by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
It’s time for another Dear Concerned Reader—because you know what happens when one of my articles gets popular on another platform besides my own: all the comedians start coming out. This time it was my “A Dad is Not a Helper or a Babysitter. He’s a Parent.”
So. Enjoy.
“In the grand scheme of parenting this is pettiness. Why would you worry that someone wants to praise your husband for being a good dad and doing what he is supposed to do? So he gets more credit than you…It’s not that big of a deal, lighten up. I think it’d be nice if dad’s that do parent didn’t have to feel shamed into silence about their role for fear of seeming to be too expectant of praise.”
I’m Better Than You
Dear I’m Better Than You: I would like to whine and complain about how I don’t ever get any recognition for all the things I do for my kids, because, after all, I’m inherently selfish and can’t do a single thing—not even lift a finger, if you want the God-honest truth—unless someone notices my efforts. That’s why I wash forty thousand cups every day in the dishwasher, only to have kids complain that they weren’t the RIGHT forty-thousand cups. That’s why I put their school folders where they belong so that the next day they can bemoan the fact that they can’t find them, because they were on the floor last time they checked. That’s why I change diapers and wipe bottoms and clean out noses and cook dinner and wash clothes and read stories, because I want the credit. All I’m really looking for is a little affirmation, a few simple accolades, because I don’t do what I do just because I love. Who does?
Now. Is that really too much to ask?
“As a responsible caring adult of two kids (and very little to no support from my ex) that having kids and doing what you naturally feel is one of the biggest thankless jobs in the world…so just deal with it…you are not getting a pat on the back for it.”
Pessimism Has Always Worked
Dear Pessimism Has Always Worked: I live for pats on the back, so I guess I’ll just…well. Keep living my senseless, purposeless life. No one’s going to pat me on the back. Poor, forgotten me. It’s not fair. Husband goes out places with the kids and doesn’t even have to try for that pat on the back. You know who deserves it more? Me, that’s who.
“So back to the author…do you want some cheese with that whine.”
I’m a Clever Devil
Dear I’m a Clever Devil: Yes, please. I love cheese. Please make it sharp white cheddar. Also, you misspelled the last word. Just thought you should know. I believe the correct term is “cheese and wine.”
Wait. Were you saying something passive aggressive? Did I miss that?
“She sounds very angry to me and I personally find it insulting that she seems to group all dads together as lazy or unhelpful. I work full time and my wife is an at home mom but I take every minute I can get with my little lady so I suggest you keep your essay to yourself because there are a ton of us FATHERS who are exceptional parents.”
Bone to Pick
Dear Bone to Pick: Believe it or not, there is such thing as Reading an Article, which you clearly did not do. So settle down, start at the top and read it all the way through.
“If the writer is this stressed out over child-rearing, she should see if her husband can babysit so she can have a night out.”
Ha Ha I’m So Funny
Dear Ha Ha I’m So Funny: No, you’re not.
“Typical fem-nazi bs, if men were to raise children like women then we would have vaginas, want equal pay, get away from answering phones and build a skyscraper or a bridge, are there some women worthy of equal pay yes there are, but 90 percent want equal pay for doing nothing which is why we laugh at you and yes when your husband is working all day while your sitting on fb or the phone, your job is to watch the kids cook and keep the house clean, his job is to climb said building everyday for your ungrateful asses, and you wonder why your kids dads are not around. But of course you will have men who stick up for this sort of behavior they are called ‘Pussies’.” (stet, to all of it)
Anti-Feminist
Dear Anti-Feminist: Wow. Rage much? Yeah, so I guess you could call me a feminist, because feminism isn’t what all you anti-feminists make it out to be (not even close to evil—it’s just about equal rights). Some men understand that. Some men, present company included, clearly don’t. I feel sorry for you.
That said, there is this neat little mind-blowing concept called Working Outside the Home. Most of the women I know choose to do it, which means they are not, in fact, sitting at home on Facebook or on the phone or not working their tails off around the house. But thank you for confirming that I sure am glad my husband is the father of my six boys and not someone like you. God help the world.
“Probably written by a woman sitting at home typing on her computer in her robe already worrying about making sure her husband can’t sit down when he gets home until 10PM because she’s had such a hard day socializing and taking care of those children for the 2 hours between school getting out and dad getting home. ‘Oh sorry honey I couldn’t do dishes or laundry in the 6 hours the kids were at school so you watch them while I sit here and pretend to fold laundry while playing on social media.'”
