a money budget.
My mom had already bought all the school supplies this year, so all we really needed were a few clothes, some shoes, a backpack and lunch supplies for all of them. We went to the lunch box section first and spied the Thermoses.
Two of them already had Thermoses, so we only needed one.
“But I want this one,” said one of the already-have-a-perfectly-fine Thermos boys.
“No,” I said. “You already have one.”
“But look at this one,” he said. “It’s really cool.”
“Well, too bad it wasn’t here last year,” I said and put it back on the shelf.
Half an hour later, when I finally pulled them away from the Thermos shelf, we wheeled over to the backpacks, where three other mothers were wrestling backpacks from their children’s hands.
“Only one,” they were saying.
Oh, God. Here we go.
I leaned against my cart, trying to empathize with all those poor mothers, while my boys pulled every boy-looking backpack off the racks—Transformers, Darth Vader, Batman, Superman, some dog I’ve never seen before, Super Mario Brothers, Spider-Man, everything you could possibly imagine—one after the other falling at my feet.
“Look at this one, Mama!” they would periodically say. “I want this one!”
They knew they were only getting one backpack, so I didn’t feel the need to repeat what we’d already explicitly talked through on the way here. So I just let them bring their choices and said, “Is this the one you want?” and when they said no, I’d hang it back up.
Fast forward another hour, and they had their backpacks stuffed with their lunch boxes and strapped to their backs, because they wanted to carry them instead of putting them in the cart. That lasted about three minutes, and then they tossed them into the cart. Mostly because, right between the school supplies section and the clothes, is the toys section.
Come on, Target. Give a mom a break.
I lost two of the three boys, but by this time, I was already so annoyed and ready to be done I just left them. They knew where we were going. So it was that only one hung to the side of the basket. Until he realized that his brothers were gone. This one got lost one time and gets really scared when any of his brothers disappear, so of course we had to go back to pry his brothers loose from the toy aisle.
They’d stalled on the LEGO aisle. Of course.
“Let’s go, guys,” I said. “Not what we’re here for.”
“Can we just get one LEGO set, Mama? To celebrate the start of school?” the 8-year-old said.
He’s clever, but we’ve never “just bought” a LEGO set for any occasion, so I said no.
They hopped back on the side of the cart, which collectively weighed 130 pounds. Have you ever tried to push a 130-pound cart with a screwy wheel (because I always pick the screwy-wheeled ones, even if the carts are brand new. It’s just a fact of life.)? People kept passing us giving us dirty looks, because we were, after all, on a shopper’s highway, and I was going well below the speed limit, using every muscle in my arms just to turn the corner.
Finally we reached the clothes. This is where it really fell apart.
I don’t even know what happened. I just remember one boy who wears extra small holding up an extra-large and saying he wanted to buy it, and then the boy who wears medium holding up an extra small and saying he wanted this one and then the one who wears small holding up a large, saying this was the one he most definitely wanted to take home, and I had the luxury of telling them all that they’d picked the wrong sizes.
The clothes had already been so picked over we had to compromise greatly. And when I say compromise greatly, I mean no one got what they wanted. The boy who wanted a minion shirt got a Jurassic Park one instead. The boy who wanted Darth Vader got R2D2 instead. The boy who wanted Spider-Man got a minion shirt the other one wanted.
By the time we made it to the sock and underwear aisle, I was done caring. The 8-year-old got a pack of boxer briefs a whole size too large, the 6-year-old picked out some socks he’ll probably regret choosing the first time he wears shorts and realizes how ridiculous he looks in green and blue stripes that come up to his knees. The 4-year-old picked up a package of socks you needed sunglasses to behold.
Oh, well. Lesson learned. Last time I’ll take my kids school shopping with me.
Although, now that I think of it, next year will surely be different, because the boys will be older and more mature, and they’ll understand the whole budget thing and, because of all that, they won’t annoy me 12 seconds after we get to the store.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
My boys are playing together just fine over in a corner of the dining room, on the glass table we never use for eating, (because it’s glass and kids have twelve thousand sticky hands). They’re occupied with the Contraptions, these really fun wooden planks they like to make into tracks, so it looks like the perfect opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and cram down another of those dark chocolate brownies I made last night, even though I just got done telling them, when they asked, that it’s too early in the morning to have one.
