by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
It’s summertime!
My favorite part of year, because I get to have everyone at home all the hours of all the days, fighting over who gets the one red LEGO pieces out of the 14 billions that exist in our house.
I love my boys fiercely. But man are they hard on a house (and a sanity) in the summertime.
Here are 13 pictures to show how much havoc boys can wreak on summertime.
This happened about half an hour after they got out of school. The first place they went was their bedroom, to pull out all their stuffed animals so they could celebrate with them. We’ve been finding stuffed animals all over the house.
You see? This stuffed animal is doing me a favor, though. She’s guarding those writing notebooks, because everyone knows what happens when you leave a notebook with a pen stuck in it within reach of two 4-year-old twins. (No, your notebooks won’t get ruined, don’t worry. Your walls will.)
This is all the junk they brought home from school. I still haven’t had the energy to sort through it all, because every time I try to, I look at the counter to see that someone else had the sorting idea except they were much less competent than I am.
These are all the workbooks they brought home. I mean, I’m really grateful to have something to do with my boys, to make sure they don’t lose all the learning they did this year. The problem is, they seem to always forget how to put things away. So I guess I’ll just have to get used to staring at a pile like this.
Or sitting on something like this. Hey, at least they love workbooks, right?
This was a perfectly organized craft table once upon a time. We set it up, because we believe in free expression, and the boys really, really love doing crafts. But they really, really hate cleaning up crafts, and so do I. Which means this craft table might not last very long.
There’s another rogue stuffed animal, next to the cup with the crazy straw that I just picked off the floor, where the 16-month-old was headed straight for it. Disaster averted. (Ten minutes later, someone knocked over an open gallon of milk, so, honestly, I would have taken the cup over the gallon, but, hey, boys don’t do anything half-heartedly.)
Swimsuits are the staple of summertime. The problem is, they wear them so much I don’t even get to wash them. They put their swimsuits on as soon as they get up, and they don’t take them off until after we’re done at the pool, and then they do it all over again the next day. I asked this boy why his pants were crackling as he walked. He said it’s because he toots too much in them. Which is also probably true.
When they’re not wearing their swimsuits, they’re wearing regular clothes out in the rain, (1) because the only time they wear regular clothes is when it’s raining and (2) because I’m so desperate to get them outside, yes, I let them dance in the rain. It’s been raining a lot here in Texas, and I’ll do anything to save my sanity.
Toys everywhere. I should just get used to this one, but you know what? I never do. Every year I want to throw all of our toys away and just start over from scratch. But look how precious he is, standing with his wooden blocks.
You think stepping on LEGOs is bad? You should try stepping on this guy, which I did a few minutes ago. I think my foot is about to fall off. (And, yes, those are popcorn kernels smashed into the floor. We had popcorn last night and someone was too lazy to vacuum the carpet.)
The biggest problem in the summertime is attention span. This photo was taken exactly five minutes after he asked to play with the LEGOs. I guess he decided reading was more fun.
This is, hands down, my favorite part of summer. Not the LEGOs, the masterpieces. My boys are so incredibly creative, and I just love stumbling upon creations like this from the 9-year-old who wanted to be a robotics creator for half a second before he decided, nah, he’d rather design video games (he’s got a writing notebook filled with set designs already, so it’s too much work to change careers now).
While summertime presents some challenges in the way of a clean house and working from home, it also presents some great opportunities to rest and be a family and marvel in the amazing ingenuity of kids.
I guess I’ll take the latter for today. At least until they start fighting over who gets to sit on the couch for silent reading time, even though there’s room enough for five.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
It’s the fourteenth time he’s come to our room tonight, and we still have to get up at 5 in the morning to get anything done, so his daddy leads him out and says, “It’s time for you to go to bed, for the last time.”
“But I don’t have school,” he says, as if we didn’t just have this conversation fifteen minutes ago. “It’s my summer break.”
