“Knock. It. Off.” Daisy demanded, exasperated, through clenched teeth.
Rooster responded by ratcheting up his repetitive, high-pitched, and extremely annoying vocal tones.
From my vantage point in the dining room, I could see that poor Daisy was curled into the end of the couch and trying to study, while Rooster was nonchalantly sprawled across the rest of the couch, feet kicking dangerously close to her textbook.
Since I was already scrolling through email messages on my cellphone, I casually took a recording of this nonsense. Rooster immediately flew off the couch to stop the recording, which I promptly sent to their dad and brothers as a snapshot of our day, both to show how close to the end of her rope poor Daisy was…and to capture this moment.
My mother-in-law, Barbara, wisely told me years ago—long before Digit was capable of misbehaving—that any time I was irritated or angry with the kids, I should take a picture first, and then react second.
Maybe the first time I took her advice is immortalized in a photo album.
Digit’s dark copper eyes are big and serious and he has the hint of a sheepish grin on his toddler face. His hand is on top of his head, fingering through his short, caramel-colored hair, peaches and oatmeal smeared throughout and across his face. The highchair he is strapped into has been stripped of the fabric cover, which indicates that it was already dirty and in the wash. His bib and sleeper are spotless. My mom’s eye can see the sleepiness in his eyes from a good night’s sleep. And something like apprehension or confusion.
I remember this day. I had been up all night with three-month-old Duke, and decided to save time that morning by bathing seventeen-month-old Digit before breakfast.
I know, rookie mistake.
After settling Digit into his high chair to feed himself, I settled myself and Duke into a chair at the kitchen table to nurse with one arm and help Digit with the other.
Digit promptly tipped his bowl of oatmeal directly onto his head.
Of course he did.
I wanted to cry. To chastise him. To yell in frustration. Instead, I remembered Barbara’s sage advice and grabbed the camera. Back then, it would be a few weeks before I saw the printed image since film processing took a bit longer than today’s instant digital images. A few weeks before I saw the expression on his face: he was as startled by his action as I was. He was unsettled by the slimy texture in his hair and near his eyes, and he was looking to me for reaction-guidance.
If I had reacted out of anger or frustration, what would that have told him?
Given that I did grab the camera, I was laughing by the time I set it down to clean him up, to finish feeding him…and to give him a second bath. I was able to set my impatience aside and laugh with my babies.
I’ve tried to adhere to this tactic over the years, with some success. Certainly there have been more days than not that I lost my cool and responded with a knee-jerk reaction, but hopefully the good days outweigh the rough.
There were countless long days and nights while Jim worked twelve- and sixteen-hour evening or night shifts, often seven or nine days in a row. Melting into a puddle of exhaustion or clocking out wasn’t an option with four littles depending on me for all. the. things. Instead, I would sit on our stairs or the couch and record footage of my little kingdom—the little cogs operating around and with each other. Maybe for something to do, maybe to capture our day-to-day so Jim could see it later.
One such moment is captured on video: Rooster is around two, wearing nothing but a onesie over his diaper and his tiny camouflage-printed cast on his arm. He is standing atop a bench and dancing to his the nonsensical songs he is belting out. (Watching it today, I urgently chastise myself: Get him off that bench! He could fall! He already has a broken arm, for goodness’ sake!) Near him, Daisy is shushing her crying babydoll, named “Baby-John-the -Baptist”—apparently she is a four-year-old Saint Elizabeth. Duke and Digit are in the background, waging battle against each other with pencils as swords. (Again I admonish myself out loud: Tell them to put those pencils away! What am I thinking?!) On the video, I hear myself saying just that—put those pencils away! The older boys respond to me in exaggerated fake British accents and follow my directions as their battle morphs into something akin to dancing-ninja-moves. I hear my cheerful voice as I chatter along with them, and am relieved to know that my tiredness isn’t obvious.
And once again, I am grateful for that small piece of advice from Barbara: take a picture before you react.
Our video files and photo albums—paper and digital—contain many such snapshots of time. Of real life. And while I remember the frustration, the loneliness, the enormity of being responsible for these tiny and not-so-tiny humans, these moments in time are precious and leave me—and Jim and the kids—laughing.
As for Daisy and Rooster, their bickering and his pestering of her might not seem so precious in the day-to-day, especially as she is pushed to strike back verbally. If I take a step back, though, if I replay the footage or look at the snapshot, they are hilarious. They are a team.
These moments, and the way we as parents react to them, shape and define us as a family.
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