Trash Pets and the Bubonic Plague

I have written multiple pieces about my boys and their uniqueness. The things they say, the things they do. I apologize if this bores you, but honestly. . . If that’s the case, maybe you’re reading the wrong blog.

So, anyway, this is my life tonight.

Matt is down in the basement with a tri-board spread out on the floor, gluing pictures and facts about the bubonic plague to it while reciting the horrific things he’s learned about it in his research to me every time he calls me down to look at his progress. Simultaneously I am helping Chase make an alligator “trash pet” out of tissue boxes and toilet paper rolls. He named his trash pet “bomb boy” and gave him “fierce” eyes. “Buboes” – you know, from the bubonic plague? – can grow to the size of soft balls and then explode, in case you needed to know that. I didn’t. But I know it now.

This week I have uttered phrases such as, “Stop flashing your brother!” And “for the third time, either take your socks off, or put your shoes on!” How about the mumbled “What in the actual fuck is stuck to these shorts?” As I sorted laundry at 630am this morning, pulling a melted totsie roll from the leg. They tried to kill me by taking pieces of twine and tieing them between the railings on the steps. Like this is a goddamn cartoon and I’ll bash my head and see stars and come out with a gooseegg that disappears in the next scene. “Please stop trying to run down your brother.” “Please don’t say you hate him.” I cleaned spaghetti and meatballs from behind the kitchen table while trying to keep the dog from eating it so she wouldn’t get the shits. “Why is there poop in the toilet but no toilet paper?!” is a more important question than “Why didn’t you flush the toilet?” at this point in the game.

It’s crazy. It’s messy.

And it’s never boring.

I am often intrigued and amazed that this is my life, and how very content with it I am. This wasn’t the big plan when I was 18 with my whole life in front of me.

I never thought I would sit on a bathroom floor and talk to a three year old about life because “pooping is boring”. I never thought I would get joy out of another human beings bodily functions. . . Or lack there of. I never thought I would be picking someone’s nose or wiping someone’s ass, and not be completely grossed out by it. I never thought I would see a mud covered little boy and think he was the most amazing thing walking the planet with his shining eyes and happy smile. And laugh while mud runs down the bath drain.

But here I am.

You can have your social life and your bar nights and your high dollar career.

I have mud and bugs and trash pets and bubonic plague posters.

I have the unconditional love of two amazing, bright, funny boys who are my life, and I will choose them any day over any of that.