by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
Dear Laundry,
I know, I know. You think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been waiting seven whole days in that smelly basket, spilling over onto the floor so little boys trample you on their way to bedrooms, how you’re crumpled up in bathrooms and twisted across couches and even left in the cold car all night, how all you really want is someone to care.
I assure you, I’ve noticed. I wish I could say I’m sorry for not washing you sooner, like you wanted, but I’m not. Because I was playing, skipping through the city zoo and riding on a carousel, teaching kickball to my boys in a big field of green, making little dolls out of clothespins and yarn and fabric, and it was beautiful and invigorating and fun.
I just can’t say the same about you, Laundry.
[Tweet “I always notice you, Laundry. I just don’t like to acknowledge it.”]
Maybe I used to feel differently about you, back when Husband and I walked you to the laundromat and put you in three washers and sat holding hands while talking and writing songs and reading marriage books for the forty-five minutes it took you to wash, and then doing it again while we watched you tumble dry low for another forty-five. But you have gotten out of hand, Laundry. You have invaded where you were not wanted. You have rewarded my hours of care with next to nothing, trading scattered cotton smelling like feet for stacked cotton smelling like lavender and eucalyptus, and maybe I should be grateful for even that, but it’s just not enough anymore, because, well, someone needs to put you away, and that just seems like it’s asking a little too much. I don’t have that much to give you, Laundry.
I’m sorry you stay draped across the back of our couch for days on end (or maybe it’s weeks; I’ve lost count), only moving when little boys have run out of clean underwear and feel bothered enough about reusing their dirty drawers that they’ll come rifling in your avalanche. And then you’re not even neat stacks anymore. You’re like a laundry volcano, waiting for someone to turn a flip off the couch and scatter you everywhere, which will happen in about two more seconds. I’m sorry I’m not so great at finishing you. But I’m not really.
See, you’re just a little too needy. I have a LOT of needy people in my house, and I don’t really need more, but you, well. You must be done every single week, so many loads of you, or you start creeping into the places we don’t want you–like the baby’s bed (because twins have a fetish for clothes piles, especially when they’re smelly) and the boys’ bathroom (which has a floor I wouldn’t even wish upon my worst enemy, except maybe) and, yes, even the refrigerator (we have a few absent-minded ones in the bunch. “Where’d my soccer socks go?” “You mean the dirty ones you wore yesterday and the day before that?” “…” “Did you try the refrigerator?” “Why the refrigera–Oh. Yeah, here they are.”).
I’m just…
I’m just tired of you.
You steal so much valuable time, Laundry. You’re like a giant black hole, sucking those seconds and minutes and hours into an invisible time warp so I hardly know where my whole day has gone because of your intruding buzzer that, every half hour, screams, “Finish me.”
Finish yourself, Laundry.
[Tweet “I wish you would finish yourself, Laundry. I’d rather be playing. Make that sleeping.”]
As if all that weren’t enough, you’re never, ever actually done. That last load spills out of the dryer, and there are still the clothes we’re wearing today. Are you never satisfied? Is there never an end to your demands? Can I just be done for a second or three or fifty-million? You’re like one of my kids, and I know people say that after three it’s just “pull up another chair,” but that’s actually not true at all. It’s more like “Just pull up another adult,” because you suddenly realize that you’re way out of your league. Or maybe it’s more like “Just pull up another bottle,” because who really wants to help the parents who chose to have six kids? A bottle of Merlot, that’s who.
I need a break from you, Laundry. It’s not me, it’s you. I have more than enough people clinging to me. I have more than enough people stealing my time and space. I have more than enough people making a mess of things. I don’t need another, even if it’s just a pile of sweaty socks that smell like rotting skunks.
Besides, my little boys want to play cars, and I’m sorting you, dark and light and white and towels and blankets, eight loads a week. My little boys want to go on a nature walk, and I’m waiting for one-eighth of you to finish washing so I can put you in the dryer and start the next one-eighth of you before we leave. I just want to go to bed, and there you are, commandeering my sleeping space like an unwanted blanket.
