On March Madness: Real? Or Just a Myth?

On March Madness: Real? Or Just a Myth?

It never fails: by the time we get to Spring Break, my kids are done with school.

They’re done with homework, done with getting dressed, done with packing up in a timely manner. And, honestly, I’m so done with making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches they’ve become just jelly sandwiches.

The other morning, one of my school-aged sons came downstairs in his pajamas. I thought maybe he’d forgotten today was a school day.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Going to school,” he said.

“You forgot to change,” I said.

“No?” he said, like he wasn’t quite sure. He looked down at his pajamas. “This is what I’m wearing.”

“You can’t wear pajamas to school,” I said. “Sorry.”

He groaned all the way up the stairs.

The school morning routine has become complicated.

I tell the 11-year-old to get up (multiple times), and he will still act like I’m the worst mom ever (for not getting him up) when I suddenly call out that it’s time to go (he didn’t hear me the twelve times I said it was time to get up). He hasn’t eaten breakfast, and he was supposed to take a shower this morning. I think it’s all an act. He’s allergic to showers; I think it’s been…well, you don’t want to know how long since the last shower I know about.

There’s so much chaos in the kitchen they have to yell to be heard. The other morning one of them was trying to tell me something, and it was so loud that I leaned close and said, “Say it in my ear. Maybe that will help.”

Not only did he say it, but he also sprayed it, and I got to both smell the delightful breath and wear the fragrant spit of a boy who hadn’t yet brushed his teeth this morning.

They can never find their shoes. The shoes are right in front of their eyes. They could trip over them and still not see them.

Maybe they’re just afternoon people, instead of morning people.

Several of them have forgotten what school mornings even look like (it’s usually the ones who have been doing this routine for several years); they immediately head into the LEGO room, rather than sitting down at the table or packing up their folders or attempting to tie their shoes.

Most mornings, one of them is running to catch up on the walk to school, and it’s not a silent catching up, it’s a whining—usually a scream-whining—one. My favorite.

On a typical morning, when I get back home, I see that someone forgot to close the back door and all our air conditioning has filtered out into the great wide world because that surely helps bring the Texas temperature down.

I didn’t know until I became a parent that March madness was actually a thing.

I’ve stopped signing folders, I get notes about overdue library books, I don’t even enforce homework anymore. Guess I’m ready for summer, too.

Wait. No. I take that back. I’m not ready for summer at all.

But it’s coming at me like a comet. Ready or not.

(Photo by This is Now Photography.)

The Confidence You Gain in Your Tidying Attempts: You Will Fail at Lesser Things

The Confidence You Gain in Your Tidying Attempts: You Will Fail at Lesser Things

Tidying experts say that, among many other amazing things, you can gain confidence from the tidying up of your home. I agree. But I think we may be talking about two different things, because the confidence I believe can be gained from trying to tidy your house when children live in it is this:

You will fail at lesser things.

You will fail, one day, at beating your 8-year-old son at chess, because he’s in a club and you were never all that great at it, anyway, even though you tell yourself you used to be super smart. It was probably all a ruse.

You will fail at a cutting your boys’ hair the one time you try, because you were too cheap to pay the nominal fee you’d pay for a little boy’s haircut, and they’ll end up looking like a bowl sat on their heads while you chopped away.

You will fail at finding your keys when the kids have just used them to unlock the playroom, which is not really a playroom anymore but has become an obstacle course, a massive junk drawer, a “Hazard—Keep Out” kind of place. It didn’t used to be, but then you canceled your storage space, with the intention of cleaning out everything in it. Everything in it ended up in your garage, or playroom. But back to the keys. When your kids used them, they fell somewhere in this obstacle course of a room. Too bad you don’t have a location device on them. You’re probably never going to leave the house again.

You will fail at keeping up with school papers.

You will fail at remaining cool as your kid begins to care about cool. It doesn’t matter how many books you write or how many full-length albums you produce or how many beautiful art pieces you paint in the clip of a year. You are totally uncool, Mom and Dad.

You will fail at finishing those cloth napkins you planned to make for them when they all went off to kindergarten. And, at the same time, you will fail at finishing the crocheted blanket you were supposed to make for his sixth birthday and the other one you were supposed to make for the baby on his first birthday, because there’s just no time left. All your time is spent hanging out with the kids. That’s what you’ll tell yourself. It’s really spent signing school folders.

