Parenting Is a Three Ring Circus

I quit. It’s not that I haven’t tried. I have. I have given it the old college try.

(And let me be frank. College did not prepare me for parenting. Not in one single way. )

I want to explain, just in case you want to judge and think that I’m taking the easy way out.

It all started last night. Cue the spooky music, because, Sister, let me tell you, it’s needed.

I’ve been trying to “better myself.” That’s a noble cause. I thought so. I needed to paint and organize a place for my small business. That seems simple enough.

Right. I can do that. And sure, it’s the boys’ sleepover tonight, but it will be fine. (P.S. It is never “fine.”)

Now, right here, is where wise women began to raise their eyebrows and pause, but not me. I rushed happily ahead…where angels fear to tread.

Now, the boy’s mom is a good friend, so we “had” to chat…for two hours.

No worries, I’m behind, but I can make it up. This was the second foolish thing I told myself.

I’m not sure if you’ve painted a room lately, but it’s not easy. And putting the second coat on on the same day (don’t judge, I don’t have time to follow instructions) is hard on this middle-aged body.

So, around midnight, I was finally finished. My body felt like it had been crumpled up and tossed in a wastebasket. But at least, I was done! Wahoo!

I would also like to point out that I couldn’t sleep at this point. I found this strange at 1 a.m., 4 a.m., and finally at 6 a.m. “Someone this tired should be able to sleep,” I reasoned.

But I am forever the optimist, so in good humor, I woke up and made my tired self a cup of coffee.

I did mention to my oldest son that his dog had somehow gotten out of the backyard. “So, please go and find out how he is getting out and fix it.” “Sure, Mom,” and off he went.

(This is an important part of the story, and we will revisit this.)

I sat and watched my favorite preacher, and had just begun to wake up when my daughter arrived in the living room. “Mom, can we do something today with my new friend.

I did pause slightly here. I’m not an idiot. It does occur to me that I have just painted all night, the house is a disaster, and I have wild boys running around.

“Um. ok. When?” Thinking that later would be best, but this brilliant thought never made it to my lips.

In my mind, I thought later was better. Later, when the sleepover ends. Later, when the house has been cleaned. And later, when I’m out of pajamas.

But that is not what the other family was thinking. After all, those higher-functioning people were already out running around.

The girl wanted to come to our house. “When?” I asked my daughter. “Now, Mom,” she replied with a smile.

I hesitated just a moment and looked around the house. The Monopoly game was still scattered on the table; the island had two bags of chips, one hammer, five bills, one gardening magazine, and a dozen other items.

The rest of the house was worse.

I have boys, and those boys have been in charge of cleaning the bathroom.

Now, if you are a mom with boys, you might understand the particular concern I had about Ralph (the porcelain contraption in the middle of the floor).

I once read a sign in a convenience store bathroom that said, “Anyone can hit the ceiling, try aiming for the toilet.”

But alas, I did not want to hurt the little girl’s feelings, so I said, “Yes.” I did warn the father that I was having a sleepover and that I was in the middle of painting.

“No worries,” he replied. He reassured me that his family was in the middle of their own reconstruction project and it would be fine.

(Uh, uh. Head-shaking, it is never ever “fine.”)

I hadn’t met this family before, but they seemed easygoing.

Naturally, the girl was an only child. You know, the kind of family that is organized and well thought out.

We rushed around cleaning the house as best as we could, and they arrived 20 minutes later.

If you listen really closely now, you can hear the scary music getting louder.

The nice man and daughter were stepping out of their vehicle when the horrid beast appeared. Clearly, the wretched dog had gotten out again.

Now, I’ve owned this dog for two years, and he’s never once shown the slightest inclination to “guard the house.” He’s a bird dog and a retriever. He doesn’t care if you rob the house, but would like you to “please” throw the ball for him.

Not today. He summoned every ounce of guard dog inside of himself that he could find and barked ferciously at the man and the little girl.

I’m not certain whether it was because the man was tall or because we don’t often have new men in the house, but this “Houdini” was very “concerned.” The man also looked very “concerned.”

Finally, I got the tall boy to retrieve his dog and put him back in the yard. I gave him a stern look, and he willingly agreed to make sure the dog was confined.