Oh, well, in that case, why don’t you stay up all night, and, while you’re at it, go ahead and disregard all the rules, because IT’S SUMMER VACATION!
When I tilt my head and squint my eyes just so, I can almost understand why they would equate summer vacation with do-whatever-I-want time, because summer means they are no longer trapped at school for seven whole hours, listening to someone else giving instructions. They don’t have to write their name on fifty math or reading or science worksheets, and they don’t have a half-hour time limit on lunch and they don’t have to finish all their work before they get to do the fun stuff like reading and drawing and playing.
But what’s getting old in my house is that every day there’s another fight—not because we’re coming up against new territory. No. We’re coming up against the same old territory that the boys have forgotten because apparently summertime is synonymous with short-term memory loss.
Dang summertime.
Sometimes I wish summertime meant exactly what they think it means—relaxation of the rules. I really do.
But last time I relaxed the rules and let them have a little more freedom, they pulled out the economy-sized glitter I didn’t even know we had for some horrifying glitter projects we’re still cleaning up, a year later. Also, the 8-year-old somehow climbed to the top of the bathroom door, where he positioned a cup of water so it would fall on someone’s head when they opened the door. And someone else put thumbtacks in the twins’ booster seats.
So no. Rules still intact.
I wrote a note for my boys, reminding them of the most-frequently-forgotten rules. Feel free to use this letter as many times as you need. I’ve already read it to them twenty-six times today, because that’s how often they’ve forgotten.
Dear kids,
It’s summertime. Not I’m-a-grownup-now time.
Unfortunately, that means there are still rules in our house. Here are some you seem to have forgotten.
1. No, you may not snack all day.
We just had breakfast, and you ate twelve pancakes and five eggs. How in the world are you still hungry fifteen minutes later? That’s called boredom, son. Boredom is not a good excuse to eat. Get thee outside. Thou shalt dig in some dirt. Or do art (without glitter). Or read one of your books. Or chew on your fingers. Whatever keeps you out of the refrigerator. Because, good Lord. The grocery store only has so much food.
2. Close the door behind you.
This rule has been in place since you were old enough to walk, but you’ve conveniently picked now, when it’s so hot it’s painful to wear clothes, to forget? That’s called irony, kids. It’s ironic that you’ve forgotten how to close a door in the middle of summer.
Here. I’ll help you out. Closing is the opposite of opening. So, if you pull the door to open it, you’ll push the door away from you to close it. Push it away from you. Away from you. Away from you. There. Hear that sound? That’s the sound of a door closing. Amazing, isn’t it?
Now that we’ve had this nice little refresher, next time you leave the door open, I’ll take a portion of the electricity bill out of your college fund. You won’t be laughing when you’re 18 and you don’t have enough money to pay for your first semester of books (because, by the time college rolls around, that’s about what the money we’ve saved will be worth. If you keep forgetting the close the door, it’ll pay for your first dinner out.).
3. No, you may not stay up all night.
Believe it or not, even though you’re not going to school for the time being, we are still concerned that you get enough sleep. Because we love you, and we know sleep is important for you to grow and function well. Also (mostly) because you turn into a horrid monster when you haven’t had enough sleep. So turn out the light. Put away the book.
And for God’s sake, stop coming to our room when we’re almost asleep, asking if we remember where you left your special pencil with the blue eraser. Some people want to get some sleep around here.
4. Things that were not allowed before are also not allowed now.
This would be things like walking across the table with dirty, dirty feet; getting five games out that, all together, have a total of forty-thousand pieces; sneaking onto the computer to play your Cool Math game when a parent is not present and before you’ve earned your technology time.
Nope. Still not allowed in summer.
What? Every other kid gets to do what you can’t? Well, it’s too bad those aren’t your parents. You got stuck with us. It’s a hard knock life.
5. Any mess you make, you still clean it up.
What’s that? You dumped out all the glitter on accident? Well, it’s a good thing you know how to wipe off a table and sweep a floor, so get to it.
