Trash Eyes is Happy

The air is crisp, the sun is beating down, and the kids are holding hands running across the playground in their clothes that are just a little too small. At any moment, Joey will pull her hair or she'll trip and sail into a mud puddle, and the moment will be over. But for that moment, life is perfect.

Here's what I had to say about life one year ago:


Momentum


In the midst of the mundane and insane that has been our life lately, I have had breath-taking moments of quiet clarity: Life is brilliant!


In a average day, I will be called “Poop Eyes” and “Trash Butt.” I will pull the baby away from the toilet, off the steps, out from under Jack. I will yell about bad behavior, rotten eating habits, and messes. I’ll take the nuk away because she’s too damn old to have it, but I’ll give it back the minute she whines. I’ll yell at the baby for spilling the dog’s water dish on his head, threaten to throw away toys, and holler, all the while longing for cocktail hour. Each day is a frenzy, intense and chaotic, bursting with paint spills and milk spills and poop, barf, and sand. There is pinching, screaming, and tears, more bad television than any self-respecting mom cares to admit, and mealtime battles that would make anyone crack.


But then it happens, in a flash: Jack asks if he can give the baby a bottle. Sylvie crawls into the bed and nuzzles against my neck, like a boa. Joey’s fingers clutch my own as I nurse him in the earliest morning hours. Jack tells me he loves me “1,000 percent” because I am so beautiful. They tell jokes and laugh and eat their dinner. Joey takes his first steps, shaky but proud. Syl and Jack curl up on the couch together. They surprise me with politeness and silliness and smarts. I ache.


Norman Rockwell must have painted very fast, because those idyllic moments are fleeting, though. They pepper the day. Sometimes whole days pass where you wonder what the hell the point is. But as time passes, I notice more of the good stuff. “Trash Eyes” is happy.


The chaos has maintained it's staggering pace, although now it's different bad television, less spills, more hair-pulling, more nudity. I am constantly rummaging through clothes to find stuff that they haven't outgrown yet, and I wonder who took my babies and replaced them with these big kids! But I can't reflect too long on it because I can't find my keys, my wallet, Jack's shoes, Syl's undies, etc. I am likely to find them in one of Jack's many briefcases, if only I could find them, but before I do that I need to put a diaper on the naked baby, start the fifth load of laundry, and feed the dog, who is watching this drama unfold with total disgust, remembering the glory days when we had time to dote on him.

It is a madhouse here, and if you're crazy enough, you might find yourself embracing the insanity. I am not sure I am quite there yet, but I DO see that the moments that are good are really, really good. Amazing even.