I should know better by now. I mean, I’ve been a parent for 8 years. I should know that in a household of kids, there is never, ever, ever a perfect opportunity. But sometimes I go a little wild and get my hopes up.
So I’m in the middle of cramming, hiding in the pantry just in case they come wandering into the kitchen, when the 8-year-old catches me, red-handed, with chocolate all over my fingers (the curse of gooey brownies).
He looks from my face to my hands and back again. And then he tosses out that bad word I just love to hate: “Aw, no f**r. You ate a brownie. You said it was too early for us to have one.”
I think fast. “Well,” I say. “I’m a grownup. When you’re a grownup you get to eat whatever you want in the morning.”
Real smooth, I know. Real good example of the way I DON’T want my children to eat. Well, parenting and paradoxes go hand in hand.
Hours later, when it’s time for lunch, I pile some strawberries and sliced cucumber on their plates beside their PB&J sandwiches. Off to the side, I put a handful of raisins on everyone’s plate except the 8-year-old, who doesn’t like raisins. I give him pecans.
His brothers notice, of course. “No f**r,” the 5-year-old says. “He gets pecans.”
“You have raisins,” I say. “Jadon doesn’t like raisins. I’ll take your raisins and give you pecans, if you want.”
He shuts his mouth and shakes his head, because, of course, he prefers the sweet raisins to the pecans.
I get so tired of the phrase, “No f**r.” They have several variations. They might sound like “It’s not f**r” or “That’s not f**r” or “You should be f**r” and so many more I can’t even remember right now, in my annoyed, flustered, I’m-so-sick-of-this state of mind. All I know is I hear them 15 billion times a day.
When someone goes out to play because he’s finished his after dinner chore: “That’s not f**r. He gets to go play already, and I’m still stuck here doing dishes.” When someone pours his own milk and it’s half a centimeter more than I gave the brother: “It’s not f**r. He got more milk than I did.” When someone comes down the stairs with a red shirt on: “No f**r. I never get to wear a red shirt.”
What I want to say every single time I hear these delightful words is, “Welp. Life’s not f**r. The sooner you can learn that and accept it, the better.”
What I usually do, instead, because I’m a good parent, is empathize with their feelings and then explain exactly why fair isn’t equal. Sometimes they understand. Most times they don’t.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take incredible strength of will to keep calm when they’re throwing out and kicking around the f-word. In fact, this is what it usually sounds like in my head:
When we’re eating dinner, and their daddy and I have a glass of wine:
3-year-old: “No f**r. You get wine.”
What I want to say: “If you only knew who I’d be without it…”
What I say instead: “Want to taste?”
He gets close enough to smell and picks up his cup of milk without a single complaint.
That’s right, son. This stuff is NASTY, because it’s cheap and it’s survival.
When we’re watching a movie and the boys get their cups of popcorn.
6-year-old: “Hey, no f**r! He got more than I did!”
What I want to say: “Wow. Aren’t you an efficient counter? You know fractions already? Because he has half a kernel more than you.”
What I say instead: “Here. Have another.”
Because, dang, I don’t want this fight. I know what it will look like. It will look like five cups of popcorn dumped onto the floor so they can count it, and the 3-year-olds can’t even count past 12, which means this will take ALL DAY.
When the older boys are sitting around during art time, and the 8-year-old decides he’s going to make the most epic paper airplane ever.
5-year-old: “No f**r. Jadon knows how to make a paper airplane.”
What I want to say: “Stinks to be you.”
What I say instead: “Here. Let’s learn how to make one.”
Forty minutes later we have a paper airplane that won’t even fly, because making paper airplanes is much more complicated than it looks.
When it’s almost nap time, and I’m telling the 3-year-old twins what they need to do next.
3-year-old: “No f**r. My bruvers get to have Quiet Time and I have to take a nap.”
What I want to say: “Only boys who know how to say ‘brothers’ get to have Quiet Time. Besides, I don’t need a break from your brothers. You, on the other hand…I need a thousand year break from you.”
What I say instead: “Do you want to crawl like a dog to your bed or run like an ostrich?”
During dinner, the oldest is sitting beside his littlest brother, watching me feed him.
