If I had a dollar for every parent of a teenager who one -ups
me if I complain about problems related to kids four years old and younger, I’d
probably have enough for at least one large “Truck Stop” breakfast burrito at Boloco
on a wheat wrap with salsa and a large coffee.
(I’m addicted to those things.)
The one- upper usually rolls their eyes and says something to the effect
about how their kid doesn’t talk to them, never comes out of his/her room, plays
video games for hours at a time, costs them so much money, blah blah blah.
My immediate reaction is “Hey wait a second here, I was
complaining first and you just totally crapped on my pity party.” Then, I get even more pissed because they’re
complaining about kids who 1) can talk 2) don’t have teeth coming in 3) don’t
have ear infections on a weekly basis 4) don’t need asses wiped 5) can eat at a
restaurant – okay I’ll stop there because this list could go on indefinitely
and the point of today’s blog is not to complain. In fact, I’m trying to accomplish the exact opposite.
The one-upper is totally right. It’s all about perspective.
When I pull into the driveway after work, Greta will
suddenly burst through the front door and come running up to meet me before I’ve
even opened the trunk to get my gym bag.
If I’m lucky, she gives me that great hug that my cousin Sean so
perfectly described to me a few years ago.
If Greta closed the door behind her, Gus and Tilly are
usually standing at the door like zombies from The Walking Dead clawing at the
window and making weird groan noises. If
Greta left the door open, Gus usually
stumbles out because Tilly is pushing him from behind as he’s trying to
negotiate that first step out of the threshold.
Once I get two steps inside the house, I ditch whatever bags
I’m carrying and start emptying phones, receipts, keys (rarely cash) from my
pockets. Greta strolls closely alongside
me, which is nice because Gus and Tilly usually grapple like Hulk Hogan and the
Iron Sheik for dibs on getting picked up.
My arms full with Gus and Tilly, Greta dominates the
conversation (she currently has a monopoly on speaking in full sentences) with
topics like: Gus scratched me in the eye; Tilly smashed a doll over Gus’ head; Mommy
won’t give me an ice cream, can I have one?; did you hang up the Hello Kitty
picture I colored for you at your office today?; Sam took me to the library
today and we saw a turkey in the road, etc.
In other words, she genuinely wants to share events from her day with me
without my asking.
Somewhere along the way, THE WIFE and I exchange glances,
hellos, and maybe a kiss. I express to
the kiddos how I need to change out of my clothes. When I try to put Gus or Tilly down, they
start weeping like their mother during an episode of Parenthood or sentimental
videos on Youtube. I wilt almost
immediately and just carry them upstairs with me to my bedroom. All the while, Greta marches dutifully next
to me going on about the chicks that hatched in her classroom or asking me if
she can wear her pajamas during dinner.
By the time I’ve stripped down out of the monkey suit, Gus or Tilly is
usually prying an electrical socket out of the wall (I’m very much over this
phenomenon and can’t wait for this to become uninteresting) and I’m jumping
into preemptive hazard removal mode.
Still, I remind myself – the kids just want to be near me – how lucky
are you!?
Tonight, I actually took a dump while all three of the kids
circled around me in the bathroom. Tilly
even sat on my lap while Gus pointed at my penis saying “Pee pee.” I can say with absolute certainty that there
are zero other people in the entire universe who want to be anywhere closer
than 100 feet from me while I sit on the bowl.
Inevitably, mayhem ensues when the cabinets and drawers open. A hair dryer’s electrical cord almost always
ends up around someone’s neck and I’m suddenly shuffling with undies around my
ankles over to rescue the victim.
Moving on, we somehow make it eventually to dinner, which is
a whole situation unto itself. The
probability of having all three kids actually placing food into their mouths
with nothing flying in the air and not having a meltdown is as frequent as an
eclipse. Chances are, someone is on a
hunger strike or lobbying to eat Goldfish or yelling at the top of their lungs
or spontaneously taking off their pants or all of the above.
With uncanny timing, THE WIFE (totally oblivious to the
sensory overload enveloping me) usually picks this moment as the appropriate
time to ask questions of varying import.
Have I finalized a decision on a religious institution yet where Greta
can go to Sunday school? Do I know where
the obscure component to an item in the house that hasn’t been used in two
years is located? Have I booked a hotel
room yet for a wedding taking place in 2014?
All of this is simultaneously wonderful and awful and
heartwarming and taxing and madness in the moment. But by the time the kids are finally fed,
bathed, and sleeping in their beds, the chaos that was only an hour or so ago
becomes mostly all good in retrospect.
Before another month goes by when I am ready to post my next
blog, I want to take this moment to record a couple of my mental snapshots that
could vanish without any notice.
I love the way that all of my little crazies sleep in their beds. Greta sleeps diagonally with a lucky stuffed
animal in a choke hold beside her. G-man
sleeps face down and butt up with everything tossed outside of his crib. Tills sleeps likes she is in zero gravity,
moving around constantly and flipping out if a binky becomes misplaced, all
while she has somehow unzipped her sleep sack.
And some random ones for the road. Tilly’s guilty run of glee after she’s
been caught in the act of doing something she’s not supposed to. Gus’ proud celebration after he pees in the
potty. Greta’s colored pictures on my
pillow that I find before going to bed.
