Kids Ruin Everything

Other people with children often tell me that boys will do all the things that girls won't do. Does this mean Emmett won't ask me if he can poop in the backyard, or climb on top of my car or replace the words in picture books with fart noises? Because that's the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed, and I hate to think it all ends with one little boy.

I'm not really worried. This morning at my Friday coffee-shop hour with friends at school I was bragging about how much I love hanging out with him, and it's fully true. Nothing I say about him is exaggerating, so I'm not exaggerating when I say that he ruins e v e r y t h i n g.

I'm always telling Bim this, that kids ruin everything, but weirdly he always wants to defend them, as if I'm accusing them of something bad! The little buggers are thorough and they're fast. More than anything I admire it. Last week as I sat on the bed folding laundry, Emmett was going through my drawers and, one by one, throwing every article of clothing in the air. Fold one, throw two, fold one, throw two. It's a partnership. And I think we're pretty near unbeatable--except maybe by Congress.

I remember things I ruined: my mom's mirrored make-up tray that turned out to be disappointingly bad at holding up my sheet fort (she was surprising mad about that one), the silver ring my dad sent her from Thailand before they were married, possibly still embedded in the dirt under the park swings . . . not to mention all the things I lost: clarinet, glasses, retainer, swimming suits, backpacks, jackets. Emmett has taken the ruination of our upholstered couch to the next level and that is saying a lot because his sisters got there before him and have built countless forts and stashed countless snacks and lidless markers in its cushions.

Carry on, my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. But not until then. No peace for anyone.