You have some things to learn before we can move on, Laundry. Autonomy. Self-discipline. Moderation.
But I have a feeling you won’t even make an effort. So, with a great long sigh (it’s still going), I guess I’ll have to say that though I would like to say it’s finished, I know the truth of it. A mom’s relationship with laundry is never finished. So I’ll see you in our normal meeting place (all over the house) next Monday at 6 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. As if you ever are.
Your resigned partner,
Me
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
You know what would make my life so much easier? If my kids woke up with a warning label plastered to their back, or, better yet, their face (I’ve been known to miss some things when I’m looking–but a warning label on their forehead? I don’t think I’d miss that.). You know, so I’d be well prepared for the completely different human being who’s crawling out of their bed. So I’ll know that yesterday’s angel is going to be a demon and that yesterday’s demon is, today, going to be the heroic angel of the family. A heads up about all that would be nice, because being blindsided at 6:30 a.m. is definitely not my favorite thing in the whole world.
Here are some warning labels that might come in handy.
Caution: Contents are explosive.
I would love to have this warning label on the mornings when one of the kids wakes up with a stomach virus that’s been hanging out in their kindergarten classroom and is now hanging out in their belly, which will soon empty out onto the floor, including my feet. This label would save me time, effort and gagging for half an hour, or every time I think about vomit on feet. It would be really great to know that their contents are explosive, or close to it, so I can make sure I don’t feed them Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies and tomatoes, both of which will stain the entire interior of the car when they explode.
Also, it would be nice to know when the normally compliant child is feeling especially explosive so we don’t let our guard down and think today is going to be an easy day (Ha. There’s never an easy day with illogical human beings). I would like to be prepared for the rare times he is explosive, which usually happens when he’s told, no, he can’t have another snack, because he just ate fifteen Little Cuties in as many minutes. Actually, I guess that’s easy enough to assume; they all get pretty explosive if they have to go more than twelve minutes without food. They also all get explosive when they realize, yet again, that the entire world does not revolve around them. And when they can’t quite figure out their state-mandated math homework and their parents can’t help them, either, because we’re too smart for the math they teach nowadays.
Warning: Handle with extreme care.
I have an extremely sensitive child. Usually he does alright. But every now and then, he wakes up and his extreme sensitivity is dialed up to seventeen on a scale of one to ten. I would like a warning those days so I could just shut my mouth and not say a word to him. Or avoid looking at him. Or just go back to bed, because I’m not going to come even close to winning on days like this.
Turns out, babies aren’t really as fragile as you think they are, but the older they get, the more fragile they become. Their emotional sides are worth cultivating with care. Except for the times they follow you into the bathroom crying about how you shouldn’t be reading a book on the toilet while they’re trying to tell you something and you say you can’t really understand them, because they have too much nose in their mouth, and there goes their emotional side.
Well, there’s always tomorrow. Unless it’s another day you needed that warning label.
Warning: Keep all hands and feet inside the ride at all times.
Anytime I’m around my children, my hands and fingers, and, also, my toes and feet, are in grave danger. Also my back. And my neck. And pretty much any place on my body that could get elbowed or rammed or stepped on (and you’d be surprised how many there are). My boys seem to think Husband and I are human jungle gyms, and anytime I’m stretched out on the floor to try to attempt some push-ups that my arms are too weak to do, they’ll jump on top of me, as if, because I’m failing at lifting my own weight, I’ll suddenly be able to lift theirs, too. I don’t need another fifty pounds heaped over my torso to make me do girlie push ups on my knees. Oh, who am I kidding? I do them from my knees anyway.
Danger: High voltage.
