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.