This is what I should not be spending time on, so I could definitely do a better job than this, but cannot justify the time.
Subway Song for First Son, sung to the melody of â€œYellow Submarineâ€
I was born in 1904
And I love to say â€œstand-clear the closing door.â€
I am old
And I am slow
But Iâ€™m all youâ€™ve got if you go
Across the bridge, or into Queens
Hey at least, Iâ€™m not a soup tureen
We all ride on the A, the C. the E,
The 1, the 2, the 3,
The F, the L, the B
We all ride on the 4, the 5, the B
The J, the M, the Z,
Just go away. I’m not even as leftie as I used to be, or I am, but I’m like a mean liberal (like I’m always HOW YOU GOING TO PAY FOR THAT), but why cut food stamps and Medicaid and go bananas on defense increases? Why, why, why? Stop telling people your ideas for budgets. You, sir, you are just plain gross. Just SHHHHHHHH.
When I think about the fact that I had three children, the word “hubris” comes to mind. I hope I pull this off.
If I ever were to write a book on parenting, I would put a picture from the movie “300” on the cover. So much of time, we’re in battle mode — wrestling a child into clothes, trying to keep the kids from breaking the necks, moving everyone as quickly as we can but being late all of time. At the playground, I am a low-grade secret service agent, toggling my gaze on all three kids, standing a distance far enough that allows me to observe all at once but not so far I couldn’t break out into a sprint to (hopefully) rescue them from a mishap. This is pretty typical, I’m thinking. You just keep running, even though you’re tired. I told Husband sometimes I want to cry “For England!” because the pace of this life stage feels dramatic, feels like I am rushing into battle with a sword.
Parenting is a tough job. I work full-time and see the kids outside of that, and any day in the office is easy compared to home. My hat is off to any stay-at-home parent. (lord help us) But the problem is that kids are so darn cute. When I get a hug from Twin Son with his soft-pretzel arms, or listen to Twin Daughter recite the alphabet in a husky-candy voice, or talk to First Son about odd and even numbers, this is what my insides feel like:
and then I’m toast.
I experience a surge of a feeling of tremendous well-being, as well as love and affection, and I’m hooked. This might be about five minutes or ten during the day, but somehow it sustains me. Husband makes fun of me because he’ll catch me staring at First Son, or the other two. And so I go on, face numb, hair wild, eyes tired, until Battle Parenting Stage turns into whatever’s next.
Hooray parents! Hooray children! For England! For Oradell!
Oh man, a few years ago, a good friend of mine had kids well before I did, three to be exact, and I could not understand why she disappeared, didn’t call or email back. When I ran into her years later, I told her I missed her and she said “I missed me too.” At the time, I was hurt, taking the comment as a sign she didn’t care. We drifted apart, which happens all the time to close friends.
But dude, tonight, after chasing the adorable, demanding tykes, making sure they’re fed, blocking them from the stove, wrestling them into PJs when they rather flee naked after a full week at work, I realize what she meant. I completely understand those words.