So much energy. There is so much energy pulsing in the bodies of my boys. If I could bottle up half of it and inhale that tincture every other minute, I would still need a miracle to keep up. As it is right now, my boys are always about two hundred steps ahead of me. I’m pretty slow, to be honest. Not as quick on my feet as I used to be back when I played third base in softball. But every time those wrecking balls come hurtling toward me, I do cringe a little, like I used to when someone hit a grounder to third. So at least there’s that reminding me of the great I used to be.
I feel like someone should have warned me how much voltage a boy would have on a life. I’ve been violently shocked into movement I didn’t even necessarily need. I mean, I’ll do my interval training and my running-five-miles any day of the week, but trying to chase a 4-year-old because he wants to stay at the park for ten more hours? No thanks.
Danger: Heavy object, lift with care.
This warning would have been a good one for Husband. Every other day he’s injuring his back, because he offers to put the 9-year-old on his shoulders, which he used to do all the time five years ago—when 65 pounds was only 38 pounds—and he forgets that the 9-year-old is now all legs and muscle. Kids are heavier than they look, especially boys. Our pediatrician used to call our babies “solid.” They were born with muscle. I kid you not. When the 5-year-old was 2, he walked out of the bathroom naked, and every muscle on his back quivered. We have a video to prove it. Husband and I were both jealous. The only quivering our bodies see is the bouncing of our extra flesh.
Caution: Adult supervision is recommended.
Well, duh. Of course adult supervision is recommended. They’re kids, after all.
But I guess I thought that sometimes I might be able to close my eyes for a short five minutes and I wouldn’t have to worry about the three pounds of strawberries in the refrigerator getting eaten before I woke up again. I guess I thought I could “take a minute” in my room without the cabinets getting decorated with a permanent marker the twins were hoarding somewhere still unknown. I guess I thought I could actually close the door when I went to the bathroom without a kid running out of the house with a steak knife to “cut a carrot.”
But no. Adult supervision is recommended at ALL times. At least until the boys are fifteen or so. And even then, it’s debatable. Better just get used to peeing with the door open.
This is, by no means, an exhaustive list of the warning labels that should come with children. Believe me, there are so many more. But there’s only so much time in a day to write before I have to peek my head out of my room and make sure no one’s burned the house down yet. I’m just kidding. I never write on my kid-shift. Husband takes care of the kids when I write.
Which, come to think of it, is actually no guarantee that the house won’t burn down, but, hey, he knows what he’s doing. So I’ll let him do it.
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
I’m no stranger to the kids-in-restaurants debate. It’s been going on for a while, and I always like to keep tabs on it, because I feel pretty strongly about my own point of view. I’ve stayed silent mostly, because I didn’t really want to rock any boats. I’m not a confrontational person by nature and I’ll cry if you look at me wrong, but there are some things that are worth being said.
There are restaurants that have actually banned children from coming to them. Which means, in essence, that parents have been banned as well, since parents can’t always get away without their children. There are also an abundance of people who will make parents feel so miserable when they’re out to eat with their kids that families will resolve to never go to that restaurant again, at least if they have to bring the kids (maybe even without the kids—which would be the case for me). There are people who don’t understand or don’t remember what it’s like to take children out to eat—and why it’s valuable.
I get it, sort of. When a kid’s being loud, it can be a huge distraction. But the thing is, how will children ever learn how to behave in a restaurant if they never get to go to a restaurant in the first place?
Husband and I don’t take our kids out to eat often, and it’s not because of the stares or because we think we’ll make the people uncomfortable. I could care less about that sort of thing. It’s more because have you ever seen the restaurant bill after you’ve taken six kids out? Well, I have, and it’s not pretty.
But on occasion, we do take our kids out for a nice little treat. Usually it’s for a special occasion, like a birthday fun day, where we’ve spent all day out at the city zoo or a children’s museum or walking downtown in the great city of San Antonio, where kids still think it’s cool to go visit the Alamo. So by the time we get to the eating out part, they’re not only hungry, but they’re tired and we’ve had a little too much family togetherness.
