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.
