For the record, though I am greatly surprised by it, I like the chaos of being a parent. I like the noise and activity. I like that every inch of our house feels lived in (which might as well be a euphemism for "has been pooped on," as you'll find out if you read many of our entries). There is nothing clean or orderly or predictable about life with two boys, two dogs and the overgrown Peter Pan I married.
Just this morning, as I was getting ready, Sam asked where Lincoln was. I said, "He's swinging. At least he was thirty seconds ago. Oh wait, there he is, he's on the tricycle. He's fine, he just has something on his face. Linc! Wipe your forehead, you have something on your face! Wait, he has something on his hands, too. Oh, that better be mud. Linc, stop! Don't touch your face! Don't move!"
See, now, I would not have been able to predict that I would have spent half my morning washing dog poop off of my four year old, his clothes, and his tricycle. It's that kind of spontaneity that life before children simply didn't offer us. We basically never had a sudden frantic crap cleaning party first thing in the morning before the kids came along. I look back on that and feel a little sorry for the sterile, boring existence I led back then.
The house is always full of sound and motion. I can't take three steps without being grabbed or bumped or smacked with a flying toy. The soundtrack of "Mom... mom... mom..." and "I want... I need... can you find my... can I have some..." plays on a loop. Just when I start to get numb to the constant needing/describing/asking/whining of the talkative one, Linc smacks my leg to get my attention. He holds his arms up, asking to be held. I tell him, "I can't hold you now, I'm getting dinner ready." He signs eat, and when I don't answer him, he smacks me on the legs and signs eat again. I say, "I know I'm working on it." While he has my attention, he gestures to be picked up again.
I pick him up and continue dinner prep until he gets too heavy and unwieldy to work with. Then, I put him down and he bangs the cabinet door closed at my feet over and over again, punishing me for abandoning him to the floor. In the next room, Nico has been telling me for five minutes that there's no way he's eating what I'm cooking and under no circumstance will he eat anything but peanut butter and jelly or cereal for dinner. The dogs wrestle and chase each other into the kitchen, smacking Lincoln as they pass. Linc cries dejectedly into my pant leg and raises his arms over his head. For the love of Pete, lady, why won't you hold me?
Like I said, it's sort of unfathomable that I would like this level of chaos. I am (allegedly) a bit of a control freak. I like things done my way, and my way simply is not rolled in dog crap and smeared all over the yard. Call me crazy (shut up, Sam).
But there is such a payoff to the insanity. Every inch of this house feels like home. There's never that eerie, lonely quiet that you find yourself turning on the TV or the radio to drown out. I can't go three steps without someone I love reaching out to touch me. We never know what the day will bring, though we're pretty sure it won't be boring. And even if it is boring, it feels like a welcome surprise.
It's fairly impossible to harbor any pride about our standard of living. Most of our possessions are paper clipped or duct taped together. Heck, we have a car window that's being held up with a rubber door stopper and some glue. Our carpet has seen more carnage that several Civil War battle sights. Even when we get something new, it's scratched or scuffed within four minutes of being unwrapped.
And don't even get me started about how humbling it is to navigate a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store or have to explain to your child at the park that "we don't kick our friends in the face, honey, I'm pretty sure we've been over that." I mean, you're going to turn to the other parent and say, "He never does this," but as you're walking away, you also know you're going to be asking your little donkey, "Why do you always do this?"
Humility comes standard on the parenting package deal, and sticky fingerprints on your electronics. But, the key is that you learn pretty quickly that those sticky fingerprints are worth so much more than the device they're staining. You learn to thoroughly examine a chair before you dare to sit in it, but you also know that within seconds of sitting down someone will come along beside you and take the seat next to you. And demand something with a small, high voice. And touch you with their dirty hands and shatter your dream of sitting alone and drinking your coffee. And make you so glad that you don't have to sit there alone and drink your coffee.
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