My kids are great in restaurants. But they didn’t get that way overnight. They got that way by that amazing tool called Practice.
My kids, like any other person, deserve to eat in a nice restaurant the times we can actually take them. They deserve to sit down to a meal that’s not like the meals they eat in our home every day—because we’re health food junkies—because they turned 7 today or they read a million words for Accelerated Reader or they got into a GT program or they learned to ride a bike or they just accomplished fourteen days clean and dry. They should be able to celebrate without feeling the looks of people who think they should be someone different, someone better, someone quieter and less noticeable.
I understand that you’ve paid for your dinner and all, and you don’t want to hear a kid screaming in the middle of your dinner out (if mine were screaming, I’d take him outside), but I don’t need someone else telling me what I should and should not do with my children. We’ve got a little too much of that going on in our world already.
When I take my kids out to restaurants, they get to experience what it’s like to eat in a place other than their table at home, and they get to learn proper manners in a public setting, and they get to observe the ways that other people conduct their meals and be glad that we don’t allow phones at our table.
I remember back when Husband and I only had a toddler and a newborn infant, and one night we decided to go out to eat, because I was getting cabin fever cooped up in the house all day, but I didn’t yet trust the baby to a babysitter. There was a white-haired couple who came in to the restaurant, and when the waitress asked if the booth beside ours was okay, they took a good long look at us, and I thought, for a minute, that they might say no, they wanted to sit anywhere but here. But then the woman beamed at me, turned to the waitress and said, “Yes, of course.” She put down her purse, promptly perched on the edge of her booth and exclaimed over the new baby. For the next fifteen minutes, this man and woman asked me how old the toddler was and told me what they remembered from their sons’ early days and, at one point, the woman patted my hand and said, “It gets easier. It really does.”
Our food arrived, and she and her husband turned back to their own table. When our check came, it had already been paid.
I wonder how the world might be different if we all had such welcoming, understanding hearts?
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
I never thought I’d be a mom of all boys. When I first started my parenting journey, I thought for sure that I would have one or two girls in the mix, because everyone I know does. But then we had boy after boy after boy, and I realized, soon enough, that I was not meant to be a girl mom.
I was meant to be a boy mom. And there are some really special things about being a mother of boys.
1. You’re the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen.
You’ll always be the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen. You are the standard to which they will hold every other girl, at least for a while. They think you’re beautiful when you’ve been wearing the same workout pants for three days in a row and when your hair hasn’t been washed in a couple of days and when you don’t even have makeup on. They think you’re beautiful when you’re in a bad mood or a silly mood or an I-don’t-really-want-to-be-a-mother-today mood. They think you’re beautiful because they see through a lens of innocence, a lens of love.
2. You will get grossed out daily.
Most kids are pretty gross, but boys are the worst. They don’t care about the snot running all the way down to their chin; they’ll just reach their little tongues up to “wipe” it away. They don’t care that if they hug you, they’re going to get a big slimy glob on your shoulder. They don’t care that when they poop, they probably need at least three good wipes. They’ll leave it at one and then stripe the toilet with the rest. Boys are pretty gross. Just get used to it.
3. You’re a flower repository.
Every time you pass a wildflower field, boys will want to go pick as many flowers as they can and bring them back to you. They will want you to try to put those centimeter-long stems in your hair, even though they’re too short to wrap around your ear. They will want you to display the pink ones in a vase so they can show off the bouquet to whomever may come to visit today, which is usually no one, because when you’re a mom of boys, you’re not often entertaining anyone else. Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m the only one afraid of social contact after being slimed all day by boys.
6. They’re obsessed with their body parts. One in particular.
Not only do my boys love streaking through the house naked, even though they’ve been instructed to put on their pajamas directly after their bath so that we can get along to story time, they are fascinated by their body parts—well, one body part. They will play with their penises and compare penises and try to smack each other’s penises just for the fun of it. They are uncivilized and untamable.