You will fail at kicking a ball past the little boy who now runs faster than you do, mostly because you have two 3-year-old cling-ons hanging to your leg, because this is how they said it would be a fair game of kickball.

You will fail at trying to learn how to roller blade when you turn 30.

You will fail at finishing that book in the time you thought you’d finish it, because boys make it nearly impossible to read.

You will fail at making your bed every morning.

You will fail at cooking a breakfast of fried eggs and pancakes, because there’s just not enough time, and, besides, they don’t want to wait that long.

You will fail at remembering whether the dishwasher was already run.

You will fail at hanging up laundry the day you wash it.

You will fail at shelving books every night, because by the time all the kids are down in bed, you have just enough energy to crawl to your bed and lie down.

You will fail at keeping your bedroom door closed any night, because at least one of the children will come knocking with something of emergency proportions, even if it’s just to tell you what their fart smelled like. Or that they love you. Both equally important.

You will fail at keeping even one puzzle with all the puzzle pieces.

You will fail at making sure the game of Operation doesn’t have any pieces missing.

You will fail at finding a full and complete deck of cards anywhere in your house.

You will fail at keeping toothpaste off the counters of their bathroom.

You will fail at keeping a toilet to yourself, because there’s always a time when they’re talking to you and they have to go right this minute, even though their toilet is only fifteen steps away.

You will fail at recycling those boxes before your kids see them and decide they want to make new toys out of them, and most of the time you’ll be glad that they’re so creative.

You will fail at keeping your plants alive and healthy.

You will fail at remembering to water your plants (sorry plants).

You will fail at cooking a perfect grilled cheese sandwich, because when your back was turned, your ears picked up on some suspicious splashing in the bathroom, and you know that sound, you know it well, so you investigated, and, sure enough, it was your 3-year-old, trying to plunge the toilet, even though he’s been told a billion times to keep his hands off.

You will fail at remembering that things you said you could never forget. (What was it again? You have no idea.)

You will fail at trying not to make the sex talk with your kids awkward. It will always be awkward. Embrace awkward.

You will fail at keeping up with the lawn outside, because boys are constantly digging holes, and who has the time to cut grass when you’re just trying to reduce the mayhem that crops up in your house?

You will fail at trying to stay the same. Because when you’re a parent, your kids are constantly, day by day, hour by hour, shaping who you become—and who you become is better.

So, really, what failing at keeping a tidy house really affords you is the confidence that you will fail at many, many other things, and that you will be better, greater, stronger for your failing.

Bring it on.

This is an excerpt from The Life-Changing Madness of Tidying Up After Children, the second book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.

(Photo by This is Now Photography.)

Do I Ever Feel Like Giving Up? Every Other Minute.

Do I Ever Feel Like Giving Up? Every Other Minute.

A few weeks ago I got a text from my sister, who had her third baby in February. The text said, “Tell me you have days when you just can’t handle it. When walking out of the house is all you can do to survive. I just need to hear it from another human.”

I laughed out loud, even though I knew she was dead serious. And in my head were responses like “every single day” and “just this morning” and “on a minute-by-minute basis.”

Parenting is hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I used to run six miles every morning in Houston’s 10,000-pound humidity before commuting an hour to downtown’s Houston Chronicle office. I used to marathon-train on ten miles of hills pushing a double baby stroller that carried a 4-year-old and a 3-year-old. I used to work for a narcissist.

Parenting is still the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

There are so many hours of my day that I just feel like giving up and hitch-hiking to downtown San Antonio’s Riverwalk, where Husband and I had a life before children—a life that didn’t include a panic attack every time a kid steps too close to the edge of the path and I imagine having to jump into that river’s dirty black water to save him.

Like the morning last week, when the 3-year-old twins went outside into our very safe (normally) backyard while I transferred a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer. Two minutes, tops. That’s all it took. By the time I finished, one of the twins had come back inside, and the whole house smelled like gasoline.

“Why does the house smell like gasoline?” I said, to no one in particular. The twin looked at me. I looked at him. He had his guilty eyes on.

“What were you doing out there?” I said.

“Nuffing,” he said.

I knew it was definitely something, because of those guilty eyes. A mom always knows, after all.