8-year-old: “No f**r. You get to feed him.”
What I want to say: “What the—?”
What I say instead: “You can do it if you want.”
Two minutes later, the baby sneezed sweet potatoes all over his face, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing hysterically. Not so fun now, is it?
Everybody in my house knows this bad word. Everyone uses it. We’re born knowing how to use it, I think.
Kids have such a messed up definition of what f**r really is. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make the feeling of unf**r any less real to them.
The other day, when we were playing a game and one of his brothers drew a yellow card he needed, my 6-year-old said, “That’s not f**r.”
“What does f**r mean?” I said.
No one answered, because none of them knows. All they know is they want life to work for them right now. They want it to be perfectly smooth and perfectly easy and perfectly their way.
And, honestly, so do I. But I’ve been alive longer than they have, and I know it’s just not. I know it’s not f**r that some lose babies while others get to keep them. I know it’s not f**r that some business deals fall through and we suddenly can’t make our mortgage payment this month while others have more than enough. I know it’s not f**r that the store was out of raw oats so now I have to think outside the box for Wednesday morning’s breakfast.
So much about life is not f**r. So many times I want to stomp and complain and throw out those same words my kids overuse. Because it’s not f**r that my air conditioner broke and we had to try to sleep through four days of 1,000-degree heat. It’s not f**r that my kids don’t listen to what I’m saying 99.7 percent of the time because they have better things on their minds. It’s not f**r that last night, when I had just slipped into dreamland, one of them came knocking on my door to say he couldn’t sleep, and then it took me three hours to get back to sleep so I’m more exhausted than normal today.
In a child’s life, f**r means get-what-I-want. Everything they want to be f**r—a game, the ability to make epic paper airplanes, a treatment—is strictly for their own benefit. They want a f**r game, because they want to win. They want a f**r ability, because it means they wouldn’t have to ask Mama’s help and their paper airplane would actually fly. They want f**r treatment, because they’re afraid they’re missing out on something special.
We’re born with this complex. We all know adults who still have trouble accepting its reality in their lives. That, to me, means it’s good for our kids to practice surviving “unf**r,” because they get to learn, in the process, that life doesn’t end because something doesn’t go exactly the way they planned or even hoped.
That’s what develops grit.
So, today, when the 8-year-old plops on the couch and says, “I want to watch a movie,” and I answer in the negative, and he says, “It’s not f**r. My friends get to watch TV all day,” and it’s the sixtieth time I’ve heard those blasted words in an hour, I send them all outside to jump out their frustration on the trampoline. And when the last one gets out the door, I turn the lock. No one’s coming back inside until dinner.
Life isn’t f**r, after all.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
I used to be a perfect parent.
Well, actually, who am I kidding? I still am. Between the hours of 9:30 p.m. and 4:30 a.m.
Unless, of course, one of the kids wakes me up.
The rest of the time, (which is anytime my kids and I are awake at the same time, in case you didn’t catch that) I’m a less-than-stellar parent. I hate to admit this, because I really wanted to join the Perfect Parents (P.P. from here on out) club, and I know there will probably be a whole lot of P.P.s out there lamenting the fact that I have six boys who should probably only be trusted to P.P.s.
Well. I remember being one of those. I remember Husband and I would go out to eat before we had kids, and we would see a kid throwing a tantrum, right in the middle of the restaurant floor, and we would look at each, our eyes screaming it if our mouths couldn’t. Never, ever, they said. Not in a million years would we let a kid lose his mind like that.
I would meet a stay-at-home mom in her home to interview her for a news story I was working on, and her kid would be climbing all over the back of the couches and her head and the table while his mother was otherwise occupied, and I would leave thinking, My kid will never be that kid.
I would hear an 8-year-old talk back to his mother, and I would shake my head. Absolutely not.
I wish I could laugh in that clueless woman’s face.
So I had kids. I had a toddler who didn’t want to leave the park, so he took off running hyper-speed, screaming bloody murder, so people who didn’t know I was his mother probably thought I was kidnapping him against his will. I had the boy who thought it would be fun to jump off the upright piano onto the couch and nailed the landing so impressively I was too shocked to even correct him. I had a spirited 8-year-old.
