When you live in a too-small house with a 2.5 years old boy (ALL boy, ALL Terrifying Two, ALL the time), his 7 (going on 25) years old sister who loves girl STUFF, their 9 years old soccer brother (ALL middle brother ALL the time), and their teenaged brother (“So you think you can cook! Uh, turn off the burner after, dude!”) — AND with their very creative artistic mom who all but hovers over the washing machine when not arting or doing someone’s hair and backpacks for tomorrow and homework — you not only re-think your own overly-sphincter’d life which you imposed on so many, you learn patience — almost by default. (“Lighten up, lady — or die!”)
See there? I complained POSITIVELY. That’s huge! Or, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me (more than they did last year)!” It’s very hard to keep the chaos contained, to keep disorganization to a minimum, here. Very, very hard — but we’re making progress. (The crumb-and-clutter mice are starting to frown.)
Until we are magical indeed, though, there are moments upon moments when nothing could surpass 3 generations living together.
The littlest one sent his mom downstairs one day for a new spoon. She was roaring behind her covered mouth as she said low, “He said, ‘Dis ‘poon not workin!’ — but he’s just low on cereal in his bowl!”
And.. when some uncensored peer tries to put more than the fear of God into one of the middle kids about the ‘Momo’-type things, there are two generations who can and will nay-nay it. Adequately!
The teen grandson is hilarious. Heading out to work before he arrived one day, I signed a snack-note to him, “Love, G-ma.” He first read it as “Love, 6-mix” and really thought I was going for a cool rap name. Now, when it’s time for him to bring his phone downstairs for the night, 6-mix texts him: “Shanie B-zone, it’s TIME!” He is very gracious with such a weirdo grandma — possibly not simply because it nets him a hot grilled cheese sandwich just moments after exiting the school bus every day.
We are a nuts household. Just nuts. DH is the hold-out. He gets frustrated and starts moving papers, toys, clothes (all but living things) on the floor with his feet. Fortunately, though, he’s an old Boy Scout/Civil Engineer soul and gets lost dreaming of badges to earn and culverts to create (in a manner of speaking) and soon finds things to do that please/challenge-please him greatly.
OR he goes to bed. Like I do. 😀 When the (evening) going gets tough — loud, louder, loudest — the (ancient) tough go for the pillow!