Dave was out of town for business travel much of this past week. I’d love to say I kept the train on the tracks despite some of the expected debris, but instead I will be honest:
There were FIVE bodily-function-related accidents of varying degrees of severity – all from ostensibly potty-trained children. I will spare the internet the graphic details, but rest assured, the details were… graphic.
C spiked a fever (for 3 days and counting), was kicked out of daycare, and became a sad, fussy, child-shaped barnacle attached to my body during all waking hours (and parts of the night).
I lost A in the grocery store. Good news: he has figured out the portion of Hide & Seek whereby one does not jump out and yell to reveal their location. Bad news: it went on long enough that staff got involved. Honest assessment: I’m surprised this has not happened sooner. Additional detail: after we found A, Steve the wine guy offered to “put J to work” so I’d only have to watch the remaining 3 as I finished my grocery run. J was very proud to show me all the rows of bottles he had feather-dusted by the time I was ready to hit up the cash register.
I texted my mom “I’m drowning over here; send good vibes” and didn’t even pretend to hesitate accepting help when she texted back “I’ll leave here asap and come over.”
But before we call the entire episode a failure, please remember: the boys were so charming at our post-playground Subway lunch stop on Saturday that the workers gave them all free cookies. So.
^In my defense losing 25% of my offspring, even the largest carts do not satisfactorily accommodate us.
Tuesday marks the first day of school for both J & O.
I have a dining room table full of school supplies that are mismatched and disorganized as neither of my two attempts at brick-&-mortar shopping nor my attempted Amazon prime deliveries yielded the full list of requested supplies and donations for their classrooms. Things need to be divided, labeled, bagged up.
I have a long grocery list of dinner and packed lunch supplies to pick up tomorrow, now complicated by a weekend email that indicated our intended entree for O (PB&J) as well as the preferred fruit (strawberries) are associated with severe allergies for children in his class, and therefore barred from entry.
Until just a few nights ago, I had a stack of papers still left over from J’s end of Kindergarten events, which warranted being reviewed, tossed, or saved in the filing folder system I’m hoping will be somewhat sustainable as the boys age and accrue what I can only assume will be exorbitant amounts of priceless and sentimental intellectual property (says their mother).
And then there is this looming dread of operating by a new set of logistics. Even summer mornings are a bit much, and now we will have 2 that have to be walking out to the bus at 7:43am. They will need to be picked up from the after care program at school on the south side of town before 6pm. A and C have daycare on the east side of town, flexible in start time but also needing a pickup by 6pm. I drive by the daycare on my way to the highway and on my way home, but my meetings start no later than 9am, which means I could take the littles in if I can get there by 7:45 to be on the road by 8, but then I miss the bus stop, which is a 10 minute window of my morning that I genuinely love. Either way, Dave and I need to predetermine who takes what car and picks up which set of boys each day as the car seat configuration is anything but flexible. We are 30 hours out from go-time and have yet to devote the brain space to figure this out.
So when Dave asked me if I wanted to steal away for the long weekend up north, I said ‘no.’ Too much to do, and there was no chance I’d be in a good head space Monday night if I was behind the 8 ball just prior to the first day of 1st grade and Junior Kindergarten. No. No, thank you, but no.
He made his case simply: “the boys are about to start school again. We won’t have that many occasions when we can all get away together for the next many months. If we can make it work, I feel like we should.”
Partially because Dave asks next to nothing of me and therefore I try to oblige when he does, and partially because I knew he was objectively right, I agreed. We went up north.
But as I’ve observed many times before yet clearly not fully internalized, it is not simply about a change of scenery. Rather, it’s about the active choice to step away from the to do list and obligations that otherwise spur many of the decisions of how we spend our time. In the list of things we did, none of them are unique to being away from home. In fact, this entire list could have been written in a regular weekend less than 10 minutes from home. During this weekend, we:
- – Did a grocery run.
- – Played hide and seek at a playground and among the trees.
- – Went bowling.
- – Moderated brotherly squabbles roughly 30x/day.
- – Let the older bros stay up too late with the acknowledgment we will pay for this during the coming school week.
Because we were “away” (physically, but also mentally from the mental ticker tape of things we should be dividing in order to conquer), however, both Dave & I experienced these commonplace things like this:
- – Grocery run – the first time the boys visited a store with the kid-sized carts and how unbelievably excited they were to help! We ended up with 3 versions of granola bars when every boy insisted on picking their own flavor.