Wait, you want to play outside with your friend, but you were playing throw-them-in-the-air-and-see-where-they-fall with the markers? Welp. You know the rules. Clean it up first.
You don’t like this game and want to play a different one? CLEAN IT UP.
6. You may not wear your swimsuit for more than 20 days in a row.
It’s time for a dress code, kids. I know your swimsuits are comfortable and you’re hoping that, by wearing them every hour of every day, we’ll say that, oh, look, it’s time to go to the pool, but no. A swimsuit is not an appropriate choice for 20 consecutive days. I’ll give you five. Maybe even six.
It’s been longer than that, so let me have them. Let me have them. LET ME HAVE THEM. I just need to wash them, and then you can have them for another six days. Now. Go get your underwear on. Remember the other unspoken rule: No skivvies, no service.
7. Pool time is not bath time.
I know, I know. Chlorine, soap, what’s the difference? It’s so fun to play in the pool and pretend it’s a bath, and it’s no fun to come home and get wet again in a tiny little bath tub. But the thing is, chlorine. And kids peeing. And all those other bodies.
A dip in the pool does not qualify for a bath. Get on out. Come home. And wash those smelly armpits (you too, kids.).
8. If you know the rules and break them, there will (still) be consequences.
I know it’s hard to believe that your parents are still enforcing these stupid rules even though it’s summertime and you should really only be experiencing great freedom and wonderful fun, but you see kids? Consistency is important, too. Without consistency, you would feel like you were just trying to navigate life without an anchor tethering you to reality. Living life without an anchor isn’t as much fun as you think. Just ask any kid without a parent.
I know these rules seem ridiculous and arbitrary, but we enforce them because we want you to have the best possible family life experience you can. We have them because, more than anything, we love you.
Now. Go play outside so I can have a little quiet time and try to remember why these rules are so important.
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
What I want to tell my boys every time they fight. Which is every other second, now that school’s out.
He was lucky. He only ended up with half his face burned off.
I know. So disappointing.
One of them ended up with a dented face, but at least now I can tell the identical twins apart.
Seriously. It smells like a locker room in my house. (When do they start to care how they smell?)
Surprisingly (and sadly) the fan was hurt far more than the kid who tried this one.
Who’s in the hide-food-from-your-kids club?
Lots of injuries on this one. Think he won’t try it again? It only took 24 hours to get back in the game.
We needed to buy new toilets after this happenstance. (Explosive diarrhea has nothing on 5 pounds of grapes.)
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
I was done with school long before the year ended.
The early-morning schedule gets old by week #2, because boys like to sleep until at least 8 (unless it’s the weekend, and then they’re up at 5:30), and school starts at 7:45 a.m., and that tardy bell rings strong and fierce, and even though it’s only three who must be there on time, all the others have to get up, too, because the three make enough tornado noise trying to find a backpack he’s sitting on (if you’re the 5-year-old), complaining about what’s for breakfast (if you’re the 7-year-old), and bemoaning the fact that he has no more sweat pants that are clean (if you’re the 9-year-old) that everybody wakes right along with them.
The homework gets old by week #4, because what 7-year-old remembers that he has some math worksheets he has to do when there are LEGOs in the house, and who can even concentrate on reading a passage and answering some silly questions about it when your brothers keep running through the kitchen screeching like spider monkeys dressed in Robin Hood costumes or when they keep exclaiming over the cool fort they constructed from a box or they are, heaven forbid, reading aloud from a book?
Homework at 7 is like adding another line on a parent’s to-do list: Keep boy on task even though he’s used up his on-task capabilities in the seven hours he was at school today.
Believe me, my to-do list was massive enough already without this extra line. I mean, someone has to sit on the couch and read a book every now and then, and it might as well be me.
