Never would I ever

I researched a minivan the other day.

"So?" you ask.

"So," I say.

So. This is significant. It will go on the list.

"The list?" you ask.

"The list," I say.

The list of stuff-I-swore-I-would-never-ever-(ever)-do-as-a-parent. The list.

And, friends, it is a long list.

My husband and I laugh - often - at what a-holes we were. For real. We were newly married and childless, and we sat upon our high, pristine SUV horse and made royal decrees of what would never happen in our kingdom should we ever procreate. We had visions of picturesque family moments involving children, happily dressed in Baby Gap, participating in activities of our choosing. There were several children; they never fought. We would never go crazy like our parents had. We would never lose control. Our children would always eat a balanced dinner that we chose, because damn it, we would always be in charge. We would never become that family that had so much going on that we couldn't find ourselves. Only one sport per season. Only appropriate television. Only lovely things in our lovely life. And never, ever a minivan.

The downfall started small. A rearview mirror on the backseat decorated with animals, just so I could see my firstborn cherub's face while I drove. Never would I ever have one of those. Until I did. It was green. It had a giraffe.

But the rest of the list? The rest of the list I would stick to.

It is now eleven years later, and the only thing I have left is my SUV. (And honestly? Regardless of the type of car it is, its floor is covered in crackers, and it is a disgusting Mom-mobile.)

So, let's point out the ways in which I must eat my words, shall we? Just yesterday, I herded three boys into a dirty-ass car after work to get Mason to hockey - a sport I swore no child of mine would ever play. They were dressed in head-to-toe NFL and Star Wars attire. They watched Sponge Bob in the car that now has a TV. As if that technology weren't enough, Andrew played Pokemon Go on the ride back to a house where french toast sticks were dinner for two out of the three. (The third chose chicken, rice and a raw carrot, so I guess I'm 1/3 not a terrible parent.) Bedtime was like an hour after it should have been, and although yes, they did all read, it was not the full 30 minutes required by their school. Oliver, now 4, had me read all of the Star Wars guns to him. Guns. To my four year old. (There are rifles, blasters, and bows in addition to the various lightsabers, in case you were wondering.)

And all of that nonsense will happen again today, tomorrow, and the next day, because we'll also have to get to soccer and football. In case you haven't kept track, that's three fall sports. Three, not one. We'll also have to somehow make it to Open House at the boys' school. Because we obviously have time for that.

I'm sorry. To anyone I've ever judged for anything, I am sorry. My children are so incredibly far from being J. Crew fashionable it's ridiculous. Cereal is a meal. It is sometimes followed by ice cream. My ten year old says "crap" and "freaking" when he thinks I'm not listening. My seven year old lies about doing homework. My four year old loves weapons more than he loves me. All of them probably need a bath, and I imagine that their 28,394 hours of screen time a week would be frowned upon by the American Academy of Pediatrics.

To my 2005 self, I say this: You are a fool. Kids will pee on your rug. They will want to dress themselves according to their taste, not yours. You will buy light-up sneakers. (No, really. You will.) You will buy electronics and allow them to watch horribly non-educational things. You will tread water every day just to get by, and in doing this, you will stop caring if Lucky Charms may not be the best choice. Because at least they're not going to bed hungry AND dirty.

So in this moment, I admit defeat. I admit that I no longer care. This is our life, and we are happy. This is our life, and when we are not screaming at the children, we are happy.

And if I ever end up in the driver's seat of a minivan, I'll honk that horn and give a nod to my old decrees. Then I'll drive the kids to McDonald's for dinner. Because, honestly, we're probably late for something else I swore I'd never do.

Beep, beep.

Always late. Always dirty. That's how we roll.