Surviving Boys

Every time I see a mom wrangling little kids in the store, on the sidewalk, at a restaurant or basically anywhere, I'm in awe. It's like I'm observing the ancient domestic rituals of an unknown people. A fascinating and enthralling spectacle in juggling. A high wire act. A performer on a flying trapeze...

You get the idea.

And while I marvel at her incredible two-handed feats, like simultaneously loading 10lbs of potatoes into a shopping cart while keeping a 3 year-old from climbing into the veggies to "take a shower" in the produce section, feeding an infant, talking on her cell phone and keeping the cart from rolling in the opposite direction with her foot, I'm one part amazed and one part, "Thank god I don't have to do that again."

They didn't have cell phones when my boys (who coincidentally are 18 months apart) were little.

Okay, maybe they did have them. But they certainly weren't as commonplace in 1998 as they are now and I think the only one that existed in our home belonged to my husband. It was for work. It was as large as a brick of good cheddar and had an antennae that could probably pick up signals from Mars. It was a beauty.

I can't imagine the kinds of accidents I would have had if I were trying to be that multitasking. And yet, here they are, modern mamas with all the distractions of today's technology, doing just fine.

I'd never survive if my kids were born today.

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook of what was left after her toddlers (boys, I might add...I completely understand the world she lives in right now but let me make this very clear, have no desire to trade places with her because oh, the work) decided to make waffles early one morning. Graham crackers, salt, pepper, powdered sugar, green food coloring and over $100 worth of vanilla beans (I would have sat down and wept myself into a puddle right there) covered a small area in her kitchen...

I wrote to her and told her about how we had to install a latch at the top of our kitchen door that led to our garage when our oldest was a toddler because he used to sleepwalk. I was petrified that he'd toddle his way out into the garage in the middle of the night and get hurt or worse...escape. Because isn't that what we with children of a certain age are really always afraid of, their escape?

Or was it poking their eyes out? I can't remember.

And then I said those words, "This too shall pass." And right then and there, I became my mother.

Not that that's a bad thing, because I think my mom is pretty cool, but no daughter wants to become her mother...ever. Not even when she's 85. Not that my mom is 85, she's really young. She's only...never mind.

Anyway, I said those words. I became my mother. I should probably avoid looking into any mirrors today because guess what I'll see? Yup. My mother. And if there's anything more annoying for a mom with toddler-aged kids to hear, it's those words. Because right there, in the moment, when your house is splattered with all kinds of goo and even though your sweet kiddos are safe and happy and perfectly unharmed all you can think of is, "When do I get a time-out?" At least that's what I used to think, when I'd sit at the table, observing their lunch of grapes cut in half (so they wouldn't choke), water (so they wouldn't get cavities) and sandwiches I'd made on bread that I baked (so they wouldn't eat chemicals and DIE!), and slugged caffeine like it was the last drop of sanity left on the planet before cleaning up the lunch mess, wiping their sticky faces and fingers and making a batch of homemade play-doh because who doesn't need one more project in their day?

You see, I do remember!

And yes, dear friend of mine with little ones, this too shall pass.

I promise.