I never thought this day would come, but it arrived. Today was the day my children were cooperative, understanding and (gulp) helpful.
I did not raise my voice, cast anyone off the island, nor did I threaten to exploit his or her bedroom floor disasters on You Tube or hide in the basement wondering what it would be like to smoke a cigarette. Today was the perfect day.
Don’t tell my children this, but I think I’m starting to like them. Before you start writing nasty letters to the editor, let me clarify. I love my children. I adore my children. I have altered my entire existence for their incredibly unique wee souls. But you know, there is such a thing as too much togetherness. It happens every Christmas holiday, March Break and summer vacation; too much time between siblings and parents to find the last nerve of annoyance in our individual souls and then start hopping on it, up and down, over and over until you forget these moments are fleeting and special, because you are seriously contemplating your sanity. That is parenthood.
When you like your children, it means you actually enjoy quality time, because you appreciate what is done to even make that time happen. We work to live; not live to work. Children teach you that. But we have to teach them independence, priorities and survival. It’s a Catch 22.
That’s why I hope I am not jinxing my happy self by declaring how perfect today was (touch wood), because I have dreamt for years that the day would come when my children would not only appreciate what “working from home” means, but that they would respect it.
I don’t mean to whine, but anyone who has ever tried to make the rent on a writer’s wages (and has not yet been discovered by Oprah) will attest to the fact that the creative process has it’s own agenda and it does not always abide by deadline schedules. Writing with the howls of bored children raging through the house does not make for a creative environment.
Explaining to the children they cannot go swimming in the big, blow-up pool unless you are present is not an easy sell when it’s 30 degrees outside and you’re making them wait in an un-air-conditioned house. Sleepovers? Who has time to supervise more children?
Long ago I declared I would not use the television as a babysitter. That was right before I sucked it up, bought a flat-screen and plugged my juvenile gems into the cable network. When you have a deadline to meet and the hydro invoice needs payment, and the children want to finger paint the cat with acrylic paints, you too would forgive, even praise the wretched creators of the Disney Channel, with it’s lame programming and horrible canned laughter. Sometimes you have to tune the children in to tune yourself out.
But today, I smelled toast and frozen waffles. Dirty laundry hit the hamper and a vacuum was introduced to the floor a bedroom. All this while I typed my heart out behind a closed door. No fighting. Everyone survived. I guess they figured out quality time together means necessary time apart. It’s not a bad thing. Now if only they’d learn to make me waffles, too. Next year?