Hey, I want to start off by saying I LOVE YOU GUYS. (Well, most of you. Nearly all of you. Except those of you who are turds.) I was… well, I was a wreck when I wrote that last post. Those dark times of parenthood reach up and grab me, sometimes, and throw me in the pit and chant “it puts the lotion on its skin” while I whimper and mewl in the corner. Then y’all come along and pull me out and pat me and stroke my hair and tell me I’m pretty and there are many, many more pairs of shoes to shop for before I give up. Thank you for your kindness. And for not just agreeing with me that life sucks.
Anyway, I had my little tantrum meltdown, and then—go figure!—life continued on. As if nothing had ever happened.
When I went to bed on Friday night, all cried out, I could only think about how Monkey is grappling with something and his life may be ruined if we can’t figure it out and WHY DOESN’T ANYONE BELIEVE ME THAT THE SKY IS FALLING. So it shouldn’t have surprised me that Monkey got up on Saturday morning happy as a clam.
[There is a part of me that believes that my children deliberately fuck with my head and then laugh about it behind closed doors. I know it’s probably not true, but I can’t help it.]
So we had breakfast and got him suited up for soccer and went out to the field and I watched as the coaches valiantly tried to herd the children into playing an actual game rather than just wandering around the field with their fingers in their noses. In the end, Monkey’s team lost 6-0 and he absolutely could not have cared less. He was sweaty and grass-stained and delighted to be alive, and I was so bamboozled by the entire thing (he’s angry! he’s unable to tolerate frustration! now he’s utterly unperturbed! he’s happy with failure!), I took the kids for ice cream. Because that is pretty much my fallback strategy as a parent. Frozen dairy confection for everyone!
The weekend continued on, and I got to thinking about how lousy I was at updating the kids’ baby books. Chickadee’s is filled out diligently to about six months, and Monkey’s is almost empty. I just couldn’t manage to sit down and take note of that first word, first solo butt wipe, whatever. Each time I’m sure I was convinced that I would remember until later, and then later I’d forget to get the book out, and later still, that memory would’ve evaporated.
It’s my hope that someday the kids will look at the things I’ve written about them and really get a kick out of my perspective on their growing up. I hope they’ll forgive me for swearing here and there. I hope they’ll understand how loved they are, even though sometimes they baffle me.
I might not be able to tell them what day they took their first steps, or when Chickadee no longer insisted her name was “Chiggychiggychiggydee” or when Monkey stopped calling her “Chick-dadee,” but thanks to the blog, I am immortalizing the freak-outs right alongside things like when the children discovered that birds don’t eat french fries and wear hats in the spring.
With that in mind, I’d like to tell you about a conversation my son and I had earlier today.
Me: Yes, honey?
Monkey: Do they always cut the tummies of mommies to get babies out?
Monkey: When it’s time for a baby to come out, how does it get out if they don’t cut the bellies? Do they always cut the mommy?
Me: No, honey. I didn’t have my belly cut for you or your sister. You know how babies get out. Don’t you remember?
Monkey: No. How does the baby get out?
Me: We’ve talked about this before. You really don’t remember?
Monkey: No! Tell me!
Me: The baby comes out the mama’s vagina, honey. That’s the regular way for the baby to get out.
Monkey: *stunned silence*
Me: *doing dishes and trying not to giggle*
Me: Yes, love?
Monkey: I’m REALLY glad I’m a BOY.