The thing about P.P.s is they either have a really short memory or they don’t have kids at all—in which case they should stop talking about parenting.
None of us is a P.P. Sometimes we get really lucky with a kid who has an easy-going temperament (I’ve got two out of the six). The rest of them trade off being devils on an hour-by-hour basis.
It’s not because we’re bad parents. We’re about as perfect as we’re probably ever going to be. And that’s okay. It’s perfectly fine, in fact.
I’ve worked hard on my parenting over the years. I’ve read books. I’ve intentionally used the knowledge I’ve learned from them. I’ve worked every day to improve my connection with my kids.
But I’m still far from a P.P.
If perfect parenting means I have the privilege of getting on a forum and pontificating on the virtues of P.P.s who raise perfect children, then I’m not interested.
Perfect Parent: Oh, come on. You know you want to be in our club.
Me: Thanks for asking, P.P. It’s just that I’m washing my hair. Yes, every night this week. For all the evening hours. What’s that? No, it’s just that I have dirty hair, because my kids like to play with it. And, well, do you know how many nasty things live on kids’ hands?
Perfect Parent: But don’t you want a kid like mine? My kid NEVER did THAT.
Me: Oh, I know what’s going on, P.P. Your kid was so bad your memory blocked out the trauma of whole years. Well, I don’t blame you. I don’t remember the first year of having infant twins, it was so hellish.
Here’s the thing. Memories are often faulty. Looking back, we don’t usually remember the hardest parts of parenting, the everyday stuff like tantrums over the blue plate instead of the orange one or the way he totally went all dramatic-crying on us when he stepped on a LEGO we’ve stepped on a million times and we had to stop the demonic laugh (ours) and the words it carried “YOU SEE? YOU SEE HOW IT FEELS?” We just remember the good stuff, the way he was such a good sleeper, the way he could stay buried in a book for hours at a time but couldn’t keep his attention on a math worksheet for two minutes. We remember those moments just before sleep, when he’d sneak back into our room (even though he was told not to) and give us “just one more kiss and hug.”
We remember life much better than it actually was. This is a good thing. When I look back over my journals recording my first year with twins, they are filled with desperate cries for help. But what I actually remember from that time is a sweet little baby sleeping on my chest while I tried to quick-clean the living room because the dust on the shelves was an inch thick. What I remember is watching them sit in their Bumbo seats and the way they’d laugh because it was just like looking in a mirror. What I remember most is the way they would smile when any of their brothers came into view.
Perfect Parent: My memory’s rock-solid, because, well, I’m perfect. My kid always did whatever he was told.
Me: Hey, I didn’t know it was opposite day! Well, in that case, my memory’s rock-solid, too, AND my kid always does whatever he’s told.
Also, on the off-chance that you’re not speaking in opposite-day language, that’s a lot of absolutes, P.P. I don’t like to speak in absolutes, personally. I do make an exception for this one, though: There is absolutely, positively no kid who does everything he’s told every single second. Absolutely. Positively. No way.
The easy kid who today will clean up all the Pattern Play blocks he got out at Quiet Time is the same kid who tomorrow will spend the whole of Quiet Time planning how he’s going to run away because he doesn’t want to clean up the LEGOs he dumped all over the floor. The kid who says this hour you’re the best mom in the whole wide world because you let him color in his coloring book is the same kid who, two hours later, will call you the worst parent in the whole wide world because you said it wasn’t time to turn flips off the couch while you’re reading stories together. The kid who wants to do a puzzle with you right now is the same kid who, come bedtime, won’t even want to kiss and hug you because he doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.
Parenting is full of paradoxes like these.
Perfect Parent: I guess we’re just meant to disagree. But you really should (fill in the blank).
Me: Nope.
Not interested, P.P. Not interested in what perfect parents say I should do. Not interested in who they think I should be instead. Just.not.interested.
Here’s the thing, P.P. There is no such thing as a perfect kid. There is no such thing as a perfect parent, either.
The sooner we can wrap our heads around that, the better.
We’re all just doing the best we can, m’kay, sweet pea? I make mistakes. I do better. I love.
And today I made it through all the hours without thinking about putting them on Craigslist.
