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!