*From this point forward in my blog I will be referring to my children as number one, number two, and number three, just like I do at home.
I had a very trying weekend. I found myself asking the same questions over and over. I had several arguments about teeth brushing, cleaning up toys, going to bed, and fist fighting. It led me to a question that left me quietly sedated while on the couch watching TV. “What if once were enough?” What would happen if I asked my kids or my husband to do something once, and it actually happened the first time?
Friday morning while in a mad panic to get number three to school on time, I asked number one and two to brush their teeth. “Were not getting out of the car so we don’t have to brush our teeth,” was the reply. “I asked you to brush your teeth, go do it,” was my reply. Five minutes later I find them both on the ground spilling mouth wash in each other’s hair. Bubble gum flavored blue mouth wash poured all over the floor. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed. “We’re brushing our teeth.” Are you fucking serious. This is not what I asked them to do. “Get off the floor and brush your teeth.” I come back in three minutes later and one is on the toilet while the other is coloring. “Get up and brush your teeth or I am going to lose it.” My empty threats just hanging in the air like a stale fart. Finally they exit the bathroom and I can only hope they brushed their teeth. Most days their breath smells like a cat litter box after they have claimed to have brushed their teeth.
We get to school and drop off number three. Next stop is the grocery store. I begin to speed shop so we can get out of there without any major issues. I am literally running up and down aisles throwing essentials in the cart, hoping to make it out of there without spending $200 dollars, which never happens. I look over and see number one running his fingers across every item on the shelf. “Don’t touch those, they are going to fall.” We continued moving, next aisle is cereal. I look back again and see him continuing to man handle the Captain Crunch. “Please do not touch the items on the shelf.” I am almost on a full sprint as we pass the goldfish when I hear a big crash. I look back and see number one in a pile of Ritz Bits crackers looking shocked. “Hurry up and pick those up!” I whisper scream at him. You know what that it. When you crouch down and whisper in a mean scary voice while smiling hoping that they will finally listen to the words coming out of your mouth. The embarrassment swelling up as other customers begin to watch the situation.
We leave the store and head home to start the rest of the day. I am already exhausted and it’s only 10:00 A.M. The day moves on without too much drama. We have dinner that night and finish our bedtime routine. I begin to tell my husband about our day and I start to complain about the excessive number of times I seem to ask the same question. I explain that I can’t take another day of begging and pleading over teeth brushing and bed times. He looks at me and says, “Well, if you would punish them when they don’t listen maybe they would do it the first time.” To say I lost my shit would be an understatement. I am amazed that Google earth didn’t get an image of me shoving my husband’s head directly up his anus.
If I punished them every time they didn’t do something I asked the first time, they would never be out of punishment. Dealing with three children under the age of nine is like trying to control an impending volcanic eruption. They are a force of nature that can tear your house into pieces. So after I helped remove my husband head from his sphincter, I realized that he too suffers from this disorder.
“Can you wash the dishes?” I ask. “Yes, I’ll get to it,” he states. I continue to switch laundry and clean up toys. Magically my husband has moved from the kitchen to the couch. “I thought you were going to do the dishes?” I stated. “They are soaking.” Really, I think to myself. Why do they have to soak, we had soup. So I ask yet again, “Are you going to do the dishes?” And the reply is the same; yeah he will get to it. Eventually after an hour of Sports Center he looks over to see me finish the dishes. “Honie, I said I would do the dishes.” He sweetly states. I smile at him thinking to myself, I thought about doing you tonight, but instead I had to do the dishes. He would have gotten laid if once were enough. So the thought continues to rattle around my empty tired head. What would life look like?
My blood pressure would be a thing of beauty, that’s for sure. I would probably lose less hair and have fewer wrinkle lines. The hair that remains on my head probably wouldn’t be gray and frizzy. Some days I look like I stuck a fork in the light socket and hung on for dear life. I would look rested and rejuvenated. I would wake up in the morning and perhaps put on something besides my Mom uniform, which is worn out yoga pants and a stained t-shirt.
This line of questioning however is doing me no favors. I am positive that I am not alone in the” If Once Were Enough Club.” It is a mythical alternate universe, one that does not exist. I guarantee that If once were enough, life would be boring and mundane. I would most likely die of a heart attack if I asked number one or two to clean up the toy room and they did it the first time. I would sit patiently for the end of the world to occur and be fearful of the locusts and impending doom. My life is a fucking side-show and I wouldn’t have it any other way. “Five tickets to the circus please, Number three get your hand out of the lion’s cage, I’m not asking again!” Yeah right