At the end of the day, that’s really all anyone can ask.
by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test Parents, General Blog, Wing Chair Musings featured
I have a large family. Six children. In a world where people are choosing to have fewer children (or none at all), this can seem weird and crazy and, for some, unacceptable.
These people always come out to play when I mention anywhere in my article that six kids live in my house.
I get it. Six kids is a lot. Many people can’t imagine having that many, let alone choosing to have that many. It seems like a crazy, why-would-anyone-want-to-do-THAT kind of thing.
Their concerns range from whether these kids are all from the same dad (yes) all the way down to what my uterus looks like. So, since I don’t plan to stop writing about my large family, I thought it would be fun to have a page of FAQs and FCs (Frequent Comments) where I could just send them to save time. Because I’m considerate like that and wouldn’t want anyone to die wondering.
“You do know how they are conceived and (that) there are methods of preventing said conception, correct.”
-I’m Real Original
Dear I’m Real Original: This is certainly the mystery of the century. And, to be honest, I really have no idea. You know how people joke about that woman whose husband just looks at her and she’s pregnant? It’s not a joke. It’s me.
Please tell me how this happens. I really don’t want any more of these…things…wrecking my home. So let’s go get a cup of coffee and you can tell me the whole conception story. The more details, the better.
“I’d like to sit down with her and ask her exactly what she thinks she’s giving society by having six kids. These people are so selfish it makes me sick.”
-I Have No Kids
Dear I Have No Kids: Huh. That’s weird. I didn’t think I owed society anything.
(Also: My boys are awesome. I could care less what you think.)
“I think you have enough kids.”
-The Child Police
Dear The Child Police: I’m glad you noticed. Thanks for not being afraid to tell me, because now I can finally stop. Because I truly do care what you think, even if I don’t care what I Have No Kids thinks. You are the police, after all.
“I prefer a dog. I’ve always wondered why someone would bring another awful human into the world.”
-I Hate Everyone
Dear I Hate Everyone: I want to be offended by your words, but I just feel sad. I wish I could find you and let you know how important you are to the world. My guess is you didn’t have anyone to tell you that as a kid. Growing up in a world like that stinks. But not everyone is an awful human (I’m not. My husband’s not. My boys aren’t, either.). I hope you find some not-awful humans soon.
“Children can be taught to take care of their things. A quiet home may be impossible, but it can be a controlled noisy.”
“Do some parenting and much of that nonsense will stop.”
“Manners and chores are taught, not everyone who has boys has a torn up home.”
– Perfect Parent
There you are Perfect Parent! I’m so glad you could come around. I know you’re super busy raising your perfect kids. Can you do us all a favor and start a parenting class for the rest of us dopes? We could learn so much from you. Just tell us where to sign up and I’ll try to make sure I can’t find a pen anywhere.
“It just sounds like they run free, without any constraints. If something were to happen to the mother, who would want to care for them?”
-I Don’t Get Humor
Dear I Don’t Get Humor: Your name says it all. We’re speaking a completely different language.
“Take a step back and figure out routines to control their acting out behaviors.”
-I Know Everything
Dear I Know Everything: That sounds way too hard. I’d rather just let them run wild and terrorize the world while I lie on the couch and dream about my life before children.
“Why on earth do parents saddle their kids with ridiculous names?”
“What a bunch of bizarre names you’ve selected for your boys, lady.”
-Names Are My Business
Dear Names Are My Business: I didn’t realize I was in violation of the “Acceptable Names According to Society” list. Next opportunity I have, I’ll march on down to the courthouse and change their names to something that might be easier for you to stomach.
Or maybe I’ll just take a shower. Because it’s been a while, and opportunities are opportunities.
Shower or courthouse? Shower or courthouse? Shower or courthouse?
Aw, dang. Shower won.
Welp. Guess you’ll have to get used to those ridiculously bizarre names.
“What were you drinking when you named them?”
-I Know Names
Dear I Know Names: That would be peppermint Schnapps, straight from the bottle. Because, you know, they allow that at the hospital during a woman’s childbirth recovery. By the time the birth certificate official came around I couldn’t feel my tongue anymore. You know what happens next.
Let that be a lesson, people. Don’t drink while naming children.
“If they are anything like the Duggars…”
“Is she related to the Duggars or just another dimwit breeding for the heck of it?”