I Make Great Assumptions
Dear I Make Great Assumptions. You sure do. You totally nailed it, because here I am, sitting in my robe, playing on my computer (mostly Facebook), scribbling down the honey-do list for Husband when he gets home (oh, wait. He works from home. So…I guess when he’s done with his workday?) so he can’t sit down for a single minute (he’ll thank me later) and I can go out with the ladies. You know, adult interaction. I’ve been sitting alone in the house all day (SO BORING!). A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right? Here, honey. You take the kids. Thanks! Don’t wait up.
You missed one thing, though. Before I leave to go out with the girls, I usually sit in the car and pretend to be doing something really important on my phone when I’m really typing out a nasty comment to an essay I didn’t even read. So maybe you’re not as great at assumptions as you might think.
“There are plenty of men out there that do everything for their kids. You picked him now stop bitching and take a little responsibility for your own actions.”
I Don’t Know How to Read
Dear I Don’t Know How to Read: I’m sorry you don’t know how to read. I have some great resources for mastering this important skill, if you’re interested. The first is a pamphlet called “How to Read the Entire Thing.” I think you’d like it.
“Wasn’t aware men were put on pedestals, but it is a fine idea. I’ll want a pedestal to stay above the whiny din of those that liked this ‘article.’”
Witty Guy
Dear Witty Guy: May I please build your pedestal? Watch your step, now.
“No… Dad babysits while mom takes a shower or cooks dinner. I love him but he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Lol. When my hubby can lactate and feed our baby at 3AM from his body so it not only fills her tummy but fills her heart, I’ll change my opinion. Until then. It’s a mom’s world; stop trying to act like a man can fill my shoes.”
Part of the Problem
Dear Part of the Problem: Dad doesn’t babysit. Maybe your husband really does know what he’s doing. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to, because you don’t trust him to take care of things the way you’d take care of them. Maybe he just needs the chance. I bet he could figure it out. I hope it’s not a mom’s world. I don’t want to live in a mom’s world, because I want to be more than just a mom, so I’ll let Husband fill my shoes any day. He can do it just as well as I can.
“I stopped reading before the end of the first paragraph.”
Sometimes I Get Ideas
Dear Sometimes I Get Ideas: Welp. There’s 99 percent of your problem.
“It would be nice to live in a world where women quit bitching about shit.”
It’s a Mad World
Dear It’s a Mad World: Well, THAT’S never going to happen. You’ll never live in a world without women bitching because you’ll never live in a world without women. In the words of Meredith Brooks: “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother…”
“Someone’s tired.”
I Tell the Truth
Dear I Tell the Truth: I am. I’m so tired.
“Get over yourself.”
I Heart Myself
Dear I Heart Myself: Meh. I’d rather not.
“What’s next, a piece to educate women about their proper role vis a vis burned out light bulbs?”
In Vague
Dear In Vague: I don’t even know what this means. Women’s role facing burned out lights? All I know is I change them when they’re out.
Here’s a little secret: Sometimes we appear more intelligent when we speak in simpler sentences.
“Well Rachael and hubby, good luck with the double-parent burnout. Why are people so ashamed to be a stay-at-home Mom and working Dad couple these days? Do what works best for you but I would bet the husband only goes along with it because the wife will leave if he doesn’t.”
What’s Your Name Again?
Dear What’s Your Name Again: Hey, man, my name is right there. It’s RIGHT THERE. R-A-C-H-E-L. You added an A. That’s, like, my pet peeve from my school days. And it was right there. You didn’t even look.
Anyway. Sorry I discredited you there for a minute. I spent a decade in journalism, and misspelled names were the mark of lazy reporting. Now that we’re past that, you’re right. I don’t know how you people know exactly what happens in my house, but it’s astounding how much you know just from an article I wrote on a whim. Husband is on a leash (and it’s a pretty short one). The only reason he stays married to me is because he’s terrified I’ll leave and his whole life will be over (you should see me in yoga pants. You’d understand). Because that’s the healthiest way to live in a good, long-lasting marriage. Isn’t it?
Thanks for commenting! If you have any personal issues with any of my answers, please email idontcare@babymakingfactory.com.
See you next time I write an article about my big family or…anything!
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
My kids are out of their minds about this leap year thing. A day that only comes around once a year?
Yeah.
What would you do if you had a birthday today?
Uncle Jarrod almost did.