His twin brother came in smelling like a gas pump, so I looked out on the deck, where they didn’t even have the foresight to hide what they’d been doing. There, on a deck chair, was a gas can their daddy uses to fill up the lawn mower the three times a year he mows. That gas can is stored behind a locked door. A locked and sealed door that somehow, SOMEHOW, these Dennis the Menaces had cracked open in less than two minutes.

They poured gasoline (less than half a gallon, for those who are concerned) all over the back deck, the grass, and themselves. It’s a good thing no one in my house smokes, because we all would have been blown to high heaven.

I put them both in the bath (which was not on the schedule for the morning) while the baby stayed downstairs in his jumper seat wailing because he doesn’t like to be alone, and washed them, rinsed them, scrubbed them, rinsed them and washed them again. Husband sprayed off the deck (which also wasn’t on the schedule for the morning) and saturated all the grass, because a Texas summer hits 4,000 degrees, and we were afraid the sun might make the gasoline-drenched grass spontaneously combust and blow us all to high heaven anyway.

That morning was one of those give-up days, because there’s no way to be one step ahead in my house. There’s no way I can fully toddler-proof every room. There’s no way I can keep them out of every single thing they find to amuse themselves. It would take twenty-three of me, and as far as I know, cloning is considered unethical.

That morning I wanted to walk out and let them fend for themselves in gasoline-scented clothes that spread their stench all over the house in less than two seconds.

I used to feel guilty when feelings like this crept up. I used to beat myself up for sometimes wishing that they just weren’t twins, that there weren’t two of them ALL THE DANG TIME, that they weren’t so insatiably curious and 3 years old and nearly impossible to parent right now.

But there is something important I’ve learned in my years of parenting: Just because there are moments when we want to run away, when we want to flat-out give up, when we want to trade our challenging kids for easier kids for just this little moment in time so we can catch up and learn to appreciate them again, it doesn’t mean that we don’t still love them with a love that is never-ending.

These little, irrational humans can be the best and worst people we know on any given day at any given moment.

There are days when I want to sit down and color next to my 3-year-olds, because they’ve been playing so well together and the morning’s disasters have been minimal, and, gosh, I just love them so much, and then there are mornings when I want to put them on Craig’s list’s free page (I’d have to lie to really sell the idea, though. Something like “Two well behaved twins, of undetermined age.” Because what kind of crazy person would want two 3-year-olds voluntarily?)

There are hours when I love to comb through those old picture albums that show these two hooked up to machines because they were premature and remember how I fretted and cried and tried my best to help them learn how to eat, and there are days when those first moments feel like entire lifetimes away from this moment, when they stuck their whole arm in the just-used toilet to see what poop floating in pee feels like (They already know. We’ve done this drill before.).

There are minutes when I pull them into my lap and kiss all over their faces until they’re giggling uncontrollably, because they’re getting so big and so fun, and then there are minutes when I’m half-heartedly holding their big brother away from them so he doesn’t clobber them for marking all over his journal with a giant red permanent marker they found lying around somewhere (who keeps giving us permanent markers? Please stop.).

Parenting is not for the weak. This is the hardest responsibility we will ever have in our lives. Raising another human being to be a decent person is not easy, and there are many times along our journeys when we will feel like giving up and giving in and giving out.

It just comes with the territory.

So I fire off my response to my sweet sister. “Yes,” I say. “Just about every day. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad mother.”

Because it doesn’t.

These moments when we feel the tension between wanting to give up and knowing we can’t make us stronger parents. They make us better people. They drag us into a deeper understanding of love.

Good thing, too. Because my toddler just figured out how to open a can of paint Husband left unguarded and now the pantry wall has a Thermal Spring scribble-masterpiece drying on it.

I’m going to be one amazing person by the time this is all over.

This is an excerpt from Parenthood: Has Anyone Seen My Sanity?, the first book in the Crash Test Parents humor series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.

(Photo by This is Now Photography.)

Atypical Ways Kids Show Us They Love Us

Atypical Ways Kids Show Us They Love Us

Kids are the greatest, aren’t they? You tell them to handle that glass with care (they weren’t supposed to have it in the first place, but they’re getting older; everybody deserves a chance to prove themselves), and as soon as they nod their agreement, the glass slips out of their hands and shatters on the floor, milk splattering all over the cabinets.