It occurred to me that this had not gotten off to a great start, but no worries, the dog was placed back in the pen.

I apologized and invited them in. The nice man looked concerned but accepted my offer of a cup of coffee. Of course, I could not find a clean cup in the house, so I had to wash two cups.

At this point, I notice the alert man’s eyes darting around the house. It occurs to me that his attention to detail is “detective worthy.”

We could both see the stuff under the couch and the dust in the corner, but I decided the best way to handle it was simply to deny its existence.

Have I mentioned that I’m an optimist and incredibly “easy going?”

(Easy-going simply means that I have given up any notion of controlling my chaos and have “resigned” myself to it. It’s not a character “strength.”)

The young girl’s dad and I had a lot in common, apparently, and we sat and drank coffee for two hours while the girls played.

It was at this point that he looked out the window and said, “Hey. I think that dog got out again.”

It was about this time that I heard a commotion and went outside. Sure enough, there was that stupid dog.

“Hmm,” I thought to myself right before I looked to the right to see two county sheriffs walking toward me.

“Ma’am, is this your dog?” the incredibly irritated man said. I was stunned, “Yes, that is my dog.”

He replied curtly that the dog had been chasing cars down the highway and barking at them for quite a while.

I know my dog, and there is absolutely no way a human can chase him down. He is the fastest, most athletic dog I have ever met.

They had never caught him, but they had followed him home. The situation has begun to dawn on me.

I tell the tall boy to put the dog in the house. I was firm, but polite. (You know, people are watching.)

My heart dropped to my stomach, and all I could do was apologize. The men wanted to see my “fencing and containment arrangement.”

It was about this time that the animal control officer showed up.

I feebly showed the officers my “containment arrangement.” I explain to them that the dog usually does not get out. The officers do not seem convinced.

Finally, one of them says, “Look at that hole.” Sure enough, that dog had dug a hole the size of the state of Maine under the fence.

He had the boys fix the hole. Again, I apologize and ask what more he would like me to do.

I have never seen an officer so exasperated. He looked away and then shook his head, “I will let animal control handle this. And with that, the two officers left.

The animal control officer is a very sweet young woman who was very understanding of the situation.

As we’re talking, I hear loud barking and look up.

Out of the bedroom window, which doesn’t have a screen, the dog is hanging halfway out, barking ferociously. And poetically, there is a long curtain, which has made its way out of the window, and it’s blowing furiously in the wind.

I am simply stunned. I cannot explain to the officer why the window is open. I have no idea.

She takes my name and number, along with the dog’s description. Smiles politely, tells me that sometimes these things happen, and leaves me to my chaos.

When I get inside, the nice man and the girl tell me that they “have to go.” I apologize to them and try to explain that these things usually do not happen here.

They are polite and tell me “no worries at all.”

But I am worried. My mind is completely boggled.

The boys make their way into the living room to discuss what happened. They tell me that the officers were mad. I nodded, “Ya think?”

They reassure me that the dog had dug the hole after they had put him in the fence. I’m beyond words, so I sit there quietly.

“Why is the window open?” I finally ask. The second-tallest boy says, “I opened it, Mom, because of the paint fumes; I didn’t want the cat to get sick.”

I explain to the child, rather dryly, that it is January, that the curtain flying out the window, and the barking dog hanging halfway out of the window, were not a good look to show the police.

I dismiss the boys and sit there quietly for a very long time.

Sometimes it’s very hard to contain this three-ring circus, and I shake my head. “How had things gotten so bad?” I asked myself.

The police, the new friends, the sleepover, the paint job, and the stupid dog.

That, my friends, is why I quit.

When the boy’s mom showed up, I explained what happened. She thought it was funny. “Lacey, stories like that will make people happy with their own lives.”

I paused for just a moment. I think her point is valid.

Dr. Dobson said that parenting isn’t for cowards. As I sit here in stunned silence, I happen to agree.

So, friend, the moral of this story, if there is one, is don’t ignore that still small voice in your head that says, “Nope. Not today. It’s just not a good day to have company.”

Prayers for your journey,

Lacey