Summer is in full swing at the Toalson home. Summer means a lot of things to parents, but what it mostly means to me is that my word count—listened words, that is, not written ones; I can’t seem to write when all the kids are home—increases from four billion to six hundred forty billion. Daily.
When they’re not fighting or bouncing off walls, my boys are talking. They’re telling me about elaborate forty-minute dreams (my dreams aren’t that long, but okay), what they plan to build out of the LEGOs today, and how they managed to live when they tried to do a double somersault off the trampoline onto the treehouse fort. (I’d rather not hear about that one, thanks).
In all this talking, there are some phrases that have become tired refrains in our house—and I’m not talking about the dreams or the plans or the daring feats. I’m talking about my name, “Mama,” connected with anything and especially the following.
“I’m hungry.”
This one made it to the top of the list because it’s the most frequently repeated phrase. It doesn’t matter if they ate a breakfast of a dozen scrambled eggs five minutes ago. They’re still hungry. If they eat four sandwiches and five pounds of carrots for lunch, two minutes later they’ll be hungry. If we fill their bellies with a steaming six bowls of chicken noodle soup, they will be hungry in less than ten minutes.
We’re not a big snacking family. Boys have to wait until 3 in the afternoon to get a snack, and if you were to ask them, this would be the most horrible torture of all. We’re the meanest parents ever. They’re starving all because of us and our silly rules.
“I’m bored.”
There are so many things to do in our house. We have a really cool house. We have a home library with thousands of books they could read. They all have scooters and bikes and a cul-de-sac in which to ride them. We have a trampoline, a treehouse fort, a swing set, a big backyard. We have an art cabinet stocked with art supplies. We have writing journals waiting to be filled. There is no limit to activity and creative possibility in this home.
So my typical response to the “bored” phrase is, “All of life is a playground for the curious,” followed closely by, “How about you do the laundry and I’ll be bored. Deal?”
This never accomplishes what I’d like it to accomplish.
“Can we watch a movie?”
For some reason, my kids think summertime is synonymous with watch-all-the-movies-you-can time. They like to say that they don’t have school tomorrow, they should be able to watch something. Husband and I aren’t big screen people. We like our kids to be bored. The best ideas (and also the most disastrous, but that’s neither here nor there) arise from boredom. We want them to use their creative brains to make something beautiful. And preferably not messy. But we try not to be picky.
They will sulk and complain when we answer this question in the negative. They’ll tell us that all their friends get to watch as many movies as they want over the summer, to which I typically reply exactly what my mother used to: “Well, if all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you do it, too?”
They love this about as much as I loved it as a kid.
“It’s too hot out there.”
My boys have mandatory outdoor playing time between 4:30 and 5:30 p.m., which coincides with cooking-dinner time. Purposefully. I can’t have monkeys swinging from the rafters while I’m trying to brown some turkey meat for tonight’s broccoli extravaganza that they’d all complain about if they could see what I’m cooking. This way they get to be surprised and I get to have peace.
The problem is that here in South Texas, the temperature hits two thousand degrees on a good afternoon (you don’t want to know what the bad afternoons look and feel like). I solve this problem by setting out a pitcher of ice water and an assortment of cups they’ll fight over until they knock the pitcher off the table and lose all the ice water and commence lapping it up from the worn boards of the deck, because it’s fun to act like animals.
“My brother hit me.”
Every other minute they are fighting and tattling. The tattling usually comes from the 5-year-old twins, because the older boys are good at working out their disagreements. By socking each other in the mouth. And laughing about it.
“You’re the worst mom ever.”
I hear this every time I tell them they can’t have a snack; all of life is a playground for the curious; if all their friends were jumping off a cliff, would they; and they have to play outside. I also hear it when I tell them they can’t wear their swim trunks for the twelfth day in a row; no, we’re not going to the pool today; and treats aren’t assured to them every day. That’s okay. I know they still love me and sooner or later (probably later), they’ll realize I’m not actually the worst mom ever.
“How much longer until school starts?”
Okay, that one’s me.
But I suspect that toward the end of the summer they’ll be asking this one, too. Family togetherness is great, but it’s also nice to have time away from each other, to ease into your old routines, to have something to do with the endless hours of your day. And then, a week after school starts, they’ll be wishing it was over.
Honestly, I’m glad we have summertime together. It’s a special time of bonding over boredom (although I haven’t been bored since I was a 8) and snuggling for a few extra seconds and playing together. This year I have five of them going off to school, and I’m sure the quiet house will be fantastic for the first couple of days, and then it will feel unnaturally eerie. I’ll miss them, like I always do.
Well, at least I’ll have some food to eat for once.
