The hardest part about having kids, hands down, is the way they botch up all your plans. Just a minute. It’s Lucy. She wants some scrambled eggs.
Okay. I’m back. You see there? It’s not like it was hard to make scrambled eggs. The actual event of making eggs isn’t the hard part. The hard part is the way my plan to write this blog post clashed with Lucy’s need to have scrambled eggs.
“Dad. Do fish drink water?”
“I don’t know, Jackson. Does Barack Obama like grilled cheeses?”
You have to stun them. It buys you some time. Anyway, there’s something in the way the kids so suddenly intrude. It’s like POW! They’re right there. You know? It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You might be on the phone or reading or even merely trying to finish a thought and—hold on.
“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT WHAT SHE DID! YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO YOUR SISTER’S HEAD! DO YOU WANT TO KILL YOUR SISTER?”
There’s a weird kind of psychic pain that accompanies having your plans interrupted. It’s not like having someone sit on your head. But still. It hurts. Because it’s your will. It’s like you want to do what you want to do but the kids—they destroy that. The kids destroy what you want. Just a sec—
“Excuse me what?”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Aw, I love you too, Lucy. And guess what. I’m gonna love you even more in 10 minutes after you let me finish writing this blog post.”
See? That was sweet. It’s not like I’m saying the kids are terrible. The point I’m trying to make is subtle. Even being interrupted to be told that I’m loved is a sudden readjustment to my intentions and it’s bracing.
When you think about it, what you want could be construed as a definition of who you are. So kids are constantly messing with who you are. Jackson just knocked a glass of red juice on the carpet. Jackson just knocked a glass of red juice on the carpet. Jackson just knocked a glass of red juice on the carpet.
Shit. I have to hurry. Last night, I was reading—the kids were sleeping, but you’re still never safe—and I came across this Carl Jung quote. It really hit home, so I wanted to share it with you.
To this day God is the name by which—“I’m sure it’s important, Lucy, but I’m right in the middle of a really cool Carl Jung quote. Gimme two minutes.”—I designate all things which cross my willful path violently and recklessly, all things which upset my subjective views, plans and intentions—“I don’t care how much Tom Nook just paid you for a barred knifejaw. Just play your video game and, please, spare me the running commentary.”—and change the course of my life for better or worse.
Gods destroy what you want and mess with who you are. They do this because there’s so much more—worlds and worlds—than you and what you want. And kids are more than kids. They’re little gods. Honor them.