Accepting It

Our oldest "gentleman" just turned 9, followed by his brothers, 6 and 3, so we've had them for a while now (and I guess we'll keep 'em). It's taken some time, but we're finally starting to get a handle on this whole parenting thing. Only recently, however, have I come to realize this: No matter what I say or how I plead, there are a few truths in our crazy life that I never expected to come to terms with, but shockingly, come to terms with It all I have.

(Please note: "It" will henceforth be referred to as a proper noun with a capital I, because It is a being unto itself, a thing who comes to live amongst your family members right under your nose, completely unnoticed by you until the very day you realize that life is going on, but not at all according to plan, because It does not actually care what you had planned.)

So after nine years, this is what It means to us:

It means that every time I take a shower, there will be a conflict / injury / general discontent in some other quadrant of the home involving cartoon choice / Pokemon card debate / wrestling injury that I will be able to hear through running water AND a closed door. No joke - every single time. People, I just want clean hair and a moment of peace. Why don't they get It?

It means that if I clean my car inside and out on a Wednesday, this same car will end up twice as dirty by the stroke of midnight on Thursday - goldfish literally swimming out of the seat cracks and the rear windows smeared with disgusting mystery opaqueness. I appear not to have any regard for cleanliness or my surroundings regardless of what I do. I cannot solve It.

It means that one child will always wake up at least one other child in the house at a ridiculously early hour, no matter what I promise or what I threaten. I cannot control It.

It means that by the time all the children are in some type of safe learning environment and I'm on my way to work, I will need to find a way to disguise at least one smudge of substance, identifiable or otherwise, on my skirt and/or shoulder before I start my day. It also means that regardless of personal preference, I wear more patterns and fewer solids because of the need to camouflage It.

It means that no matter how I instruct the children otherwise, at least one of them will come home with dirty trash in their lunch boxes. For the love of all that's holy, can we at least agree that the Gogurts need not be returned home half-consumed? Are they thinking of finishing them later? Are they just that lazy? Gross, boys. The word for It is gross.

It means that at the end of the day, I will be exhausted from defending valid arguments against nonsensical beings. Oreos are not ever going to be for breakfast, but after a 20 minute tantrum, there's a quick second where I think It would be easier to just give in.

It means that as much as I have whimsical visions of my boys being a walking ad for Baby Gap, Mini Boden, or similar, they will instead look like this:

His hat pains me, but it was his birthday dream come true. I can possibly persuade him to wear a polo shirt once a year for an hour photo shoot, but only if the Red Sox necklace stays on.

And this:

He is dressed like a different character every day.
I can still trick him into wearing polos and boat shoes on occasion.

And this:

This guy? Always looks like a mad scientist.
He may or may not be wearing clothes at any given point in the day, polo shirt or otherwise.

I have to find the pride that at least they are taking charge and finding their own identities. And wearing underwear. (Sometimes.) It's the little things, isn't It?

And finally, as I deal with It day after day after day, the children are somehow suddenly years older, and I realize that It is life. And whether or not I like their flat brim hats or character T-shirts, I had better get on board anyway, because if I don't, I am going to wake up, and It is going to have passed me by.

It may mean that daily life will never be totally in my control - sigh, wipe boogers off shoulder, shove slimy lunchbox into dishwasher that I will forget to run. 

But It will never mean Oreos for breakfast. For them. But me? I have earned It.

What should have been your happily ever after

To a certain woman whose life changed so drastically all those years ago today,

You were supposed to have been engaged. You were meant to have the most beautiful, perfectly perfect of rings, one flawless diamond flanked by an equally perfect sapphire on either side. Platinum, I'm guessing, because he knew that's what you would want. That ring on your finger would be the start of a life together. Of a family, maybe. Of children who never had the chance to know either their mother or their father. Because they never had the chance to be born.

I think of you often, sometimes at the oddest of moments. You had such an impact on me, on my view on life, which is odd considering I don't know who you are.

But I do know enough.

You had a boyfriend. You wanted a fiancé. And I'm sure you told him so, just as I did mine. Maybe you described your perfect ring. Maybe he just knew you loved blue. But either way, he nailed it. He had that ring made at a small store in Waterbury, Connecticut, and honestly, it was beyond gorgeous.

He had it made for you. Just for you. Because you were the one for him. Because you were his future.

But he went to New York on September 11, 2001. I don't know where he worked. I don't know if he was just visiting that day. But I do know that he never came back.

And that ring. Your ring. It sat there in the back of that small jewelry store, waiting to be claimed. By you, who may not even have known it existed. Because he never had the chance to pick it up.

And when I walked into that store one fall day, a few months after the terrorists rocked our world, it was just for a moment of whimsy. To pretend that I really was looking for a ring. Just to be fanciful, really. Just how it probably started for you.

"I have just the thing you're describing," the jeweler said to me. "It's right about your size, too - you can try it on just to get a feel for the color."

"It's gorgeous," I said, showing the ring to my mother, who had indulged my fantasy and come into the jewelry store with me, allowing me to dream of a day when an actual engagement ring would be mine. I tried it on as a play thing, as a shiny piece of pretend, not knowing that what I had on my finger should really have been on yours.

"It was actually a special design I made for someone," he said. "He died in the Trade Center on 9/11. The ring has been sitting here, waiting to be claimed."

I actually lost my ability to breathe for a moment. And I could not, could not, get that ring off of my finger fast enough. Your ring. The one you should have had on your left hand. The hand that should have been flipping through wedding magazines and holding champagne, not crumpling tissues and wiping tears.

I hope that finger wears a different ring now. And I hope you have children, who carry a future on which to hang hope. And that your babies, getting so big so fast, want to play dress up and pretend and watch your wedding video of Mommy and Daddy, another Prince Charming who found his way to you, giving you a different, unimagined version of happily ever after.

And I hope with all hope that your ring made its way to you and that you have it tucked away as a pocket of love to cherish. I never knew you. And I never knew him. But there's one indisputable fact that I know to be true: He loved you so much. And he most certainly wanted you to have it.