He would only be a kid still?
No, the years still pass. Just because his birthday rolled around every four years doesn’t mean he’d stay frozen in time and quit growing.
They seemed relieved to hear that, even though they still didn’t quite get it. In their minds, a person with a birthday on Feb. 29 would stay forever young. So I showed them a picture of Dee Brown (the novelist, not the basketball player), who definitely grew older and died at the ripe old age of 94 and only technically passed one-fourth of those birthdays. All I know is that if being born on Leap Day really meant you only aged a year for every four, I’d volunteer for that.
Well, maybe not. I’d only be 8. I was pretty annoying at 8, and that was also the year I got the most embarrassing purple glasses you’ve ever seen—they took up half my face because it was the ‘80s and people didn’t feel the need to make their 8-year-old kid who needs glasses still look cool.
Anyway. I didn’t come here to talk about that. What I came here to talk about is leaping past a whole day in your life. You know, with years that are not Leap years, February has the privilege of leaping over its last day like it doesn’t even count.
What did 29 do to you, February? Also: where do I apply to leap over a whole stretch of time? Because I’d like to sign up for leaping over my kids’ Year 3.
I don’t know about you, but my kids were perfect angels at 2. They were snuggly, they were respectful, they were adorable, they were brilliant, they were compliant. And the minute they turned 3, angel became devil.
This year I’ve had the pleasure of raising two 3-year-olds. That’s been wonderful, let me tell you. You know how 3-year-olds ask a billion questions a day? Try having two of them. I’m so questioned out I could live the next 30 years without hearing another one, which won’t happen. I’ll hear another billion by the time I finish this sentence, because guess what? They’re still 3!
Also, the number of times I’ve turned into a 3-year-old is quite astounding. You’d think that after all these years—after, in fact, having survived three other 3-year-olds—I would know better. But I’m still a sucker for getting into an argument with a threenager, mostly because they think they know EVERYTHING, and you know what? I’m the one who knows everything.
I can get myself into a lot of trouble if I say something like,
“Here’s your vitamin.”
“You mean my melatonin,” one of the 3-year-olds will say.
I don’t like misinformation, because I spent a decade as a reporter, so, of course I’m quick to correct them.
“No, it’s not melatonin. It’s called Focus Factor.”
“No. It’s melatonin.”
Which quickly disintegrates into a clipped, matter-of-fact answer by yours truly:
“I can read. You can’t.”
“Mama, you’re doing your workout wrong,” they say when I’m actually busting my rear end to get ahead of the interval training video because I’m a beast.
No, I’m sorry, I know exactly what I’m doing and you should just shut your mouth if you don’t want an uppercut right to your jaw. (Not because I’d beat a kid who tells me I’m slacking while my heart rate is camped at 130. Because I’m doing uppercuts in my workout, and they’re leaning in too close to tell me I’m doing it wrong.)
“I didn’t have milk today,” is another one of my twins’ favorite things to say, even though the cup they’re staring at right this very minute still has three drops of milk in it because they just finished their glass.
Um, yes you did, blindy. (To be clear, these are only the things I think in my head.)
“I’ll put my jacket on,” they say on mornings when we’re already five minutes late for leaving, and, hey, who am I to argue, because I’m all for autonomy. Except one of them likes to turn his jackets inside out before putting it on, which I’m pretty sure defeats the purpose.
That’s not right. Yes it is. No it’s not. YES IT IS. Okay, then, wear it like that, genius.
They talk back about everything, they have their own ideas about the way things should be (I want the BLUE plate. There is no blue plate. I want the BLUE plate. You can have the yellow plate or the orange plate. I want the BLUE plate. Okay, you get nothing), they make ridiculous threats (I not eating ever again, because you said it’s still time to stay in our beds and I don’t want to nap. Okay, more for me.), they fight about everything (This is Lightning McQueen. No, THIS is Lightning McQueen. It’s the same car, guys.), they know everything, they break everything, they mess with everything, they can do everything themselves even if it means going the whole day with their shoes on the wrong feet.
So, if I had to choose a stretch of time in my parenting that I could leap over, it would be year 3. Potty training comes at a distant second.
We’re looking forward to Year 4, with high hopes that 3 will be long gone and we will have our sweet little twins back.
Wait. I can’t remember. Were they ever sweet in the first place? (My gray hairs say no.)
by Rachel Toalson | Stuff Crash Test Kids say
Me: It’s time for bed.