“Trying to be like the Duggars or something?”
-I Can’t Count
Dear I Can’t Count: I know, I know. Six is so close to 19. Scarily close. Turn around, and I might have more children than the Duggars tomorrow.
Truth be told, we’re trying to be like another famous family. Just call us the Weasleys.
“What I learned from six boys: have a vasectomy.”
“Should’ve had an abortion at some point.”
-No Tact
Dear No Tact: What an educated, insightful answer. I’m so glad you could contribute something valuable to this discussion.
“Maybe booze has something to do with you guys getting pregnant so many times?”
-Stay Away From Alcohol
Dear Stay Away From Alcohol: I don’t really remember. All I know is every day I had to buy a new bottle of red wine from the corner store because the old one just kept mysteriously disappearing.
“She should have told her husband to put that thing away after birth #3.”
-Sexpert
Dear Sexpert: I did. Didn’t work. Mostly because I look dang good in yoga pants and an unwashed-hair ponytail.
“She is discusting.” (stet)
-The Educated One
Dear The Educated One: Sorry, I don’t take insults from people who can’t spell. Maybe that’s snobbish. But I’m just being honest. Come back to visit once you learn how to spell the word “disgusting.”
“They sound like the worst parents ever.”
-I Share Opinions
Dear I Share Opinions: We are the worst parents ever. Just ask any of our kids when they have immediate lights out for getting out of bed for the third time and someone’s not dying (which constitutes an emergency). Just ask them when they get an extra chore for getting down from the table without being excused. Just ask them when they aren’t allowed to watch the new Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie like all their friends do because the content is too mature.
“No wonder there’s not a husband in the picture. She’s ugly.”
-Fugly and Fffffpppsmart
Dear Fugly and Fffffpppsmart: I know it’s really hard to understand, but there is this thing that happens when someone takes a picture. It’s called Standing Behind the Camera. You see, someone has to stand behind the camera in order for a picture to be taken (unless you set an auto-picture, which I have no idea how to do. Technology’s not my strong point. Having babies is.). Husband was behind the camera.
Please don’t let your brain explode with this amazing revelation.
“I know your hands are full, but you chose to have a large family, and it is time for you both to step up and be responsible. Do them a huge favor and try to have them become gentlemen. Make them pick up their own clothes instead of leaving them all over the floor. The world will thank you.”
-Concerned Non-parent
Dear Concerned Non-parent: Well, this just dashes all my parent-hopes. I guess I thought my boys would leave their clothes on the floor forever, or at least until they found a wife to pick up after them. I definitely didn’t plan on teaching them to find the hamper or clean up their own messes or do their own laundry. Mostly because I LOVE BEING A MAID.
(Said no mother ever.)
“Her uterus must be dragging the floor just like her vag.”
-Crude Dude
Dear Crude Dude: Kind of you to be concerned. As far as I know, I haven’t tripped over either yet, so I think I’m doing okay.
“Women like this keep popping out kids to try and remain relevant because they have no skills or talent. Get an education, lady…they will teach you how to keep ur legs closed.”
-School Fixes Everything
Dear School Fixes Everything: I must be dumber than I thought. What does “ur” mean? I’ve never come across that word in my study of the English language.
Oh, wait. Study? I’ve never done that. It probably wouldn’t surprise you to know that I did not graduate valedictorian of my high school class, and I didn’t get a full ride to a university of my choice, and I most definitely didn’t graduate four years later with a 4.0 GPA and a degree in print journalism and English. Because, you know, women like that don’t have trouble keeping their legs closed. They know where babies come from, and they make sure they don’t have six of them.
I’m sure it also wouldn’t surprise you to know that I’ve never, ever, in all my life, won a writing award or been recognized for any of my work, because, of course, I have zero talents.
Now I feel sad that I didn’t do more with my life. Guess I’ll go open that new bottle of red wine and have another baby.
Thanks for commenting! If you have any personal issues with any of my answers, please email idontcare@babymakingfactory.com.
See you next time I write an article about my big family!
This is an excerpt from Parenthood: Has Anyone Seen My Sanity?, the first book in the Crash Test Parents humor series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
(Photo by Helen Montoya Photography.)