They just wanted you to have something to clean up.

This is only one of the ways children love their parents. There are several more, including

1. Knees and elbows everywhere.

Any time I’m sitting in a chair, minding my own business (usually reading), a boy will launch himself into my lap. And by launch, I mean with missile-speed. If the book doesn’t take my face off, an elbow or knee will do the trick. I’ve almost lost teeth in the launch process.

If I happen to stretch out on the floor for a moment of meditation (or a short ten-minute nap), boys will climb all over me, jump off me, try to turn me over. They are the boniest creatures I’ve ever known. I wear more bruises on my body than I ever did when I played high school volleyball.

2. All the things they leave out.

My boys have one talent that rises above all the others: making a mess. They walk out of their shoes and their clothes, and when they’re doing art, they forget where pencils go and how to put away paper. They are constantly leaving apple cores in places where apples aren’t supposed to be consumed.

I’m sure they’re just trying to show me how much they love me: I’m still needed, after all.

But I swear, if I have to pick up one more smashed banana, I’m going to leave a vomit offering on their pillows, along with a note that says, “I love you back.”

3. Telling all our secrets.

My boys talk about Husband and me all the time, and because they spend the bulk of their time at school (and, consequently, miss us terribly), they air these secrets to their teachers. Their teachers now think we are parents who sing songs about bodily functions, hold regular burping contests (they’re not really contests; I’m the defending champion, and the others don’t even come close. It’s really just a concert.), and arm-fart their prayers. They probably think we’re the most immature parents ever.

Oh well. At least they haven’t told about the Drunk Daddy routine. Yet. (If they have told you about this, kindergarten teacher, don’t worry. It sounds worse than it is. Daddy is not a drunk. He pretends to run into doors and hurt himself. That’s all.)

4. Watch this.

It never fails; I’m right in the middle of doing something important—trying to figure out whose underwear is whose, for example—and one of my boys will shout out: “Watch this, Mama!” It could be that he wants me to watch a car go down this amazing track he built (it’s the car with the broken wheel, which means it will take the car forever and a day to limp down the track), or he wants me to watch a flip on the couch (he’ll hurt his finger in the process and it will take me fifteen minutes to kiss away the pain), or he wants me to see that he’s mooning me (he’ll only do that once).

“Watch this” is just code for “I love you so much.”

5. Drawings on important papers.

Every time I have to return a paper to their school or to the doctor’s office or maybe to my publisher or agent, I will find drawings—some tiny enough to be dismissed, some large enough to require a new copy; good thing the school always sends five copies of everything—on them.

I’m sure all they’re saying is, “I am here.”

And I’m so glad they’re here, glad for every way they show me they love me.

Most days.

(Photo by This is Now Photography.)

LEGOs: The Safest Explosion You’ll Ever Survive (And Also the Most Annoying)

LEGOs: The Safest Explosion You’ll Ever Survive (And Also the Most Annoying)

Let’s just talk for a minute about LEGOs.

I love LEGOs. I really do. They are so much fun to play with. I’m just as guilty of spending an afternoon trying to put together a fire station that Spider-Man is trying to save from the bad guys as my kids are.

The problem is that back when we made the decision to start collecting LEGOs, the oldest was already 7, and he really wanted to collect ALL the Star Wars sets. Which was fine, because Husband likes Star Wars, too, and I don’t mind it so much either, because George Lucas is about the coolest person in the world. But what we didn’t think about when we made the leap was how all of those sets would become one big set.

The oldest has seven different LEGO Star Wars sets, and they somehow became four bins of LEGOs. It would take years to put those sets together the way they were intended to be put together, and I guess I should be thankful for all the things he does with them instead (he made a near exact replica of our house once out of the LEGOs), but the thing is, I really wanted to see what those sets looked like put together, and I never got to. I probably care way more about this than my kid does.