3-year-old: But we dinnent have breakthast.
Me: We just ate dinner.
3-year-old: But we dinnent have breakthast.
Me: Breakfast comes after bedtime.
3-year-old: No! Breakthast is now.
Me. No. It’s not.
3-year-old: Yes, it is!
Me: No it’s not.
3-year-old: Yes, it is!
[15 minutes later]
Me: I see what you’re doing here.
Husband: Everybody be quiet.
3-year-old: Why?
Husband: Slap your face for me, son.
5-year-old: I don’t ever want to see my teacher again.
Husband: Why? What happened?
5-year-old: She signed my folder today.
Husband: If you only knew how many times Jadon had his folder signed in kinder.
9-year-old: that was a long time ago. Aaannnd one of the times I got my folder signed I learned how to whistle. So there’s that.
Husband: Show me your whistle.
9-year-old: ffffftttt.
Husband: Yep. Totally learned to whistle.
9-year-old: May you please polish this with butter for me?
Me: We had really big cell phones when I was a little girl.
9-year-old: Did you have a milk man back then?
5-year-old: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there?
5-year-old: Axew
Me: Axew who?
5-year-old: Can I Axew a question?
Me: You already did. hahahahahaha I GOT THE LAST WORD ON THAT ONE.
5-year-old:
Me:
5-year-old: I don’t get it.
9-year-old: I really like playing Pikachu with Asher.
Me: Okay, enough with the Pokemon jokes.
6-year-old: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there.
6-year-old: There’s a Pokemon on your finger.
Me: There’s a Pokemon on your finger who?
6-year-old: There’s a Pokemon on your finger, and it’s named Pinky-choo!
Me: Are we ever going to be done with Pokemon jokes?
All: No.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Being a parent changes you in ways you may never have expected (or even wanted). It is undeniable that they destroy us completely. Mostly, though, they make us better people in a way that only caring for illogical human beings can make us better people.
But they also change us in other ways—ways that I, myself, did not notice for quite some time.
Did you ever think that when you were out to dinner with some new friends and your kid suddenly started throwing up mashed potatoes with the exact consistency of vanilla frozen yogurt, you would catch it in your hands? Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.
It sounds gross when I say it like that, but you never know what you’ll do under pressure. Sometimes you’re so desperate to make a good impression on these new people you’re meeting, because you desperately need some adult interaction, that you will not even think about sticking your hands out to catch your son’s puke so it doesn’t dirty the floor. You will watch in horror as it fills your cupped hands, and you will wonder what in the world you’re going to do with it now—let it drip all the way to the bathroom? Release it onto your plate of fries? Let it slip out through your fingers onto the floor? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH IT? You will, of course, not even dare to look those new potential kidless-friends (it was over before it even started) in the eye. You will only look your partner in the eye, and from his will be coming the same words that are pounding in your head. “They’ll never call us again.” And they won’t.
When you’re a parent, you suddenly find great satisfaction and pride in pulling a gnarly booger from a kid’s nose.
Sometimes you’ll hear that little infant breath wheezing, because his nose is so stopped up with snot that you know it’s time to bring out the trusty old nose sucker. And you’ll crack your fingers and stretch your neck and shake out your hands, and you’ll lay him on the floor and go to work. You’ll exclaim over every “schhhhhleppp” that issues forth from that nose sucker, and sometimes you’ll turn around and show your partner, who is trying her hardest not to notice. And then, when an especially massive one comes out, and you say to that infant in a triumphant voice, “Now you can BREATHE!” you will turn to your partner and say, “Check this one out,” and it will be on your HANDS. Because you’re proud. Your partner will throw up a little in her mouth.
Or maybe that’s just how it goes with Husband.
You will also begin to notice every person who speeds through your neighborhood.
You didn’t used to be this nitpicky, but my gosh. You will now have the most well trained ear around. You will know the road noise of every car going faster than 20 miles an hour in your neighborhood, and you will give those drivers the evilest eye they’ve ever seen if they’re speeding. Because you’re walking your kids to school, and the lives of your kids are important to you, and you don’t really care if the driver is late to work or the airport or gym class, the life of a child is NEVER worth a few extra seconds.
If a driver happens to be going faster than 30 through the school zone while you and your kids are walking to school, you will bravely step out into the road and tell them to slow down. You don’t even care what they think. They should pay attention. They should stop looking at their phones. They should watch out for the nails you just dropped. Nothing slows a person down better than a slow tire leak.
