John has these honorary nieces and nephews — or godchildren, or some such thing — that we take on adventures. There are seven kids total, so we never take them all at once. We don’t have a vehicle large enough. The oldest is 19 and not much interested in going to playgrounds anymore. He’s busy with college anyway. The youngest three range from age 3 to 6. We take them places they can run around. The next three middle kids are girls, aged 8 to 13. Them we take for a weekend every couple of months. They were just here last weekend.
I love having them over. I look forward to it, make plans, buy gifts for them. They’re smart and funny and curious. The 8yo goes through all of my drawers, headed right to my bedside table the minute we got to the house on Friday. I recently emptied out my late aunt’s jewelry box, and she immediately turned it into her treasure box, filling it with various things she found around the house.
The middle girl, aged 11, is anxious and precise. We baked cookie bars together and she was deeply concerned that her sister, the oldest, hadn’t spread the top layer evenly enough. She was also not entirely confident that I knew what I was doing, despite me showing her the recipe I was following. She earnestly asked if I had ever cooked before. As someone who was occasionally accused of being a know-it-all as a child, I love her for her diligence.
The oldest is 13. That kind of tells you a lot about her. She is balancing between kid and teenager. She and the 11-year-old used up all of my anti-aging serum in their bedtime prep, and they walked around with my clear blemish spots all over their faces.
Despite that, the oldest still loves playing make-believe with her sisters, and even by herself. She loves to sing and imitate voices and dance around, though not necessarily with an audience.
The three have their squabbles, but are generally extremely harmonious. They and their siblings all have chores at home — the two oldest girls often make dinner — so they have a team attitude.
I have no complaints about them. They’re pretty freaking easy to have over. AND YET after a day I’m exhausted and cranky, desperate for alone time. John and I end up bickering about something. I find myself trapped in corners, making crazy pronouncements.
On the last day, I foolishly said that I would take them to the local ice cream stand after we went to a playground and McDonald’s. I had added a third thing, even fully knowing from life experience that a third thing was too many things.
They were hungry and cranky, particularly the 11-year-old, but still wanted to go to the playground before McDonald’s. Fine. I was also hungry and cranky, but I am a grownup, so can, in theory, regulate my moods.
The oldest and youngest ran and played happily, the 11-year-old got mad at her younger sister and sulked.
Time to eat!
Off to McDonald’s. They each ordered 87 things for themselves. I got a Big Mac, because, again, I am a grownup.
Two seconds after we order, the 11-year-old starts asking when the food is going to come. “When it comes,” I say, because I have entered that mode, talking to children like my father did. “Little voices in little spaces,” that sort of thing.
The food comes and each child eats the 87 things they ordered.
Should I have then gotten them tiny ice cream cones at McDonald’s so we could skip the ice cream stand? Yes. Did I? No.
Spring in Massachusetts is erratic. Today it’s almost 80 degrees. Last weekend it was in the low 60s. The ice cream stand is a quaint old local tradition with no indoor seating.
They each get a scoop on a sugar cone and we head to a picnic table. Immediately the complaints: we’re so cold! We’re going to die! The youngest is shivering.
“Can we sit in the car?”
No.
“Please, but this is terrible. Jen, be real, we need to sit in the car.”
No! Look at your hands, I say. Look at your faces! I can’t have all that sticky dairy on my car seats.
I am eating my cone properly, neatly, efficiently, like my mother used to. They’re spending too much time complaining and not enough time eating. I point this out.
I am really cranky now, and regretting all of my decisions that day. I am outnumbered and vulnerable. I make my crazy pronouncement:
Everyone has five minutes to finish their ice cream cones or they get thrown in the trash! No more shenanigans!
The two oldest whine about it, but are pretty close to done. They pick up their pace.
The youngest had barely made a dent in her cone, but suddenly goes into beast mode. The idea of losing a single precious morsel of that cone has filled her with terror.
She stuffs the ice cream in her mouth, eyes bulging. Chomping, chomping in desperation. It occurs to me that she could choke, but I can’t back down. I can’t let them win!
Other adults at the stand are looking from her to me, wondering why I am allowing this madness to happen. I don’t meet their eyes.
Finally the youngest finishes. She is dazed, but alive. We all pile into the car and drive the ten minutes home.
I tell them I have work to do, so John will be driving them home without me. He’s been at home during all this, gathering strength. I hand them off at the door, and sit quietly on the couch while they run around gathering their things.
I hug them goodbye. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” They leave and I collapse on the couch, fall into a deep sleep until John gets home. He heads right to bed, sleeps until I wake him up to feed him. We get back into bed, sleep until morning.
I’m already excited for the next time the girls visit!
Took you only 1,024 words to encapsulate life with kids. Well done. Because I was reminded of how life used to be, I decided to do a word count. I have no complaints either.