I sit here writing this at my desk which is in the corner of my bedroom, sitting on a dining room chair because a real office chair won't fit in this corner, surrounded by old bills, holiday cards that were never sent out, a sock from a doll, and pieces of toys that haven't quite made it to the trash can yet. The dog is lying on the floor behind me snoring contentedly.
For once my house is quiet. I'm in that sweet spot that I live for. The one where the kids are still at daycare, my husband's at work, and I have two minutes to myself between projects for work. These moments are few and far between but they feed my soul. If that sounds like an exaggeration to you then either you're not as introverted as I am or your kids are quieter than mine. If it's the latter then I would like to congratulate you on your amazing luck while I secretly resist the urge to throw something in your general direction.
As my family has grown, the length of time between these moments has extended. There are rarely moments where I don't have someone needing my attention. My daughter loves the twins. She thinks they are the most amazing things that have ever existed and they think she is so entertaining and funny and wonderful. It's really sweet to watch. She likes to make them laugh and it's a laugh I've only ever heard them make for her. It seems to bubble and grow until it has no choice but to explode out of their mouths. It's a noise that brings me joy. Joy underpinned with anxiety. Inevitably this laughter brings me to put on my least favorite of my mom hats. That of fun ruiner. Everything would be fine if all she did was make funny faces or tickle (well that can be problematic as well), but she gets encouraged by their laughter, emboldened even. All of a sudden my 34-pound three-year-old is attempting to pick up my 19-pound son and roll around on the floor with him. Or she is trying to play catch with my other daughter and not realizing that she's nine-months-old and can't catch balls thrown at her head.
Then I have to step in and attempt to dial down the fun before someone ends up with a head injury.
The supreme overarching joy of having children is knowing that you're doing your best to keep them as safe as you can while realizing that they have no clue that that's what you're doing. All they see is the fun they were having being stopped. Therefore you are the worst person. The key is to try and find that perfect moment, the one where they're having fun but it hasn't quite become mania yet and try to redirect at that moment. And then ride off into the sunset on your perfect unicorn of happiness.
I can not ever seem to find that moment.
Inevitably, I call stop when the momentum is so strong that it's impossible to get them to stop without physically separating them. Or at least raising my voice to a level I had hoped back in my naive early motherhood days to never have to use. Oh, those early days. The blissful days when you thought that you wouldn't have to be one of those parents, wearing sweatpants at the park, with hair that hasn't been washed in four days, yelling at their kid not to eat the dirt. Ignorance (or in this case inexperience) is bliss.
But that is the job of the parent. To protect our kids when we can, even (and usually) if it's from themselves. Even if they're missing out on a little bit of the fun in the process.
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