“You have LOST your damn mind” Meg said as I scattered Corn Pops on the floor so that Snip had “something to do” while we were out at Weston’s Beach along the Saco River with our collective 7 children in tote. This was two years ago; I was freshly separated and learning the ins and outs of single parenting three kids and a semi-toothless mini schnauzer. Times were tough and Meg was there to witness every single foible and folly, including my belief that Snip was beside himself when we left the house and needed Corn Pops (he loved cereal) to ease the pain. However astute she is, she wasn’t 100% correct. It would have been more accurate to have said “You are on the PRECIPICE of losing your damn mind.” That precipice sure was scary.
We came home to find that all of the Corn Pops had been eaten (see, I was right) and that our children were just as annoying after the beach as they were before. 7 children—6 boys, 1 girl. People who have not started their families with at least two boys cannot understand how different our parenting needs to be. “Do not punch each other in the nuts!” are the kinds of things we have had to say while others who started with a girl might say “Be nice to your little brother! He looks up to you!” The fact that Meg and I have 6 boys means that varying levels of testosterone dominate any and all play and it comes out in ways that we have learned to stay away from. “I have lost any semblance of femininity from my voice” Meg begrudgingly admitted after yet another ridiculous bout of fight management during our five day vacation in New Hampshire this past week. We used to be somewhat girly girls. I played with Barbies until age 12 for Christ’s sake. Now, we are women exposed to too much maleness. It takes a toll and we both complain of tension headaches that only seem to get better after a glass of wine or two.
Meg and I have been friends since we were about three and these trips with this crew have become somewhat of a tradition. This year, Delta variant and all, was no exception. We reminisced about the Corn Pop incident and I admitted just how bad things were back then. What happened to my family was a big shock and adjusting to our new reality was a process. I never would have gotten through without the help of my siblings, parents, best friends, and Meg. I have always been little Miss Independent so needing to rely on the kindness and help of others felt uncomfortable. I still owe all of them so much—I am where I am today because of their love. They are the reason why I can simultaneously reject all religion but still believe in God. The divine nature of humans is all around me and through that I have come to know my own divinity. That’s not hubris, it’s truth. Each person reading this right now has their own brand. One of my best friends is an oncology nurse at Children’s Hospital in Boston and is also carrying a child for another couple—oh yes, proof of our divinity is all around.
This past week’s vacation was replete with hiccups at every turn. For one, we wanted to take the kids out to eat at a restaurant at least two of the nights but Covid made that impossible. In hindsight, I’m happy that this was the case. One glance at the Muddy Moose was like peering into a bowl of Covid Soup. “Do you want to go down for the Muddy Moose?” Meg asked me after we were quoted an hour wait. “No.” I answered without hesitation. “43 year old women can be disappointed too!” I growled at my kids on the car ride back from the restaurant. “I wanted someone to serve ME but instead we have to serve all of YOU! AGAIN! THERE’S STILL A PAN.DEM.IC and I FOR ONE do not want to get sick for a LUKEWARM beer and a few onion rings!!!” I told them, I sure did. Somehow this got through to them. It was as if they suddenly saw that I too was human and capable of feeling utter disappointment. They stopped complaining after that and although the 9 grilled cheeses I made at the house were no substitute for a greasy burger, they ate them.
This year was our first trip without Snip in tote and we missed his scruffy little self, God rest his beautiful soul. I annoyed Meg with my early morning need to chat, she told me to “Go read a novel. Or go write one.” She is not one to mince her words or sugarcoat anything, it is refreshing. Well, Meg, I wrote this so there. The highlights of our trip included a challenging hike to Champney Falls, a waterfall shower at Diana’s Bath, the “near death” experience of one of the twins there (he’s fine), spending $61.69 on candy at the world’s longest candy counter, and an outdoor dining experience at a brewery in Littleton, NH. On the final evening, as Meg and I sat on the porch and discussed the Taliban (I feel like I shouldn’t capitalize that on principle because it is not a “proper” noun. Thoughts?), we could hear the unmistakable voice of my oldest announcing something on the karaoke machine in the basement but paid little attention to what was being said. A solid twenty minutes later, one of the twins emerged and his shirtless chest and back were tinted pink. “Sammy, why is your chest all red?” I asked. Then Charlie came up, far redder than Sammy. “Oh it’s fine. We were fighting. I won.” Sammy said. Apparently, the children had started a fight club in the basement and my dear son was the MC for the event using the karaoke machine. Oh my. “Here we are, talking about the Taliban and there’s an uprising forming in the basement of this house.” Meg said. We laughed and laughed because what can you do when you find that your children have started a fight club?
Meg and I are not bad parents, we are just Moms of boys whose decades-long friendship has morphed into bouts of symbiotic parenting that could best be described as controlled chaos or managed tomfoolery. Among this group I often wear my t-shirt that says “Having a weird Mom builds character” (thank you, Kerri!!), a quote that my children in particular now know by heart. Those of you who cannot understand what we are up against or clutch your pearls when witnessing our methods of parenting, oh well. We deal with a lot every day of our lives and on many of those days I think boxing would be an appropriate activity for all of them, including my one little girl. In all seriousness, a boxing match was the perfect event to punctuate these past two years—emblematic of everything and a physical manifestation of just how much pent up aggression and frustration we all have, myself certainly included. Although the first rule of fight club is “YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB”, most of you already know I have never been one for rules. Seeing that the second rule of fight club is the same as the first, I’m going to make the third rule be “You talk about fight club when appropriate because being real is part of what makes you rock so flaunt your flaws and imperfections so that others can feel that their meh parenting makes them rock too.” This evening, Meg is off to Disney World with her crew and I am honestly not at all jealous. My kids are safe and sound with their Dad today and I get to write. Separate, we have weathered these past two years quite well and have somehow settled into this new way of family life. Last night, my son complained about feeling a little unsettled about coming home from NH only to have to pack up and go again. I looked him square in the eyes and said “I am so proud of you. Do you know that? I really am.” With that he plopped his 13-year-old head on my shoulder and leaned in for a big hug. You know what? I’m proud of all of us—Mom, Dad, and these three little weirdos for making something messy work well. Our own little fight club in which all of us will win because we must.