There is a big, exciting change afoot in the Wright household.
Nooo, I’m not pregnant. Why does everybody always go there?? I’m gonna tell you what I tell everyone else; First of all, my man takes care of his business – that means he had a vas-snippity about 45 seconds after our third child was born. He is ster-rile, thankyouverymuch! And second, if, by some cruel and hateful act of Godly vengeance, I became pregnant, I would sell the resulting baby on ebay and use the money to have all the hair lasered off my legs, so I’m not really worried about it, ok? Ok. Now that that’s all cleared up…
Dylan has made a very big decision. He’s moving out.
I mean, the guy is eleven, almost twelve, so Steve and I have decided to give him our full support and help him on his way. He will be packing his clothes, his books, his boogie board, and the bottom half of the bunk bed, and moving – aaaall the way downstairs – to the itty-bitty baby of room that we call “the office”, or sometimes, “the pit of disorder” or “that place we throw all our crap”. But, no more! We will have to find a new locale for our important junk. And we’ll have to put that drum kit somewhere….hmmm, I hadn’t really thought about that one…damn. Well, no matter, we’ll figure it out. But the reason this is such a big deal, is that Dylan has shared a room with one of his brothers since he was two. This is like the first time he’s ever had his very own room! And he’s pretty stoked about it.
He cares not in the least that the room he will be occupying is highly reminiscent of a 4×7 prison cell, that it can hold absolutely nothing more than a bed, or even that he will be the only one sleeping downstairs. (This is a double edged sword, because, along with the awesomeness of being able to tip-toe into the kitchen to swipe your Dad’s Fig Newtons at 2am, you have to deal with the sheer terror of knowing that underneath your bed is the only reasonable place in the entire house for a hungry crocodile to be hiding. So if you can’t get from the doorway to the bed in one leap, you’re pretty much screwed. I know this because I had the only downstairs bedroom growing up. Ooh, there’s also the superior sneak-out-ability of the 1st floor, but we have bars on our windows to keep the kids in, so that’s a no-go for Dylan. Sorry pal.) Seriously though, he is SO happy about this that he told Jamison he could keep all the toys AND the hamsters! Which, at first, I thought this was a really cool, generous, brotherly thing to do, but then I saw Dylan with a look in his eye like “What a chump. Now he has a room full of lame kids-meal toys and a pet that smells like a subway urinal all to himself.” So, as it turns out it was just a plain old, regular brother thing to do. Jamison is pretty quick on his feet, though, so when Dylan announced that if he wanted something out of one of the toy bins he could just come and grab it, Jamison said, with great satisfaction, ” Dude. I don’t think so. This is MY room now.”
Now, I wanna say that I don’t usually encourage my kids to not share their stuff. We’ve never really allowed talk of “my this” or “my that” amongst our three boys. In fact, this whole decision came after Dylan had a freak out session this morning because Jamison sat on his bed, which is just dumb. So then I had a freak out session because Dylan was being a selfish, unreasonable jerk. After we had both gotten it out of our systems is when Dylan’s big brown eyes rimmed with tears and he said, “But Mom, he farts on my pillow, like, every day.”
And I was like, “Whoa, this changes everything!” Because, I’m sorry, but nobody should have to live like that, with a farted on pillow. Nobody.
I immediately offered him the office. Fortunately, Steve was totally cool with this idea, too, since I didn’t bother to run it by him, just blurted it out without thinking. Honestly though, after I really started to think about it, I got so excited because I cannot remember a time that I haven’t had to mediate the who-made-which-mess-in-the-bedroom argument, or the he-should-turn-off-the-light-because-he’s-closer-even-though-we-are-both-laying-with-our-heads-at-the-same-end-of-a-bunk-bed-which-technically-makes-us-the-exact-same-distance-away fight. So I think this will be a nice break for all of us. A nice change of pace for me, and a breath of fresh air for Dylan. And his pillow.
Mostly, I’m just really happy that Dylan feels like he’s been heard and that we value him. Which, when you are constantly trying to juggle the diverse and rapidly changing physical, emotional, and spiritual needs of three very different young men, is a huge challenge, and something that I fail to do well more often than not. So, yay for me for getting it right for once! Ok, I guess the “getting it right” remains to be seen, but it sure feels right, for now at least. We’ll see how I feel after Dylan gets dragged under the bed by that crocodile…
Man, parenting is freaking hard. I am so glad I’m not God. I can’t even love my three kids right on a regular basis, can you imagine doing it for 6 billion and something needy little whiners, farting all over each other, and not letting anybody else sit on their beds. Sheesh…no thanks. All I can say is, I am so glad somebody around here knows what He’s doing!