You see? You get a little crazy when you’re a parent.
As a parent, you also get really good at eating delicious food in secret.
Maybe it’s a little cliche, but it’s also true. You will order food and eat it in secret, because you know it’s not the stuff you want your kid eating. Well, really, it’s because it’s too dang expensive to take a whole family out to eat, especially when you’re my family. So you’ll call it a “date night” when the kids come knocking because they smell the fries all the way upstairs. They’ll ask you why you didn’t just get a babysitter, and you’ll tell them it’s because neither of you felt like going out tonight, and then they’ll ask why you have dates three or four times a week (It’s not really that bad. They’re good at exaggeration. Have no idea where they get it.), and you’ll say it’s because you love each other, which is a good enough answer, now get to bed so I can eat my delicious food in peace, while it’s still hot.
I wish I could tell you it wasn’t true, but when you’re a parent, grocery shopping becomes your treat (or break or vacation, whatever you want to call it).
Unless, of course, you’re taking the kids. Then it’s a hellish nightmare. I don’t have the luxury of grocery shopping without my kids, but, hey, enjoy that. If I do get a day, I bet I’ll think it’s like a vacation to Disney World, except with more affordable food. And no fun rides, unless you ride the cart to the parking lot, which I’m totally going to do next time I go kidless.
When you’re a parent you also don’t really care what your home looks like anymore.
You’ll fight it for a really long time. You’ll probably still care, just a little, what your house looks like, but you just won’t care as much. You’ll try harder to not let it bother you, because you’ll know how inevitable the destruction of it is, and you’ll mostly get tired out trying to clean up every day and watching your kids undo it in 3.4 seconds of being in a room.
There’s a hole in the wall? Eh, well, you’ll get around to fixing it, eventually. There are drawings on the doors? Well, it’s like a kid-art mural. Now you look like the really cool parents who let their kids make art on the walls. The couches are sagging in the middle? Welp. You’ll just have to deal with that, because you’re not buying furniture until the kids are grown and gone. You’ll give them all the broken stuff to furnish their first apartment.
And, probably the biggest and most drastic change: You could fall asleep anywhere.
You’re so tired all the time that you really could fall asleep anywhere. Waiting in the doctor’s office? There’s a fish tank to entertain the 3-year-olds. Sat down on the couch for “just a minute to rest?” You’ll be out in no time, even while the kids are having a dance party around you. Sitting on a cement bench out at the park? Doesn’t matter. You’ll still close those eyes and enter dreamland in 30 seconds flat, especially since the other parents are watching your kid. You’ll just pretend you’re a homeless person if they ask whose kid that is.
The truth is, there are many, many more changes that happen when you become a parent, but there’s not space for them all here. Besides, I’m standing at my standing desk, and I’d really like to take a nap real quic—aioer’kowcls;,
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
When I was pregnant with my first child, I worked full-time as the editor of a newspaper produced by The United Methodist Church. Every week I’d write all the articles (because the staff was…nonexistent) and I’d take all the pictures and then I’d edit what few articles came to me, and after all that, I’d design the entire newspaper single-handedly. I don’t say this for kudos. I know well enough that I did a great job with what I had. But there was a man at my workplace who expressed, quite bluntly, that once I had that baby in my belly, I was not going to be a very good worker. I would be less desirable as an employee, he said in so many words.
He made his point in many different ways. With commentary on how once a mother has a kid, she can’t really focus much on her work, because there’s the kid competing with her work for attention. With little asides about how much children change a mother’s life. With point-blank reasoning that he couldn’t be sure I’d even work once the baby came, even though they were paying me to produce a newspaper every month. (What exactly would I do? Sit in my office and daydream about sleeping? Well, yeah, that’s probably true.)
And then I had the baby, and guess what? I did the same exact job the same exact way, except I learned how to juggle more efficiently. I put systems in place. I didn’t get sucked into time vortexes, because there wasn’t time to get sucked into them. I did exactly what I was expected to do and then some. I found a way to be a good mother and a good employee, like many women before me have done.
So now I have six kids. And it’s still the same old story.
Husband and I, in a former life, were traveling musicians, and recently we were asked to share our music at a church venue. And then, at the last minute, we had to bail because the people asking us to lead—who also were not paying us for our time—could not take it upon themselves to provide childcare that would keep our kids safe while we led others into a worship experience.