We were done with all the on-grade reader books by about week #12. All my boys are fantastic readers who read whatever they want all the time here at home. They read Pokemon graphic novels and Bill Watterson comics and the newest Elephant & Piggie books. Which is why we stopped signing those log-their-reading folders right around the beginning of December. It looks like none of them have picked up a book since Dec. 3. They have. I promise. I just can’t always find a pen. Or remember which one read what. Or find the actual folders, because boys are so good at putting things where they belong. The chances of all three of those happening at the same time are very, very rare.
AND THEN THE PAPERS.
So many papers.
There are advertisements for sports camps and karate programs and dance lessons all throughout the year. There are all the worksheets a first-grader and kindergartener and third grader do. There are amazing works of art they paint and draw and color that come home from his art class. There are essays and teacher notes and lunch charge reminders that we owe the school some money.
We did fairly well with all those papers for about the first twenty-four weeks of school. I was actually pretty proud we lasted that long. We had a system: sort them, store them or toss them in the recycling. “Store them” ended up breaking down a bit, because I’d start putting the whole stack of papers in the “store them” pile so I could “look at them later,” except later never really came back around.
And when February swept in, we just stopped caring.
I don’t even know if it was a gradual not-caring or an all-at-once not-caring, but now those papers sit on the bottom shelf of our coffee table or on the library shelves covering up the spines of books or between the beds in the twins’ room (they thought paper might work for insulation and smuggled some in their room without our noticing. The papers are now tiny, tiny little pieces that will have to be hand-picked from the carpet because our vacuum cleaner sucks but doesn’t really. Thanks for the gift guys. I now feel like setting the house on fire.).
The paper hills have become paper mountains. Soon, we’ll be able to repair all the things that are wrong about our house with paper. Hole in the wall? Cover it with paper. Fan is missing a blade? Construct one out of paper. No more toilet paper? WE HAVE PLENTY OF PAPER!
The end of the school year is a bittersweet time, because it holds the sadness of a school year ending and a child getting older, or at least seeming to get older, and the (mostly unspoken) fear of having said child home ALL HOURS OF ALL THE DAYS ALL SUMMER.
But when I weigh the sad and the afraid and the glad, I think I am mostly glad, because the be-an-involved-school-parent pressure and the papers will stay far, far away. Mostly I’m glad because my sons are brilliant and funny and delightful, and I’m going to enjoy their around-all-day presence for all of 2.3 hours on the first day.
Today is the last day of school, the last day we get up early, the day books will no longer come home and homework will stay in a classroom for next year. Which means tomorrow boys will sleep late and they will play together well, because they missed each other so much, and they will spend quiet time in their alone places so I don’t even have to remind them to get “back where you’re supposed to be.”
Well, you know, a mom can always hope.
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
It’s their first day back from the grandparents’ after a week of running wild outside in the country and swimming in a pool and watching movies for Quiet Time, and my boys have forgotten how to act.
We are incredibly blessed that my mom and stepdad took the older three boys for a week (and do every summer) and that my father-in-law took the Dennis-the-Menace-times-two twins for a few days (because that’s about all the time anyone can handle with these guys), but man. Detoxing stinks.
My parents eat a lot like us—no processed food, lots of fruits and veggies, no special “treat” with every meal. So I can’t even blame it on the food (which is my usual culprit). But when they come back from Nonny and Poppy’s house, my boys are bouncing off the walls (and that’s an understatement.). No one wants to go into the backyard when I suggest bouncing on the trampoline instead, because they all missed their toys “so, so, so much!”
No one remembers where to put their shoes (the shoe basket we’ve had by the door for YEARS). They don’t even remember how to get dressed. It’s like dressing for seven days in a row is enough effort to last the entire summer.
The first day of detox was the third son’s fifth birthday, which means tradition set a birthday treat in front of him at breakfast. I had a feeling it was a bad idea, but what are you going to do with tradition? Ten minutes later they were catapulting over the side of the couch so quickly I didn’t know whose name to call out in my scolding, because they were blurs.