5. You will have regular exposure to potty humor or humor related to bodily functions.
Boys think all bodily humor is hilarious. And I mean all of it. If you make a farting sound between the lyrics to “Happy Birthday” while you’re singing to their brother, they will fall apart giggling. If you end your prayers with an arm fart, or try to pretend like you’re arm farting the ABC song, they will laugh until they’re crying. If you say anything about “penis” or “naked booty,” or “burp-farts,” they will shriek with delight.
6. When you burp at the table, you feel like you’ve just won an award.
Boys will be contagiously delighted when their mom burps at the table. They think it’s the funniest thing ever. Which is great, because holding in gas was never really my strong point. I always thought it was a flaw. Turns out it’s not, because, that’s right. Boys. I win the table every night, after the last bite. They’ll laugh and applaud and I’ll feel on top of the world, because I’ve never won anything in my life.
7. You get used to naked people.
As soon as the 6-year-old gets home from school, he likes to strip down to his boxers and underwear, whichever it is he’s wearing for the day. He knows, of course, that he has to put on clothes to go outside, but that doesn’t even matter. He’ll choose a whole new ensemble if he goes outside, because those other clothes were the slightest bit damp from the walk home, and he “doesn’t like to sweat.” Bath time in our house is a constant chorus of “Go put on your pajamas” and “Here are your pajamas. Put them on.” And “You can’t sit on my lap naked,” because, well, boys just like the feeling of running free.
8. You don’t get to hold them for long.
A few days after my youngest turned one, he started coming over to give me a hug and then immediately squirming out of my arms before I was ready to let him go. Boys are active and rambunctious and prefer, always, to move. Every now and then I can entice this littlest one to stay a while, if I’m bouncing around or doing a ridiculous dance, or if I start running through the house, but if I’m not doing any of those things, he’s not going to make an effort to stay.
Boys want to be moving at all times. I, on the other hand, don’t. But I do want to snuggle with my boys every now and then, so sometimes I’ll pick myself up off the floor, with great, sighing effort and run around, too. Sometimes it’s the only way I can steal a quick hug.
9. Disgusting smells become everyday smells.
My upstairs smells like a swamp, because there’s a bathroom up there that the boys always, always, always forget to flush. Their room smells like a locker room, because not only do they need to start wearing deodorant right about now but they also like to wear their soccer socks for three days in a row, and, believe me, you haven’t smelled disgusting until you’ve smelled worn-three-days-in-a-row soccer socks (or the shoes that have embraced them all day). Not only that, but whenever a boy is sitting on my lap, a cloud of fumes inevitably forms around us, because they’re really, really good at SBDs (silent but deadlies—it’s a type of fart you probably don’t ever want to experience, in a class of its own). I can usually tell who’s the culprit because of the self-satisfied smirk on his face while he looks around to see if anyone noticed. Of course we noticed. It smells like a sulfur plant in here. My nose hairs are singed.
Boys aren’t easy. They’re a whole lot of work. They require more energy than we’ll probably ever have, because they never, ever stop. They’re always getting into things, especially the food, and they’re always making a mess, especially with the clothes they strip and leave on the floor, and they’re always asking us if we smelled that or if we want to see what they just did to the toilet (forever and ever answer: Nope.).
But the most amazing thing I’ve learned about boys is that they will love the insecurities right off a mama. They will love her doubts away. They will love away all that has come before and infuse hope into all that comes after.
I know, because that’s what my boys have done for me.
And I’m so very glad.
