By Kate Chapman of This Life in Progress
Lots of talk on the internet about what’s real lately. I’ll tell you what’s real. My house smells like feet. Not in an overpowering, “let’s look for what’s causing that” way; no, in a much more subtle, pervasive way. It’s upstairs, downstairs, in the garage. About midweek, I smelled it everywhere and worried it was me. Several outings and showers later, I’ve eliminated that possibility. It’s the whole house. I blame the children, of course. There are six of them after all.
That’s a fitting theme for this sucker punch of a week. If I ever write a memoir, it may very well be titled “What’s That Smell?” The follow-up sequel to that smash bestseller will be titled “No, Seriously, Why is This Wet?”
This week has taken every ounce of adult maturity I have, and that only got me through about Wednesday. Somehow, despite our structured routines and color coded calendar, we ended up with all the people needing to be all the places every day. When all the people are together during the week, they are NEEDY. Because they are smart, precocious children, they are all needy in different ways.
Our oldest, Sara and Simon, are needy in errand-y ways. As in, none-of-my-17-white-shirts-are-right-for-the-chorus-concert-tomorrow-night-that-I-haven’t-mentioned-until-now ways. Or, this morning’s 6 a.m. wake up call version: could-you-buy-me-Space-Jam-today-thanks-Mom, garbled as Simon rushed out the door. Apparently, Space Jam is a movie. In the pre-dawn hours I thought it was a new-fangled breakfast spread.
My rational self understands this teenage neediness. They are active and involved and have limited time at home and still developing their time management skills blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I’m considering implementing a 48-hour request turn around time and triplicate forms. That’s how requests work in the real world. I long to teach them by example.
Our youngest, Jack and Lottie, are needy in more traditional, yet still insidious ways. On Sunday night, Gabe and I went to a concert. We haven’t hired a sitter for a date night in more than a year – we limit grown-up time in our blended family to the rare nights where kids aren’t home with us. However, our favorite band was in town and we fooled ourselves into thinking three hours away could do no harm.
When we returned home, we found five letters littering the kitchen table from Lottie: “I miss my mom. Where is my mom? Why did she leave me? I miss miss miss her.” Five full-page letters. Three hours. Also during that time, Simon had to physically restrain Jack to keep him from biting the sitter. A sitter he loves. Three hours. That’s what happens when you dare to dream – physical restraint and tear-stained letters.
The Littles aren’t quitters, either, bless them. Jack forgot how to dress himself this week. Putting Lottie to bed Tuesday night, she asked me to stay with her and tell her what to think about. What to think about. I resisted the urge to say clowns, so Mom of The Year over here.
The Middles took the still waters run deep approach to neediness this week, balancing the team nicely. Because when you’re running at top speed with small children clinging to your legs and torso, worrying about the long-term emotional health of your middle children helps keep your mind occupied.
Here’s just a sample: Driving all over town on Saturday, I called Gabe to coordinate logistics. We went through the roster and divvied duties, and I hung up. Quietly, from the backseat, Caden asks, “Do you like having children?” Panic. Don’t miss this moment, I think. Don’t let the noise of the current situation drown out the truth. I respond: “Let me be crystal clear, Boy-O; raising you and your siblings is the most important job I could ever hope for. This is why I am on this earth. I love you and watching you grow and learn brings me joy.” I pause and look in the rearview mirror to make sure I’ve skillfully averted a future of self-loathing. “Oh,” he says. “It’s just sometimes six kids seems like a lot of work.” Also true, Boy-O, also true.
There’s just sometimes not enough attention to go around in our family of eight. But no one, NO ONE, is needier than the dog. Here’s a list of what Miller ate this week: five socks, three pairs of panties, my good bra, a report on the topography of the ocean, Lottie’s FitBit, two pairs of dance tights (the expensive convertible kind, not the cheap Target kind), and about a cup of styrofoam peanuts. Cry for attention, much?
When I found Miller chomping the FitBit earlier this week, I scooped him up in my arms, ready to deposit him in the crate for a time out or take his picture for an adoption site – open to either, I was letting that situation unfold organically. Anyway, as I scooped him up, he nuzzled my neck. This awful beast of a dog, who had eaten $100 worth of stuff in less than two minutes, put his paws on my shoulder and nuzzled my neck. And for a moment, I considered having another baby.
Another baby.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Because I care for my own emotional health, in the very next moment I decided I was done adulting for the week. Awkwardly, it was only Wednesday-ish. Whatever, desperate times call for desperate measures. We drove through Wendy’s four times this week. I counted taking the recycling to the curb as exercise. I got my toes and nails done, because self-care matters. I put myself in charge of reviewing the internet for political memes and funny text misfires.
Enjoy your week. Let’s all try again next week, shall we?
This post was originally published on This Life in Progress.
Related post by Kate Chapman: This Is How We Do It: Tips for Blended Families
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