- – Hide and Seek – A is still evidently unclear on rules and – when you announce ‘ready or not, here I come!’ – he will pop out from his hiding spot behind a tree, shrieking “I FOUND YOU!” It made me laugh every. single. time. Plus we meandered over to the nearby skate park, only to realize it was overrun with kids no older than 12 who were zipping around on their scooters. J watched, mesmerized, and a new hobby was born (radiologists all over the country are now shuddering as another little boy increases his odds of needing an X-ray).
- – Bowling – our first time with the boys, and we had no idea how fun this would be when you throw in bumpers and the ramp tools they have ready for kids — to say nothing of the “glow” environment even at 12pm. We had a delicious lunch of greasy bar food, I only barely won (yes, also utilizing bumpers), and the boys were asking to go back the very next day.
- – Brotherly squabbles – no romanticizing this; it’s just the nature of the beast in our home.
- – Staying up late – because who is going to call it a night when their children are animatedly running down the beach trying to find the best stones to skip, or finally getting the hang of a game of Frisbee with their dad, or laughing raucously at whatever 3 x small children find so funny long after lights-out at bedtime?
It shouldn’t require physical space to get to this point of mental clarity and appreciation for how beautiful the every day can be, but for me, it certainly helps.
I know this to be true: routine is huge for me at this stage in life. Routine allows me to operate on auto-pilot while my mind is trying to track 3 steps ahead of whatever we all need. Routine allows me to delegate effectively when I need to tap out or ask for help. Routine allows me to compartmentalize and keep the train in motion — for my self, and for my family. I love — I mean, love — a solid, predictable, effective routine.
But routines are not memorable. Memories stem from the stand-out moments, whether those are truly extraordinary moments, or moments within the realm of the ordinary, but with extra attention paid. This weekend was all about the latter: ordinary moments with extraordinary attention paid.
I’m still behind on back-to-school prep, but I have a feeling when I look back, I’ll remember J’s first strike bowling, and not the fact that I didn’t have his spare gym shoes ready and labeled before his first day.
Related: the trick to quality time that I picked up from my mom // the bus stop: my parental focus group
A colleague and I were recently laughing about how enviously we watch as a mutual friend gallivants through life without children. The travel to remote and beautiful places! The indulgent, involved meals! The copious hobbies and “because I can” experiences like snowmobiling to and from Mackinac Island when Lake Huron freezes over!
I feigned defensiveness of our life’s choices: okay fine, but can he tell you which playground has the best shade cover for a sunny summer day? Where all of the tornado sirens are within a 10 mile radius of his home? How many of the trucks at the local fire station are red and how many are yellow? Because I can!
Jokes aside, one of my favorite unexpected side effects of having kids is that they cause you to slow down and appreciate the vibrancy and color of life happening right beside you. The “stop and smell the roses” life philosophy was probably penned by someone whose child brought them a dandelion bouquet on every walk they took around their home.
Today, for instance, A and I were on our weekly grocery run which involves him making key selections in our cart (always the car cart), cereal (sometimes Kix, sometimes Wheaties), and yogurt (doesn’t matter the flavor, just clear out the inventory). Heading into the store through the parking lot today, his hand clasped in mine and walking about a half pace behind me, he gently pulled me to stop so we could admire something.
“That is such a beautiful shape, Mom!”
“What?” I asked, looking inquisitively at my son.
“That’s such a beautiful shape!”
“Such a beautiful… what?” I scanned the sky for… a sail? A plane? A bird? I looked at the nearby cars: any standout colors or silhouettes?
“Right there,” he pointed down at the pavement.
A patchwork in a parking lot, creating a near-perfect square. I’ve probably walked over this square a hundred times and never noticed, but to my 3-year-old son learning his shapes, it is remarkable in the dictionary definition of the word: worthy of attention.
I couldn’t help myself snapping a picture, and we loitered near this “beautiful shape,” chatting about squares for another 15 seconds before continuing on our way.
There is no moral imperative implicit in this anecdote. This is not to say that snowmobiling across a massive body of frozen water is better or worse than knowing the precise number of hydrangea blooms in your corner shrub (it’s just 5, and they are fading fast as we enter the late summer).
Rather, this is a testament to the wonder and beauty of the world both near and far.
If you ever find yourself unable to see things in that way, just find a small child to borrow for an outing and pay attention to the way your everyday becomes extraordinary.
Suffice it to say, I will probably never look at my grocery store’s parking lot the same way again.
Related: different son, same fandom for (literally) every day occurrences // other simple joys.
I was reflecting recently on how much can happen before the “work” part of one’s day even begins. In my case, by the time I sit down at my 9am meeting, I may have…
- – Finished the Wordle. Or not finished the Wordle, but spent 15 minutes convincing myself the answer must be some esoteric proper noun that sneaked into the master list.
