by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
This picture is called “This is What Happens Five Minutes After the Kids Get Home from the Grandparents.”
I don’t even know how this happened. I just remember going out to the car to get the baby and their suitcases, and I walked back in to a paper/stuffed animal/book explosion all over the living room and boys chattering about all the stories they wrote and pictures they drew at Nonny’s house.
Husband and I sent the boys away for a week-long stay at my mom’s house (thanks, Mom! Sort of! I mean, thanks for keeping the boys! No thanks for sending home all the “artwork” they created while they were gone!). While the house sat silent, with only the infant to keep us company, Husband and I organized the house, donated half their toys, cleaned out our old clothes we’ll probably never wear again, reduced our books by about 200 (there are still about 1,800) and tidied the entire house. So you have to understand, the house was spotless before boys walked in.
“Wow!” they said, because they have never seen it so tidy. “How did you get the house so clean?”
Five minutes later, they had their answer.
WE SENT YOU AWAY.
Connections like that are lost on kids, though. They could not see the tidy house and, five minutes later, the tornado-went-through-here house and think, “Hmm. This must have happened because I decided to take off my clothes, pull out a few books, and show Mama and Daddy my five thousands pieces of artwork.”
I just got done reading The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. I sort of thought it might be possible to keep our house tidy if we just had a place for everything and we reduced enough of our possessions so those possessions wouldn’t get dragged into a mess every ten seconds.
BUT KIDS.
They’ll always find a way to make a mess of things, I think. I’m done trying. So, welcome, papers. Thank you for coming. Please stay a while. Crawl between our couch cushions and get shoved under the armchair farther away than my arm can reach when I finally have the energy to tidy up again and make sure you come visit our bed right before we fall asleep. That’s my fave.
P.S. Nonny, we are now working on Project For Nonny wherein they draw five pictures every day until the next time you take them for a weekend (don’t make it too long or…). I’ll make sure to pack them up in a suitcase all nice and neat and pretty. So of course they’ll stay tidy.
by Rachel Toalson | General Blog
Want to know how I can surely tell that school has started?
Well, of course there’s the amazingly quieter house. That’s a given. But that could just be older boys who are playing on their scooters out front and twins who are locked out back and a baby who’s just as sweet as can be.
There’s also the refrigerator that actually stays closed for an hour at a time, but that could just be kids away for the weekend (any takers?).
No, the biggest clue that school has started in my house is the stack of papers sitting on my bed.
Those are the look-at-later papers.
All three of the boys in school came home with 400 pieces of paper in their red and blue folders (It wasn’t really that bad. It was only 398 papers.) on the first day of school. I had to wade through all of them, because some required further action, like a signature or some kind of permission or even more school supplies. Some of them went into this pile, to be looked at later—or never, which is much more likely.
We started the school year sprinting. We were so organized I was impressed with us. Everybody picked out their clothes the night before, the backpacks were all hung ready to go, and even the school lunches were packed in the fridge. And then the first day happened and all.these.papers. Is it really necessary to send 5,000 school lunch menus when our kids don’t ever eat school lunches? Is it necessary to send three copies of the same exact information sheet? Is there a place where I can opt out of duplicates or papers in general?
Because I know exactly what’s going to happen. It happens every year. We will start off great. I will come down to dinner every evening and sort through those papers in five minutes or less, placing some in a recycling pile, some in a look-at-later pile, some back in the folders because they need returning.
And then I will forget I ever had a look-at-later pile, and by Christmas there will be so many papers we could use them to pretend there’s snow in every room of our house, which would be the closest Texas gets to snow. Or wear-a-coat weather. Or the charming Christmas chill. You know what, though? I’m going to keep that idea to myself and hope great minds really don’t think alike. The only thing worse than five thousand sheets of paper stuffed under a chair in my room is five thousand sheets of paper boys have spread all over the house so they can “play in the snow.”
I suppose that if this is the price I have to pay to have a little peace from an 8-year-old whose daily grand ideas include starting a vegetable garden in our front yard (cucumbers and carrots are starting to grow in the rose garden.) and selling water art paintings out by the mailbox where I can’t even see him, a 6-year-old who’s always hungry and will eat a two-pound bag of apples if I’m not paying attention, and a 5-year-old who likes to snack on Tom’s toothpaste, then I’ll take it. I’m already winded, but, hey, the school year has only just begun. I’m sure my endurance will improve as the months slip by.
Just don’t ask me if I saw the list of school supplies they need for GT. It’s buried somewhere in my look-at-later pile, so. Cut me some slack.
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
I hope I didn’t steer you too wrong with that title. We all want to make a little extra money, don’t we? But there’s that “if only” tacked onto it. Whatever could she mean by THAT?
