Nothing makes me realize how much I miss my boys when they’re at school like a holiday or a bad weather day, when they get to wake up at 6 a.m., even though there’s no school, and hang out with me all day. I’m not even being sarcastic (yet). They’re really cool kids, and even though it’s hard to handle the dynamic of six little ones all the time, I really do enjoy spending time with them. When they’re home and not at school, they show me all the stories they’re writing, and they show me their LEGO creations, and we get to read books together and talk about what we learned from the books and imagine what it’s like to live in a world like this one.
I like seeing them walking around the house. I enjoy staring at their faces that have gotten so big, more like young men instead of little boys. I even take pleasure in hearing the refrigerator door open every other minute, for at least the first ten minutes.
But, lest I miss them too much while they’re away at school, they leave me constant reminders that they are still here.
I’ve found their reminders in the refrigerator, where they stash their cups of milk they didn’t finish this morning that will usually curdle before they remember they had a cup of milk in the first place, because as soon as they get home they’ll pour another giant glass, without even considering the first, and then they’ll wonder why the milk is gone three days before the next grocery trip.
They leave their reminders on the floor, where I’ll trip all over the pajamas they stripped off and left where they fell while I was distracted trying to keep the twins out of their room and away from their stuffed animals, so I didn’t have time to remind them before we flew out the door. (It doesn’t matter how many times I remind them to pick their clothes off the floor—it doesn’t even matter that it’s even part of the morning routine, and they have a checklist in their hands—their pajamas will still litter the floor tomorrow morning, and the next time I’m lunging to keep one of the 4-year-olds from swinging off the ceiling fan in his room, I’ll trip over it. It’s just a fact of life.)
They leave their reminders out on the back porch, where they left their good tennis shoes, which are now baking in the sun and Texas heat, and sometimes (bonus!) they’ll leave their socks in those baking shoes, so by the time they’re brought back in, they now have tie-dyed socks. Not only that, but they leave their underwear, which I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how (or why) it got there and who was the parent on duty when it happened (probably me. I like to take bathroom breaks when all six of the boys are my responsibility).
They leave their reminders on the stairs, where they dropped an armful of stuffed animals on their way down, which will sit there, taunting me, until I kick them out of the way and hope to God I don’t trip and fall down the stairs again. They leave their reminders in puzzle they took out and didn’t clean back up but left in the corner of the room, right where the 11-month-old could find it and will now wash every piece with the gallons of slobber he carries around in his mouth for purposes just like this one. They leave their reminders on the couches, which they probably just mistook for their jacket hook because there’s no resemblance whatsoever.
They leave their reminders in my bathroom, where they took off their underwear to change it, because, apparently, a boy needs to change his underwear every twelve hours. They leave their reminders on my bedroom floor, where they spread all their school papers out, looking for that one drawing they did for their teacher this weekend. They leave their reminders under my covers, where they put that stick they found on their way out the door, and they knew the only place their twin brothers wouldn’t go was my bedroom, and what better place to put it than under the covers, where no one would find it?! Genius!
They leave their reminders on the counter, where they put that book they were reading—the one that made them miss the caravan walk to school, because they didn’t hear a thing until the house got eerily silent and they realized they’d been left behind. They leave their reminders on the table, where they forgot to put their plate away when they were done with their breakfast, even though it’s a very clear expectation in our house. They leave their reminders on the dining room table, where I’ll find a coloring sheet they took out for drawing, which the 4-year-olds will ruin while they’re at school. They leave their reminders in the awesome LEGO house they built that the 4-year-olds will demolish in half a second of beating me through the front door on the walk home from school.
They leave their reminders in the toilet.
And you know what? I’m glad, because what in the world would I do without these reminders? Forget that I had six boys, three of whom are away at school?
Of course not. The real reason I’m glad they leave me all these reminders is something I think about every now and then. It’s not an easy truth, but it’s this one: One day they’ll be gone for good.
So I’ll take the reminders wherever I can find them.
But next time, boys, let me know about the stick under my covers (or anything else under the covers, for that matter). My backside will thank you.