- – Completed my morning workout. Sometimes that also involves…
…turning on the subtitles and reading the instructor’s cues because I’m being scolded by one of my sons that it’s “too noisy!” as he watches cartoons nearby, and I don’t want to unclip to close the door between rooms.
…watching helplessly as I spot one of the boys amble over to a cache of sweets left on the basement bar and go ham on sugar first thing in the morning, because I don’t want to unclip to intercept him.
…getting a Nest cam notification that there’s motion in one of the rooms, and the thumbnail shows my 3-year-old’s bare bottom flash past the screen… a sign he has taken his morning potty break and may unwittingly but urgently be in need of assistance wiping… in which case I do indeed frantically unclip and noisily slide on my bike shoes all the way through the house to give him a hand. - – Showered and thrown my hair into a wet top knot as per my “signature look” for almost 5 years now.
- – Fed 4 children breakfast (they can already easily consume a loaf of cinnamon toast and carton of strawberries between them… please send help for the teenage years).
- – Changed the 2 youngest out of night diapers and into clothes.
- – Stripped a bed and started a load of laundry after someone wet the bed. OR stripped a child and started a disinfecting effort after someone wet… the floor.
- – Loaded 4 boys into the car, including motivational praise, thinly veiled threats, and pretty intense negotiations regarding the fact that a favorite dump truck toy may join us for the ride, but may not go all the way into school.
- – Loaded 4 boys out of the car, in the rain, with only one umbrella, on a day when we had to park unusually far from the daycare entrance. Because the middle bros are evidently related to the Wicked Witch (must be their father’s side of the family) and at risk of melting in the rain, they walked under the umbrella, J sprinted inside leaving all of his school supplies in the car for me to fumble with as I carried C clumsily in with both of us getting drenched. But because my signature look is a wet top knot to start the day, no one noticed except that C looked like he had recently gone surfing.
- – Driven a 50 minute commute.
- – Budgeted time to use the restroom because no matter which combinations of the above events happened that morning, I have already been up for 3.5 hours and am 3 cups of coffee deep by 8:58AM.
Related: another one of my favorite ways to start the day // it’s manageable provided you have not been affected by this contagious affliction.
Me, at 6:45am: A, what is all over your face?
A: um… it was ice cream, Mom.
Me: Oh. …did you make a mess?
A, sincerely and without shame: I did, Mom.
^Please note: soup ladle (his “scooper”) and remains of his ice cream cone. Kid commits to the experience, and you have to respect that.
Before anyone fret over my 3-year-old’s decidedly unhealthy breakfast this morning, please note in the background of the photo that he also helped himself to half a “clem” and, of course, an apple that he’ll surely come back to later.
Related: we have been here before // parenting hack: healthy snacks
THE “WHAT HAPPENS IN THE BATHROOM OUGHT TO STAY IN THE BATHROOM” EDITION
With 4 small children, let’s be real: a lot of our household’s goings-on revolve around – ahem – “bio breaks” (as they’re called in the corporate world).
*****
A, while actively pooping on the potty: I like your brown* eyes, Mom. I like your eyes.
January, 2022, 2 years old
*I have decidedly blue eyes
*****
Me, from the kitchen, loudly calling to C in a high, sing-song voice as he scoots around the living room making faces and grunting noises: what are you doing?? Are you pooping, little love? Are you pooping??
A, from somewhere far in the distance, also loudly but in a suspiciously strained tone: yeah.
July 2022, 3 years old
*****
Me: *closes door to the bathroom*
A, immediately following, from the hallway: Mom! Where are you, Mom?!
Me: I’m going to the bathroom. Just a minute, please!
O, knocking on the door: Mom?? Are you in there??
Me: yes, boys, I’m going to the bathroom. Can I have a little privacy, please? I’ll be out in just a moment.
(not even 2 seconds later)
A, forcibly rattling the handle of the bathroom door: but why are you not done yet, Mom?!
July 2022, 3 + 4 years old
It’s A’s 3rd birthday. It’s not yet lunchtime. So far he:
- Woke his baby brother and then woke me tell me C was awake and crying.
- Covertly ate 4 doughnuts and took a bite out of every remaining doughnut in the box we got to celebrate and share.
- Let himself outside, left the door wide open, and did not respond to me shouting asking where he was as I came downstairs from my shower and was thrust into a panic.
- Pooped on the playroom floor because he was “so busy building that long train track.”
- Somehow turned one of the stove’s burners on, which I only realized when I noticed that the second floor smelled like gas.
In lieu of gifts, please send thoughts and prayers for his parents.
Happy birthday, little monster.