Well, every week, I look around my house and the disaster that it’s become, and I listen to my kids complain and I (God forbid) get in an argument with the threenagers about how I’m supposed to be cooking the chicken tonight, and I start fantasizing about all the extra money that parents could make, if only. Here are a few of my fantasies:
1. If I had a dollar for every time the 3-year-olds argued with me about whether it’s nap time or not, I’d be rich.
(Them: I don’t take a nap until two firty!
Me: How do you know it’s not three thirty?
Them: It’s not.
Me: But how do you know?
Them: IT’S NOT!
Me: You can’t tell time.
Them:
Me: Get in your beds.
Them: But we don’t take a nap until two firty!
Just press repeat on the above.)
2. If I had a dollar for every time my kids left the living room looking like a LEGO minefield, I’d be rich.
(Well, at least I can’t see what the 18-month-old did to the carpet today.)
3. If I had a dollar for every time my kids got an ounce of water outside the tub, I’d be rich.
(I’ll just mop the floor while I’m at it.)
4. If I had a dollar for every time my kids lost their shoes, I’d be rich.
(And if I got a dollar for every time they told me they’d already looked, when clearly they had not, I’d be even richer.)
5. If I had a dollar for every time my kids complained about their chores, I’d be rich.
(Especially the sweeping.)
6. If I had a dollar for every time my kids “accidentally” plugged up the toilet with a toy or, maybe, way too much toilet paper, or just because it’s one of their superior talents, I’d be rich.
(Some of the most frequent words in my house:
Them: Mama, the toilet is overflowing.
Me: Then use the other one.
Them: That one’s overflowing, too.
Me: Well, you’re not using mine. I guess you’ll have to figure out how to use the plunger.
Them: YES!
Me: On second thought, nope.)
7. If I had a dollar for every time my kids left something in my room, I’d be rich.
(Especially right after I’ve cleaned it. They like to leave reminders that they live here, I guess.)
8. If I had a dollar for every time my kids messed up the perfectly folded laundry piles to find sweat pants, I’d be rich.
(Or even a dollar for how many times we argued about how you shouldn’t wear sweat pants in two thousand degree weather.)
9. If I had a dollar for every time my kids argued with each other about who gets the green plate, I’d be rich.
(Boy 1: I’m the special boy. I get the green plate.
Boy 2: But I want to be the special boy! I want the green plate!
Boy 3: No, it’s my turn to be the special boy.
Boy 4: No! I get the green plate.
Boy 5: No, I do!
Boy 6: Aggle flaggle plaggle!
Me: YOU’RE ALL SPECIAL BOYS!)
10. If I had a dollar for every time my kids asked “Are we almost there?” while traveling, I’d be rich.
(Them: Are we almost there?
Me: Look at the clock. You just asked 5 minutes ago. I told you it would be another hour. Let’s use our logical brains. What do you think–are we almost there?
Them: Yes!)
11. If I had a dollar for every time my kids told me I was wrong, I’d be rich.
(Them: You’re not cutting that right, Mama.
Me: I’m pretty sure I’ve used scissors for at least two decades longer than you have.
Them: You should let me do it.
Me: And you also don’t know how to sew. I don’t have to cut in a straight line if I don’t want to. I sew in a straight line. Mostly.
Them: Just let me do it, Mama.
Me: GET AWAY FROM MY SCISSORS!)
12. If I had a dollar for every time my kids said they didn’t like this kind of dinner before they’ve even tasted it, I’d be rich.
(Them: EW. That’s the worst dinner ever.
Me: You haven’t even tasted it.
Them: I don’t have to.
Me: That’s just mean.
Them: It looks disgusting. And smells disgusting. And I bet it tastes disgusting, too.
Me: Next time you cook, then.
Them: Okay!
Me: No! I didn’t mean that!)
13. If I had a dollar for every time my kids stripped off their clothes and left them on the floor, I’d be rich.
Me: Why do you leave your clothes all over the floor? I’m not a maid.
Them: [shrug]
Me: Is is so hard to pick them up?
Them: [shrug]
Me: Them pick them up.
Them: Yes Mama.
(Just kidding. That’s not really how it plays out. That request usually has to be repeated at least four times before they even hear me. Husband says there’s something about the cadence of a woman’s voice that men scientifically can’t hear the first time around. I’m pretty sure that’s just an excuse.)
I don’t know about you, but I’d be able to pay for every one of my kids’ college educations if someone would just give me a dollar every time they did any one of the above.
One can always dream.
by Rachel Toalson | Messy Mondays
I’ve never really cared much about Independence Day—not because I’m not incredibly grateful to all the people who fought for my freedom—but because here, in Texas, Independence Day falls right smack dab in the middle of a time when the air outside boils up to a thousand degrees before the sun even comes up, and we’re all just about done with summer, except we have about six more months of it.
