They say parenting is the hardest job in the world. But those people have clearly never tried to accomplish something while parenting five children, while ankle-deep in toilet water, while wondering whether an ER window replacement comes with a punch card.
Earlier this week, I had to remind myself multiple times, through gritted teeth and damp socks, that I do love my kids. I do. I have to keep saying it like a mantra. Like I’m trying to hypnotize myself into not running away to Montana and starting a new life as a fly-fishing instructor named Doug.
It started, innocently enough, with a toilet. A clogged one. Now, I’m no stranger to clogged toilets. We have five kids. I own a plunger like some people own a car, but instead of using it, my kids decided the solution was: more water. Just keep flushing. Over and over. Surely, if the water sees how committed we are, it’ll change its mind and go down.
Spoiler: it did not go down.
It came up. Then it came out. Then it migrated down the hall like a cheerful salmon in a spring flood. Ten loads of laundry later (because of course it soaked into the towels, the rugs, and three of the kids somehow) I reminded myself again: I love them. I do.
Then there was the root canal.
SK2, he’s 14 now, high-functioning autistic, and engaged in an ongoing Cold War with dental hygiene. It’s a contentious relationship. He brushes like he’s trying to gently pet a ghost. The result? A $1,000 root canal that doubled as a ransom payment to the Tooth Mafia. I could’ve spent that money on a new couch. Or a downpayment on next year’s vacation. Or enough plungers to build a raft and sail away from all of this.
But then came last night.
My wife and SK4 were off learning CPR. They must have had a premonition because, back at home, SK3 decided to spice up our evening by tripping and falling through a window. That’s not a metaphor. That’s an actual thing that happened. One minute, we’re watching YouTube, and the next, it was Die Hard: The Suburban Years live and in person.
Glass everywhere. Blood. Screaming. SK5 crying in the corner like an extra from a war movie.
Then something amazing happened. SK2, the dental delinquent himself, sprung into action. Calm. Focused. First aid kit like a mini paramedic. He kept his brother still, talked him through the pain, patched him up while I was still Googling “how to tell if your child is made of glass.” It turns out the real health and safety lesson wasn’t happening at CPR class. It was happening in my living room.
They’re often like this. Beautiful in the chaos. This morning, for example, SK4 … sweet, responsible SK4 … helped my wife set up her classroom for the new school year. SK1 texted me from Philmont, all excited to come home. “Miss you, Dad,” he wrote. And I nearly cried. Until I remembered the window.
And yeah, SK3? As I sat with him in the ER last night, he looked at me, all stitched and bandaged, and asked, “Dad… have you ever done something like this?”
“Well, there was that time I lit my best friend’s house on fire.”
His eyes widened, and I told him the story: how we put the fire out, how my friend went to the hospital, and how I sat in a smoke-filled living room waiting for his dad to come home and decide whether to murder me or adopt me out of spite.
And we laughed. Right there in the ER. Me, thinking about smoke. Him, thinking about glass. Both of us, bleeding in our own way.
And in that moment, I realized: They’re gonna be okay. They really are. Even when they destroy everything. Especially when they destroy everything. They’re good people with good hearts. Somewhere under the bandages, the dental bills, and the gallons of toilet water, there they are. My kids.
And I do love them. I swear I do.
Even if I keep the plunger on a leash now. Just in case.