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
Wake up, wake up, it’s time to start the day, come down to breakfast, don’t play around now, put that book down, get downstairs, make sure you get your socks, put your shoes on, you should tie your laces so you don’t trip over them, where are your shoes? I have no idea where they are, did you leave them outside? You probably left them outside, go look, they’re all wet? Well, you’ll still have to wear them, pack up your backpack, we’re leaving in ten minutes, pack up your backpack, we’re leaving in five minutes, get your backpack, one more minute, well, looks like you’re walking yourself to school, because your brothers and I are leaving, remember, if you’re late to school that means you don’t get technology time when you get home, come on, boys, stay out of the street, stay by me, on the grass, make sue you don’t get your shoes too terribly wet, watch out for that sprinkler, oh, watch out for the dog poop, please don’t step in the dog poop, welp, now we’re going to have to clean your shoes off, come over here, wait boys, we have to clean the poop off so your brother doesn’t track it inside the school, don’t cross the street yet, you need to wait for me, there are cars coming, okay, ready, set, go! You’re getting too far ahead, wait up for us, watch where you’re going, share the sidewalk, don’t stop when you’re walking right in front of me, hurry up, we can’t be late for school, hold the door, please, wait for me, let’s be quiet through the hallways, don’t stand on the bench, let’s walk your brothers to their classes, I love you, remember who you are, strong, kind, courageous and mostly Son, have a wonderful day, okay, come on, boys, let’s go back home, are you cold? Let’s fix your jacket, hold the door open, please, slow down, boys, stop before you get to the street, do not cross without me, I’m coming as fast as I can, this stroller isn’t a running one, wait a minute, let me get a picture of you with that flower, okay, let’s cross, one more street, we can do it, I know you’re tired, I know it’s cold, yay we’re home, what do you want to play with? Please stay out of that, stay out of that, please stay out of that, for the love, please leave things alone, just leave it alone, you know what you can play with and what you should stay out of, okay, thank God, it’s story time, go pick some stories, let’s read, time for lights out, better stay in your beds, I’ll be right here, [go to work], someone’s knocking, it’s time for dinner, walking down the stairs is not a race, I’m coming, I’m coming, everybody’s here, let’s pray, what was the best part of your day, everybody listen, your brother’s trying to talk, be quiet, hey, your brother is trying to talk, and it’s not polite to interrupt, this is a really great dinner, how could you possibly still be hungry, you’ve had three plates, make sure you eat all your vegetables, they’re good for you, don’t eat too much, though, your tummy will hurt, but make sure you eat enough, because your tummy will hurt, don’t put your elbows on the table, keep your voices down, please, wait, guys, wait, where did you go, it’s time for after-dinner chores, don’t hit your brother, make sure you put your shoes where they belong, don’t go out front without a parent watching, how many times do I have to tell you, doesn’t matter if you’re a big boy, you have no idea how to stay alive like I do, hey, don’t hurt your brother just because you’re angry, remember, we don’t hurt people in our anger, we use our words to express how we feel, time for chores, time for baths, time to get out, I said put the toys down and get out of the bath, drain the water, let’s read some stories, everybody be quiet, I can’t read over your voices and I really don’t like to try, be quiet, hey guys, be quiet, please get off me, I don’t mind you sitting n my lap, but not when you’re wrestling, okay silent reading time, I said silent reading time, does anybody know what silent means? Apparently I’m the only one, you know what, everybody just brush your teeth and get in bed, I said it’s time for bed, get back in your bed, get.back.in.your.bed., GET BACK IN YOUR BED, get back in your bed get back in your bed get back in your bed…
Husband: Want to—?
Me: Nope.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
I’m not a hoarder. Not even close. In fact, I’m probably the opposite of a hoarder. I periodically like to go through a room and take all of the unnecessary things out of it and just throw them away.
But my kids? Well, they’re a different story altogether.
They hoard stuffed animals.
For Easter this year, the kids were talking about all the amazing toys their friends were getting from the Easter Bunny. It seems like the Easter Bunny has turned into a second Santa in many kids’ lives. Fortunately, we don’t do the Easter Bunny, and Mama and Daddy are much cheaper than the Easter Bunny. So the boys got a small gift card to a local yogurt shop (which ended in a GREAT family outing, let me tell you) and another small one to Hobby Lobby.
