some days, you just gotta kennel the kids
There are so many parts of being a parent that are crappy, crappy, crappy. A reasonably creative non-parent can imagine most of them: sleepless nights, poopy diapers, messy mealtimes.
Lately, though, I've been thinking about the parts of my job which I never anticipated. File these under: were they on my job description? because I may have had a second thought:
Being leaned upon. Not in the warm-fuzzy "lean on me! when you need a hand!" way. In the literal, "I'm kind of standing on my own feet but really I'm leaning upon you and if you dare to move I'll topple over and probably bash my head on something pointy, so you're really trapped in this very awkward spot in the tiny space between the washing machine, dryer, pantry, and refrigerator. I hope your legs don't fall asleep."
Constantly walking an obstacle course. This goes hand-in-hand with being leaned upon, as little kids just don't know where they are in space. I get it, I really do: they don't try to paralyze you with their bodies. Yet: how many minutes have I spent paused on one stair, squirmy baby (probably with poop squeezing out of his diaper) in hand, waiting for the parade of preschoolers to make their slow, distracted descent down the staircase.
Yesterday, we made cookies. I smelled burning in the oven (always a good sign, right?) and bolted for the kitchen. I had to push past Lucy and Peter to do so, much the way an agile running back makes his way past the defense, except I'm not exactly what you'd consider agile. I literally shoved Lucy's head out of the way to make room for my body running down the hallway. It took an extra cookie for her to forgive me. (But you forgive me, right? You see, Thomas was sleeping on the sofa, and the smoke detector was three seconds away from going off.)
Vomiting in bed at 3 a.m.
Getting into the car. Why, why, why is this such a challenge? Why are the thirty yards of space between our front door and the car so very interesting? Why does the backseat of our car remind the children of a playground?
The helpfulness of children who, upon spotting something of yours placed in a safe spot, promptly hand it to you and in the process lose it forever. It's hard to begrudge them their helpfulness, but it's also annoying knowing that the slip of paper I needed (or my insurance card, or my last $5 bill, or my car keys) were just where I'd left them, handed to me, placed somewhere else in the frantic "your brother is going to tumble down the stairs!" mayhem, and lost to the clutter.
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