Now. I know I have six kids. I know it’s my responsibility to take care of my kids. But when you ask me to do you a favor, the least you can do is make sure my six kids are cared for while I’m doing it. I’m happy to do favors. I’m not happy to let two 3-year-old twins run around a sanctuary and flip over pews and put their fingers in light sockets just to “see what happens.”
Sadly, this attitude—the one that says once you become a parent you’re no longer very useful to us—is not as rare as you might think. We see it in our churches that don’t provide the relief of childcare for young parents and in our workplaces that make us work grueling schedules instead of flexible ones and, also, in our very streets. When my family is out and about, people walk up to us at random, as if it’s any of their business, sharing delightful comments like, “These all yours? My God,” and then roll their eyes and walk away. (My favorite is, “Wow. What do you do? You must make a lot of money to support all these kids.” Nope. We just work hard and do our part, and money takes care of itself.) People regularly see us (because we’re quite a spectacle—two parents dragging six boys away from the curb so they don’t get run over by the cars speeding through town) and shake their heads and dismiss us as “those people.” They ask what we do and hear that I’m an author and they look at my kids and they can’t let themselves believe it (glazed eyes are the telltale sign), because no one could possibly get any work done with six kids at home. Husband tells them he’s a video marketing guy, and they dismiss him because he was that guy crazy enough to have six kids.
Well, you know what, world? Just because we have six kids doesn’t mean we’ve lost our value to the world.
I’m still the same person I was, give or take a few pounds. Actually, scratch that. I’m not the same person at all, because in their living, these children have scraped and shaped me into the person the world needed me to be, so that girl I used to be nine years ago? She’s not nearly as cool as this person I am today.
Not only that, but my children have value. They’re little people who care about bugs getting smushed and the trash people throw on the side of the road and the way their friend got really sad at recess today, and, if you’re the 3-year-olds, plunging the toilet before every flush. If the world is going to just dismiss us, it’s missing out on a helluva lot.
So next time you see me out and about with my entourage of children, don’t assume you know who I am or what my intelligence level is. Don’t assume you know anything about me at all. Don’t assume, most of all, that I have traded my value as an individual person for becoming just a family unit from here on out. Of course we’re a family unit. But we’re individuals, too.
Parents don’t lose their value just because they have kids. Please don’t treat them like they do.
by Rachel Toalson | Stuff Crash Test Kids say
Me: How do people show their love to each other?
5-year-old: They tell people.
Me: Does anybody at your school love you?
5-year-old: Only my teacher.
Me: Do you love anybody?
5-year-old: You. And myself.
Me: It’s good to love yourself.
6-year-old: Well, that’s just something that I did not know.
Me: What is love?
6-year-old: Nothing.
Me: Love is nothing?
6-year-old: I don’t want to answer right now. I’m getting too embarrassed.
Me: Does anybody at your school love you?
6-year-old: My teacher.
Me: Do you love anyone?
6-year-old: Everybody in this family.
Me: Last week you told us you didn’t like being in this family. You said you would be glad if we left.
6-year-old: No, I didn’t say that.
Me: You did.
6-year-old: That would just be not kind.
Me:
6-year-old:
Me:
6-year-old: I’m always kind.
Me: What do people do to show their love?
6-year-old: Maybe they hug or something?
Me: What do you do to show your love?
6-year-old: Hug.
Me: Can I have a hug?
6-year-old: No.
Me:
6-year-old:
Me:
6-year-old: What?
Me: Twins, what do you think love is?
3-year-old #1: I smell smoke.
3-year-old: #2: Me too.
Me:
3-year-olds:
Me: Do you think it’s your brains on fire?
Me: What do you do to show your love?
3-year-old #2: I don’t know. I’m cold.
Me: Do Mama and Daddy love each other?
3-year-old #2: Yeah.
Me: How do you know.
3-year-old #2: Close the door.
Me: Okay, random man.
3-year-old #2:
Me:
3-year-old #2: I not random man. I Zadok.
Me: What do you think love is?
3-year-old: [points at ceiling]
Me: The ceiling?
3-year-old: Yeah.
Me: Wow. And you think you know everything.
9-year-old: Love is when someone loves you.
Me: How do you know they love you?
9-year-old: They hug and kiss you.
Me: Do you love anybody in your school?
9-year-old: No. I would be super embarrassed.
Me: Why?
9-year-old: It would be a secret until she found out.
Me:
9-year-old:
Me: Okay, you know too much about love.