I had high hopes for the Hobby Lobby card. We’re always running out of art supplies, and I thought that’s what they’d buy. But no. In we walked, and they headed straight for the Beanie Boos display (which also happens to be the “impulse buy” display) and then directly to the checkout counter.
It’s not like they don’t have a billion already. But they hoard stuffed animals. Every time they have money, they want to buy another one. These things are like rabbits, multiplying at every turn. I’ve tried to get rid of some of the old ones—the ones that are too beat up to even recognize anymore because the 4-year-old twins went through a de-fluffing stage—but the boys started crying like someone had died. “We can’t even have a fake dog?” they said.
Well, tell me if you’d argue with that one.
“They’re all loved,” they say. Which is a nice sentiment. Except there’s one that’s been caught in a backyard tree for about three weeks, and no one’s made a move to bring him back in.
They hoard papers.
Papers are my nemesis. I have three boys in school, and the number of papers they bring home is nothing compared to the number of papers they find and draw on at home. I’m sorting through about three hundred papers a day, and that’s not even an exaggeration. And I have to be stealthy about when I put the papers I don’t want in the recycling bin, because if boys see me? It’s “I made that for you. You don’t want it?” and then I’m feeling guilty for even being alive.
They hoard bug carcasses.
Anytime my 4-year-old twins go outside—which is a lot these days, because twins are hard—they’re digging holes in the yard. They are fascinated by worms and pillbugs and lady bugs, and because it’s been a beautiful spring here in Texas, there are plenty of bugs to choose from. The problem is, they steal mason jars and fill them with bugs and then stock them in the pantry, so the next time I go to reach for the raw sunflower seeds, I’m met with a prop from a horror movie. But when I want to throw them away, the twins say the jar is full of their pets.
“They’re my pets,” one of them will say.
“No, they’re mine,” the other will say.
While they’re fighting about it, I dump the contents of the jar in the trash and still have plenty of time to relax, because it’ll be about an hour before they’ve settled their disagreement.
They hoard LEGOs.
It’s been a while since we introduced LEGOs into our house. And I’m so glad we did. I love having to nag my 9-year-old to clean up his LEGOs every other minute, because he gets so focused on a building project he doesn’t care that it’s time for dinner, he just wants to keep building.
LEGOs are great. Even I enjoy building with them sometimes, when the kids aren’t home to tell me how I’m doing it all wrong. The problem is, my kids are always talking about how they want more, more, more. Have you seen how many LEGO sets there are out on the market? We would need another house to collect them all, but the 9-year-old has a mission that sounds exactly like that: collect them all.
They hoard nature.
Here’s a ridiculous admission for you: when I’m doing laundry, I never check the pockets. I know I should. It’s really dangerous not to, but when you’re separating a weeks’ worth of laundry for eight people, you don’t really have much time to do pocket-checking. Periodically, I’ll have a load going in the washer and hear a terrible thumping noise. At first I’ll think it’s someone trying to break into the house, because what can I say about my imagination except that it’s highly active and also doomsday-ish. And then I’ll realize it’s coming from the washer, so I’ll think the washer is probably breaking, great, now what are we going to do, there’s no way I’ll be able to wash clothes the old-fashioned way for all these people.
But then I’ll open the washer and see the source of all that clunking: rocks.
Don’t ask me why I didn’t feel the weight of those rocks when I was sorting the clothes. That’s a ridiculous question.
It’s not just rocks, either. It’s sticks in the bathtub and leaves all over the front entryway and dirt in cups and flowers encased in bowls of water they put in the freezer for a “quick science experiment.” My kids are hoarders of everything nature.
I like a simple home, but kids make it anything but simple—not just in the emotional sense but in every other sense. It doesn’t matter how many times we explain to our kids that a lower number of “things” makes us much happier, they want more. It’s human nature. They have to learn themselves that things are not what will make them happy in the end. And they’ll learn that eventually.
In the meantime, let’s just all pretend I’m on an episode of “Hoarders” and call it a successful day.
