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 | 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 | 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 | 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 | Messy Mondays
You may not have known it, but this week is National Preservation Week. It’s not a very well known holiday, but parents actually celebrate it all the time.
That’s because kids are great at preservation.
I’m not talking about the kind of preservation that looks like kids picking up litter on the side of the road or pointing out how the landscape changes when trees are razed or urging their parents to turn off the air conditioner in the middle of a Texas June because they just read a book on global warming (this is what happens when you have a 9-year-old conservationist on your hands, at least in my experience). These are all passions to be celebrated.
But what I’m talking about is how good kids are at finding trash and turning it into delightful treasure.
Take, for instance, the boxes we get from Amazon.
We are Amazon Primers. Anything I can do to keep my kids out of a store, I’ll do. If that means having everything I need (with the exception of my groceries, which I suspect might be coming soon) delivered right to my door, I guess I’ll do it. So we subscribe to everything. Toothpaste, soap, toilet paper, coconut oil, stevia, cacao nibs, almond flour, more vitamins than we probably need, skin care lotions, makeup, you name it, we subscribe to it. I would subscribe to subscribing if I could.
Because we order so much from Amazon, and because it’s always delivered straight to our door in bulk, we never have a shortage of boxes for the kids to keep.
Sometimes this is cool, because every now and then I get a wild hair and do a fun art project with the boys, wherein we’ll decorate a box for somewhere around the house and watch it, day by day by day, get destroyed by the errant legs or flailing arms of wrestling boys.
But sometimes, like when we get an enormous box for all the other boxes, because, apparently, this makes it easier to ship, this is not cool at all. Mostly because I’ll be the one to trip over it and bust my face on the side of the couch—which, you would think, is well padded. Well. It isn’t. See if you’re well padded after having five boys flip over you at 6:30 p.m. every evening when they should be doing chores.
My 9-year-old is probably the worst best little environmentalist in the house. He will keep everything. He’s been making a little money working with his daddy on some video client work, because he wants to be a cinematographer and Husband’s trying to introduce him to the world of video recording, and he’s been buying all sorts of Pokemon cards with his hard-earned money—which is mostly paid for arranging lights in the right formation and cropdusting all over the tiny room because he’s nervous.
He likes to keep his Pokemon boxes, because he “might need them someday.” And, besides, they can be reused for a pencil collection site on his bedroom desk.
Hey, as long as it’s not in my bedroom, go for it.
But now the other boys have gotten in on the act. When one of them is on trash duty, they’ll argue about what we throw in the trash, because, of course, it can all be reused for something useful—like a receptacle for lone socks (already have one…or five) or a rubber band holder (I’d really rather not) or a great container for preserving diapers (why would you…?).
They’ve made some tiny trees out of logs,which are really the charred remains from the outdoor fireplace we don’t ever use in Texas because it’s a thousand degrees most of the year, and grass in the backyard, and they want to bring these “treeple” in, because they’ll be ruined outside, and we CERTAINLY can’t throw them away.
The worst preservation my kids do? The papers.
My kids are very artistic kids, in that they will create all hours of the day. If creating were homework, we would not have our every-single-day fights, because they would gladly sit at the table and draw a line on a piece of paper and call it finished (if you’re the 4-year-olds). AND THEY’LL WANT TO KEEP EVERY SINGLE MASTERPIECE.
It doesn’t matter if they’re only 4 and this “fox” doesn’t really look like a fox, and they’ll be better at it in another three years. They want to keep it now, because they’re sure their future self will appreciate it. The 6-year-old doesn’t care that the piece of paper he just dumped from his red school folder was a quiz where he circled the answers, and the only evidence that it’s his is the name printed at the top of it—he’ll want to keep it to remember what his “handwriting was like.” The 9-year-old has a mad scientist’s stash of plans for the house he’ll build someday, and no amount of persuasive arguments will take those papers and crumple them in the trash (he’s a persistent kid, so he knows how to deal with persistent parents).
I’m trying to swim through the papers, but my head keeps going under.
I guess I should be glad I’m living with six preservationists, but it does get annoying every now and then. Except when someone sees that gigantic Amazon box and wonders what it would be like to ride down the stairs—because I actually fit in it, which means, you guessed it, I can ride down the stairs in it, too.
Who knew preservation could be so dangerous fun?
