One afternoon last year, my eldest child bounded off the school bus, burst into the house, and announced that he was in a club.
“I was invited in today,” he said.
“Oh really?” I said. “That’s exciting! Who else is in it?”
“A bunch of girls who like me.”
“That’s what is known as a FAN CLUB,” I told him.
The reason why it’s okay for me to laugh at the expense of my children and share these stories with the entire internet is because I spend about 75% of my time as a mother feeling like I’m right on the verge of coming unhinged. Not because I don’t love motherhood — I do — but my 5-year-old put his hand through a window the other day and my 3-year-old really, really likes to eat hand soap.
I used to blog almost daily about the shenanigans of my kids, but suddenly I found myself in way over my head. It was all simply too much to type. I found this jumbled-up mess in my drafts folder, a snippet of a random day from a few months ago:
Pepper is in a tantrum phase and all three of them got muddy so I brought her inside (much to her dismay) to give her a bath and while she was in the tub the neighbor’s grandson came over to play and I found Maverick trying to destroy our carport ceiling with a fence slat — a fence slat!!! — and the neighbor just had a stroke and his caretaker was rolling him up our driveway and Maverick is so fucking loud — why is he so loud?! — and Asher came running inside, muddy, because he wanted to change shirts.
While that was happening, I heard splashing. But I really didn’t have the strength to investigate. But then I worried she was drowning. I go look. She’s fine, but there’s a roll of toilet paper in the toilet and all of the shampoo had been squeezed out.
It’s just an endless rant, really. However, there has been a slow shift over the course of this year: with so much going wrong in the world, it’s become easier for me to find the joy in motherhood. Maybe it’s because I have perspective that I didn’t have before, or maybe it’s because I’m medicated. There’s really no way to know for sure, and frankly it doesn’t matter.
Our kindergartner has been saying “Freakin’ Einstein” for months and I just recently realized he is talking about FRANKENSTEIN. I kept wondering why he kept tacking “freakin'” in front of Einstein — what was that about? — until finally, I heard him say “Freakin’ Einstein has bolts in his neck.”
OH. Yes. Frankenstein does have bolts in his neck. It all makes so much sense now.