I have a kid who has a birthday four days after Independence Day, and that was a delightful pregnancy, let me tell you. I begged my husband to let us move somewhere cooler that year. Like maybe Antarctica. But, obviously, I couldn’t travel to another continent when I was eight months pregnant, so, instead, I lounged indoors, where the air conditioner rattled to keep up, and poured my sweat all over the couch, hoping the sauna would somehow induce labor. It didn’t.
As we were nearing this day, which is about the time when I start planning for my son’s birthday party, I thought about what it would be like to have a Parents’ Independence Day. I considered what freedom would mean to parents.
Husband and I get a little taste of this every now and then, when our parents take the kids for a weekend. And here’s what I’ve noticed about what freedom from children looks like:
Getting in the car, starting it and accomplishing rubber to road within a minute, start to finish.
As it is, it when Husband and I announce to the kids that it’s time to leave, it generally takes us another half an hour (if we’re lucky) to get out the door, because someone will misplace the shoes he had on two seconds ago, someone will decide he needs to drop a load (and it’s always the one who takes twenty minutes to finish and ten more minutes to wipe—with half the toilet paper roll), someone will slip on a banana peel his brother threw down on the driveway (because it’s biodegradable!) and face plant into the hood of the car—a damage hit that will need a giant Band-Aid across his face to staunch the bleeding (which really isn’t bad. He thinks it’s worse than it is)—someone will play musical chairs with all the empty seats in the van instead of just getting in his own, and someone else will realize he forgot to put on underwear.
Going to bed whenever you want.
I didn’t appreciate this enough before I was a parent. I just went to bed and didn’t think about the fact that there could be someone waiting just outside the door, breathing underneath the crack (because I locked said door), trying to let me know that his brother stole his blanket and he doesn’t want any of the four others that are already on his bed. And no amount of ignoring him will make him go away. He’s like the worst imaginary friend, because he’s not imaginary.
Sleeping in on the weekends.
Even though, when my boys are in school, they rarely get out of bed even when I wake them up at 6:30, during the summer and on weekends, they’re sure to be up by 5:45 at the latest. I just try to pretend I don’t hear the noise of feet. But anxiety usually pulls me from bed, whether I like it or not, because I know what happens when my boys are unaccompanied for any amount of time. Someone will try to fly off the top of the van with a kite strapped to him (even though he saw his brother get mangled yesterday for the same thing) or challenge his brother to a duel with steak knives or pour himself a giant bowl of oats with milk and leave it for the flies.
A perfectly tidy house.
I don’t know if my house was ever perfectly tidy, honestly. I have a Husband, after all. And also a me. I’ve been known to put a book down somewhere and lose it in the stacks that follow me everywhere.
Eating in peace, while it’s still hot.
It never fails. I bring out some leftovers from a date night with Husband, and the kids are immediately circling me like scavengers. “Can I have a bite?” they’ll say.
“No,” I’ll say.
“Why not?” they’ll say, their faces falling into their saddest pout ever.
“Because it’s mine,” I’ll say.
“You’re mean,” they’ll say.
“That’s right. I am,” I’ll say, because I’ll do whatever it takes to eat my ziti al forno in peace. I deserve this.
Cooking for two.
I don’t even remember what this looks like. That’s probably why, when Husband and I send the kids off for a quiet weekend, we mostly eat out. Because how do you cook for two when you’re used to cooking for a small army? And, perhaps even more importantly, how do you enjoy a salad without someone complaining about it for you?
Silence.
I love silence. I love sitting in a room and hearing nothing but my own thoughts. It doesn’t happen often, because someone at my house is always talking. Usually at least four at a time. I get to the end of a day with my boys, and there are so many words stuffed up in my head that I feel like I might explode. Just the other day, I told the 9-year-old that I was on word overload and just needed a few minutes of quiet, and he said, “Well, you haven’t exploded yet” and kept right on talking about the next stop motion movie he was going to make—which is super cool, but words. So many words.
I know these freedoms seem really nice on the outside, but, truthfully, by the time a weekend without my boys ends, I’m ready to get them all back, because there’s something about silence and easy road trips and eating in peace that feels a little eerie now. I’m glad for the madness that kids bring to my life, because it’s not the freedom that matters so much as the living. And my boys show me how to live every moment of every day—by “accidentally” throwing dodge balls at my face and sneaking bites of my date-night leftovers when I get up to pour myself a drink (it’s just water, I promise) and gathering the wildflowers in the front yard, which they’ll try to put in my hair, dirty roots and all.
My boys have shown me how to play, how to dream, how to love. They have freed me in a million ways.
So my Independence Day? It happened when I had kids.
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.