The other, bigger problem is that when it’s time to clean up LEGOs, it’s pretty much impossible to clean them all up. When we tell our boys it’s time to clean up, they’ll look at just the one bin they’ve dumped out and they will already feel completely overwhelmed and unable to complete such a daunting task, because there are a billion tiny little pieces, and even after overcoming that initial resistance and getting started, there’s no way they’ll put away every piece. Kids are practically blind. It’s impossible to clean up all the LEGOs. Some pieces get knocked beneath the carpet in the dining room. Some get shoved under the sofa table behind the couch, and they will surface days after we lock their bins away in the garage, or sometimes they will make an appearance in mere hours, usually because someone has knocked something else out from under the couch and this culprit brings with it an overlooked LEGO piece that either (a) reminds my kids they have LEGOs or (b) remains invisible, trapped in carpet fibers so that the next time I kneel on the floor it will slice my knee cap in half.

When my boys play with LEGOs in our house, the LEGOs can do nothing else but explode. And by explode, I mean they explode—go everywhere imaginable. I’ve had one in a sock before, and I have no idea how it got there. I’ve sat on one hiding under the bolted-down cushion of a chair (you think it hurts to step on a LEGO piece? Try sitting on one and you tell me which one hurts more.). I’ve found them in the boys’ shoes, in plant pots, inside the piano bench (someone’s trying to play me. There’s no way a LEGO piece could crawl into a closed piano bench nook.).

It doesn’t matter if there’s one bin out or three of them, the mess and its disaster will be exactly the same.

And then, when the 8-year-old decides that he’s made the very definition of a masterpiece, he always wants to leave it out, because he does NOT want to break something this amazing, and how do you explain to an 8-year-old that he has 3-year-old brothers who will, at the most inopportune moment, find that masterpiece and not only destroy it but destroy the room in which it sits, fashioning a national disaster that would make a tornado jealous.

LEGOs just aren’t a convenient thing to have around in a house full of kids, as much as I love them. They were a good invention. Truly. I understand how they can make kids really good at building the imaginary shapes and buildings and lands that live in their heads, but when it’s all said and done, I’m not entirely convinced having them around is worth it. They’re like glitter. You try to wipe it away, but it never really goes away, and you’ll keep finding glowing specks of it months after you rid yourself and your home of its every trace (or so you think).

I’m not saying we’ll get rid of our LEGOs. I’m just saying that somebody, by now, should have invented some sort of LEGO vacuum cleaner that has the power and intelligence to suck up all the LEGO pieces on a floor or between couch cushions or in shoes and empty them out neatly into their designated bin. Although that probably wouldn’t be a great idea, because in my home, you’d also be sucking up whole layers of dirt and hair and stale food the kids like to “accidentally” drop when I’m not looking (it all looks suspiciously like spinach). So you’d need two different filters, one for the LEGOs and one for all the other trash, but then what if the vacuum cleaner gets confused and ends up putting the trash in the LEGO bin and the LEGOs in the trash one, and then you just have a bigger mess than when you started. (This is where my mind wanders when my kids are creating worlds with words and all talking at the same time and my brain hits overload.) I’m sure there are much smarter people working on this than me.

We now have the option of renting LEGOs. Which honestly sounds like a nightmare waiting to happen. If we lose library books that are as big as my face, you better believe we’re going to lose LEGO pieces.

So I guess we’ll just stick with our own. I’m getting callouses from stepping on the invisible ones anyway. Pretty soon LEGO pieces won’t be able to penetrate these feet, and I’ll give up caring that somebody detonated a bin of LEGOs up in here.

This is an excerpt from The Life-Changing Madness of Tidying Up After Children, the second book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.

(Photo by Hello I’m Nik on Unsplash)

The Looking Limitations of Boys

The Looking Limitations of Boys

“I’ve looked and looked and looked. Where could it be?”

It’s been three mornings of the same thing—he climbs out of bed late and almost misses breakfast, because there are LEGO pieces all over the floor and he can’t walk past them without building a miniature version of San Antonio’s Alamo. He’ll turn on an audio book, stretch out on the floor, and listen and build.

The problem is that there’s a deadline on mornings. This isn’t the case when school’s out, but it’s only the one-hundredth day of school, and so we still have another two hundred or so to go—which would make one think, if one were as gullible as I am—that maybe we would have gotten the hang of this by now.


So there he is, playing with LEGO figures when there’s still a backpack to be packed, a lunch to be put together, shoes to be located. And the best part about it is he’s not very good at looking.

