I think there should be a Youtube channel called Birth Control. It could be a constant stream of my life.
One clip will show Bronson pitching a fit about his Lego man failing to stay strapped to his “snowboard.” The next clip will show my kids simultaneously screaming to get down from dinner. It’ll pan to my plate. Maybe two bites eaten. The rest is already cold. The next scene will show Ryan and I starting and stopping the same conversation at least fifteen times. Once the kids are in bed, we stare at each other blankly. We can’t even remember what we were trying to say.
The real climax is a long car ride. One minute Bronson wants the radio on. The next, the song is no good. One minute he’s thirsty. The next, he doesn’t want to hold his water. One minute he needs a snack. The next, Oli’s hungry too. And when that happens, screaming commences until the ride is over for good. A quick stop settles nothing.
Or how about the scene in the grocery store. A nice elderly person says hello, and Bronson screams. Literally. A man talks to Oliver but gets closer than he wants. His lower lip juts out and the cry makes you think the man must be an ax murderer. But they’re both so cute that no one walks away, escalating the hysterics until every one in the store stares.
Bronson throws himself. When he doesn’t get his way, conniption fit it is. On the floor. Or sometimes he refuses to walk himself out of a building. He demands superhuman strength from my puny arms. “Two!”, he screams. This now means I should carry two kids. He also throws himself for fun. The kind of fun that results in blood all over my shirt and a frantic ride to the doctors. Two staples. In his head.
I know my kids are the most adorable humans on the planet. They truly are.
Especially on mute.
Looking at photos of them, I’m sure people sometimes wish they had their own adorable mini-me’s. I don’t blame them, but everyone should know that if you turned up the volume, life’s a little more complicated than it seems.