They got crayons, coloring books, Hot Wheels and a bin of four million LEGOs out all at the same time, even though we have a very important rule about “only one thing out at a time.”
“I’d like to see one of you build something with LEGOs, color a picture and play with the cars all at the same time,” I said.
They looked at me like I’d lost my mind. (By that point, I already had.)
After dinner, they forgot how to put their plates and silverware away.
“We used paper plates at Nonny and Poppy’s house,” they said when I asked.
“But Nonny didn’t make you throw them away?” I said.
“Yeah,” they said, not noticing the glaring inconsistency here: They still had to carry their plates somewhere.
There is just something about not being in the house where your parents live that makes you forget all the rules. Or, worse, make up your own.
Detoxing day one was filled with rules amended by incompetent-at-logic children. Here are just a few of them.
Actual rule: Only one book down from the shelves at a time.
Amended rule by detoxing, too-creative-for-his-own-good 8-year-old: Except when I create this world called Animalia. You see, Mama? I brought all my twelve thousand stuffed animals up from the garage where I found them in a trash bag—why were they in a trash bag?—and made my room like a stuffed animal resort. They have a reading corner here. See? There’s a book for every one of them. I’ll clean it all up, don’t worry.
Yeah, right.
Actual rule: Before you get something else out to play with, clean up whatever it was you were playing with before.
Amended rule by detoxing, I’m-the-birthday-boy 5-year-old: Except I get to pick everything to play with for the day AND I don’t have to clean anything up, because I’m the birthday boy. What’s that, Mama? It’s clean up time? Well, I’m the birthday boy, so I don’t have to clean up. Nuh-uh. I don’t have to clean up even though I got to pick all the toys. I’m the birthday boy and I LOVE NOT CLEANING UP! IT SHOULD BE MY BIRTHDAY EVERY DAY FOREVER!
(Don’t ever promise a birthday boy he’s exempt from cleaning up.)
Actual rule: Stay at the table until you’re finished with your food and we say yes to your “May I be excused?” question.
Amended rule by detoxing, I-can’t-stop-moving-my-feet 6-year-old: Except that I forgot to show you this really neat picture I made at Nonny and Poppy’s house, and did you see this word search I colored instead of circling words on, and, oh, yeah, I made this really neat paper airplane out of a superhero drawing. Do you want to see it fly? And my brother just go new markers for his birthday and I have this blank sheet of white paper and I LOVE TO COLOR SO MUCH!
It was getting pretty ridiculous.
Actual rule: Don’t touch the CD player when you’re only 3.
Amended rule by detoxing, strong-willed 3-year-old twin: Except I’m an annoying 3-year-old who won’t listen to anything you have to say. Touch, touch, touch. See me touch?
“Stop, son,” I say.
Touch, touch, touch.
[Sit him on the couch while I sit beside him acknowledging that I understand he really, really, really wants to touch those buttons and that I really wish I could let him but that he could break the CD player touching them all. Let him up three minutes later.]
Touch, touch, touch.
Long, long sigh.
Actual rule: Body excrement belongs in the toilet. Please, for the love of God, don’t poop in your underwear.
Amended rule by detoxing I’m-the-other-menace 3-year-old: Oops.
I finally had to lock them all in the backyard (cruel, cruel mother) just to regain my sanity.
I am incredibly grateful for the time our boys get to spend with their grandparents, no matter how challenging it is to get them back on a schedule and remind them of the rules they’ve known since the beginning of time (at least their time). They are not only spending valuable time with another generation but they are also giving their daddy and me the opportunity to spend some beautiful time by ourselves, reconnecting and engaging in conversations where we actually get to finish our sentences and remembering how much we liked each other in the first place.
The time we spend detoxing is definitely worth that reconnection. Every single time.
