My life is a little like Groundhog Day. 5:30 alarm clock, drive Ian to school, come home and dress Will, take Will to school, come home, drive back to pick up Will, come home, drive to pick up Ian, come home. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. I feel like I am always driving in the car to get somewhere, wait, and then drive some more. At least 3 hours of my day is spent driving to and from and sitting in the carpool line.
My life also feels a lot like Fight Club. At least when it comes to dealing with Will. If the child doesn't grow up and argue a case before the Supreme Court, he'll have missed his calling. He is now at a stage where he knows everything. "I know" is all I hear coming from him. About everything. He is the only three year old boy I know that cares at all about his wardrobe. He prefers button down, collared shirts and khaki or plaid shorts. He wants to wear his Sperry flip flops or his Sperry boat shoes. If he is feeling a little more relaxed, he will wear his tennis shoes. And he cares about making those choices for himself.
Every morning since school has started, we have argued over my choice of outfit. The shirt wasn't the right one or the shorts didn't fit right. He wanted to wear Sperry boat shoes when I thought he should wear sneakers.Yesterday, they were having Beach Day at school and he was supposed to wear his bathing suit. "No way," he said. I told him if he didn't want to wear that, he had to wear the shorts and shirt I picked out for him. "Nope" was his reply. Thinking I could get the upper hand, I said, "Will I don't care if you wear these clothes or the bathing suit. Those are your choices. If you don't like those, the only other choice is to go naked." He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Okay. I'll just go naked." Seriously? Battle. Battle. Battle. He wore his bathing suit in the end, but because he decided that it looked better with his sunglasses. Whatever.
Mentally exhausted from this argument, last night, I told him to pick out his own clothes. He chose a brown shirt with khaki shorts and Sperry flip flops. Perfect. This morning, he apparently changed his mind. OMG! So I sent him to his room to pick a new one. He came out in plaid (navy, orange, green) shorts and a purple shirt. Nope. I told him that it didn't match. He countered that it did. Does not. Does too. Does not. Does too. How about a navy polo? No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. How about khaki shorts with your purple shirt? No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Fine. Look Silly. I like to look silly. Did I mention this argument was prior to Diet Coke and barely after 8am? He eventually decided the navy would work with the plaid. I really would have let him go naked if I thought he would learn a lesson. Knowing him, he would have sported his birthday suit with a smile, just to spite me.
Finally, my house always feels a little like a kid version of Animal House. Instead of beer cans and empty pizza boxes, my house is littered with toys and goldfish crumbs. There are always more people here than are actually registered on the Census. Other kids' laundry joins the family hamper and I am always left searching for its rightful owner. The dinner I cook could feed an army because there is a good chance that an army of little people (and sometimes their parents) will eat with us. Tonight on the menu? Pizza for 8! Cold beer for the adults! Okay, maybe this really is Animal House....
The point is that even amongst the chaos, I can usually almost always find the humor in my life. I feel like its OK if my life could fit a Hollywood script sometimes. As long as we aren't becoming Lord of the Flies or American Psycho, I think we will be just fine.
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