Yesterday morning he couldn’t find his shoes that were sitting under his desk, where he slipped them off while he was writing a thesis the other day (not really a thesis. But this particular boy will be well practiced at writing theses by the time he gets to college). He says one of his brothers probably shoved them under his desk as a joke, because he specifically remembers putting them where shoes go (“Where do shoes go?” I said. He just looked at me blankly, so, yeah, I think he’s telling the truth.).

Yesterday afternoon he couldn’t find the digital camera he got for Christmas to use in his filmmaking endeavors, and he ranted all over the house about how someone had taken it or stolen it or misplaced it (but that person was most definitely not him), and then when we found it on the table beside the couch, he, of course, had not put it there.

Last night he couldn’t find the soap container that was sitting on the edge of the bath tub, where it always is.

Today he can’t find his jacket. It’s right in the middle of the floor.

Once a week he can’t find a library book that someone—one of his brothers, probably—surely must have hidden on purpose. He can’t find this one specific LEGO piece, because they’ve all exploded on the floor and one looks so like another, but, actually, someone probably lost it (not him). He can’t find the CD player that’s still spinning because no one ever wants to press stop, only pause (“Can’t you hear the clicking, son?” “What clicking?”), which is hidden beneath the clothes he stripped off yesterday and left on the floor, because that’s where they belong. He can’t find his favorite Star Wars shirt because putting his clothes away after laundry day means stuffing them all into his drawers, instead of hanging them in his closet (one of these days, when he actually cares about the way he looks, he’ll realize that the “homeless” look isn’t all that compelling in the eyes of a young lady).

And it’s not just him. The rest of them got this not-great-at-looking gene, too.

“Where’s my scarf?” the 4-year-old says.

“It’s hanging around your neck,” I say.

“Where’s my backpack?” the 5-year-old says.

“It’s on the chair right behind you, where you laid it,” I say.

“Where’s Daddy?” one of the 2-year-olds says.

“You’re looking right at him,” I say. “How is it that you can’t see him?”

Kids just aren’t all that great at looking.

Husband would say they get this from me. “Have you seen my water?” I’ll say, and he’ll point to the banister in front of me, the most unlikely of places, which suddenly reminds me that I put it there a few minutes ago.

“Do you have the other keys?” he’ll say when we’re walking out the door. I’ll check my purse. “No,” I’ll say. He’ll look at me. And then he’ll pull my purse away from me, because clearly I’m incompetent at looking, and I’ll roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, “You’re not going to find anything. I’d be able to hear them,” and then out he’ll pull them. I have no idea how they got there.

“I can’t find his red folder,” I’ll say about the one boy missing a school folder.

“Did you look?” Husband will say, his voice muffled against the pillow because it’s still 6 a.m. and he likes getting up early.

“Yes,” I’ll say. “And he needs it today. There are important papers that need to go back to school.”

Husband will rouse himself from the bed and rifle through the billions of papers on our counter and miraculously find it at the bottom of the stack, where I swear it must have reappeared in the time between walking upstairs and now.

My Pride and Prejudice bag? I’ll say.

Probably in the closet, where it should be, Husband will say.

The sour cream? I’ll say.

Right in front of your face, he’ll say, grabbing it from the shelf that’s not actually right in front of my face but is more level with my forehead and above my line of sight.

My running shoes?

Downstairs in the basket, where they’re supposed to be.

Every now and then Husband will lose his wallet, and I’ll do a quick glance around the room, not see it anywhere, and already be on the phone with the credit card companies to cancel the two we carry, and he’ll walk back in the room with the wallet he found on the windowsill behind our blinds, where I wouldn’t even think to look (and why would I? What’s it doing there?).

I’m not entirely sure where this aversion to looking comes from. I blame it on the kids. I think I’m so overwhelmed with looking for things all the time that I just suffer from a condition called Looking Burnout, so when there’s something right in front of my face I don’t actually see it. One of the many hazards of having kids.

But something needs to be done about these kids and their sadly lagging looking skills. I’m not a find-this-for-me service. I’m not even a find-this-for-myself service, as you can see from the stories I’ve shared. So, eventually, someone is going to have to teach my kids how to properly look for something, and it’s most likely not going to be me. Which means it will probably fall to Husband.

Hey, you know what? We all have our own strengths. That’s part of what makes community important.

Now where did I put my computer?

This is an excerpt from This Life With Boys, the third book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.

(Photo by Teddy Kelley on Unsplash)