P.S. Just power through that first day, Mama and Daddy. It will get better. Remember? It always does (not before you add a few gray hairs, though). Pretty soon you’ll be right back to counting down the days until you can send them away again.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
“Oh. You must be a stay-at-home mom.”
There we sat, in a doctor’s office for an annual exam, the nurse tapping in all my background information. We’d just established the six kids piece when she said it.
“No,” I said. “Actually, I work full time.”
It came out almost like an apology, like I was ashamed to say I, a mother of six boys, work the equivalent of a full-time job, and I followed it up with a disclaimer about how I work from home in the afternoons and sometimes late at night so I can spend mornings and evenings with my children and work when they’re being cared for by their daddy or asleep.
“Oh. Oh, wow,” she said. “OK.” She turned to put this latest bit of information into the computer with nothing more said.
It’s not the first time I have encountered this assumption or felt the need to apologize for correcting it. It’s usually women who make those comments, “So, obviously, you stay home with them all,” “Wow, you must be way too busy to work a job,” “Isn’t it wonderful to stay home with them while they’re little?” and it baffles me a little, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my seven years of parenting, it’s that we are all different.
Which means that what we think we might do if we had six children doesn’t mean that’s what she chooses to do.
There are moms of one child who choose to stay home with their child, and there are moms of six children who choose to work.
Every afternoon, I hole away in my home office and write essays and chapters of the latest book and a few poems in all the margins, and I thoroughly enjoy what I do. I always have. It’s what I was made to do. Having children did not change that.
I work for myself, but I still choose to work. Because I am passionate about words and language and crafting beauty and truth to release out into the world. Because I believe in what I’m doing. Because I want my boys to know that women have as much to offer the world as they do.
But mostly because I am a better mother for my separate pursuit, for my writing, for the ways I can process through mistakes and circumstances and potential solutions outside of the constant demands of my children, but that is just me.
I have friends who are stay-at-home moms, and I love them dearly. I have friends who are working moms, and I love them dearly, too.
There is no one right way. There is only our right way.
[Tweet “There is no one right way to be a mother. There is only our right way.”]
We get really good at debating what’s best for the children, but sometimes what’s best for the children is what’s best for us. Some of us can be better versions of ourselves with a career to pursue. Some of us are better versions of ourselves away from the stress of an out-of-home job.
We can argue about who has it hardest, too, but it’s all the hardest job in the world, because we are all mothers, and even when we’re in an office, miles away from our children or just a few feet, we are still thinking of them and worrying about them and missing them. We are still loving them, just like any stay-at-home mom.
And when we’re at home with them, meeting all those needs in real time, trying to hold fast to our sanity because all the whining is pulling it rapidly out of our reach, locking ourselves in the pantry for just a minute to breathe or think or eat that piece of chocolate we’ve been hiding, we are still thinking of them and worrying about them and loving them, just like any working mom.
Just because a mom chooses to mother six kids doesn’t mean she chooses to stay at home full time or she has to give up on a career or she cannot pursue a dream for herself. It just means it may look different for her, like working odd hours to get all those tasks done, like trading off with their daddy to avoid childcare costs, like commuting to an office twice a week and working from a home office the other three days.
I don’t work to get promotions or make a lot of money or even to be some super-mom placed on a pedestal as a “she can do it, why can’t I?” I work because it’s enjoyable to me, because without writing and creating and chasing a dream, I am not the best version of myself.
I know that nurse didn’t say those words to try to make me feel bad or guilty or wrong for my choice, and I don’t.
[Tweet “I don’t feel badly that I’m a mom who works. In fact, I feel more fulfilled. But that’s just me.”]
But I do believe that maybe the world could do without all our assumptions, that the next time we see a mama with a whole tribe of kids crowding around her legs, fighting about who’s going to ride her feet across the street this time, we don’t just assume she is one who has chosen kids over a career, because it’s the only way a thing like that would work.
Maybe we just admire those children, pat them on the head with an encouraging smile and leave those assumptions where they lie.
