Reality Birth Control

I love family. 

Anyone who really knows me knows I love family time and family always comes first.

But there are other reasons they are important.

They are my reality birth control. 

Before you get all confused let me explain. 

It’s become tradition that we end up spending the Christmas holiday with the hubby’s family and my foster family. No matter how long we are with them, whether it is two days or ten, we always come away with feeling relaxed but a bit skeptical about our roles as parents.

This is because of all the rascals we come into contact with.

Yes, I call them rascals. Because they are always up to something, being bad, pulling at your heart strings, or simply driving you bonkers. Let me spread the story of holiday cheer called children.

First there is Monkey Face. My foster parents first born daughter. Always perpetually in motion, by no means is this bad thing but she is the clumsiest child I know. If you have never seen a person trip on air, you need to meet this girl; she has mastered it.  At the age of five (I think J) she is also the most insightful child I know. 

Being a child she still slurps her juice for two minutes at the dinner table not noticing the noise is comparable to chalk screeching on a black board to an adult. But what took the cake was our conversation as we settled in the pew for the Christmas Eve service.

“Brittany, why is D**** not here?” She whispers this because she knows she’s not suppose to talk a lot in church.

“He had some other things planned for tonight.”

“But he needs to be here. Church is important,” she insists sternly.

I am at a loss for words. Not to throw the hubby under the bus, the child has a point. 

“I know sweetie. I will let him know you say so.” This seems to satisfy her because she gives me a firm nod, sits back and picks up her program.

Yeah. Completely floored.

Then there’s The Boss. Mr. Self Assured. The Boss is the hubby’s nephew. This boy has an older brother, but it’s definitely him that does the bullying in their relationship. He acts hard like a gangsta when he needs to and is caring, mischievous, ruff little boy when he doesn’t. I would repeat full convos of him threatening to punch someone in the neck if they didn’t leave him alone, but that would make him seem less than the angel he is.

The Boss’s softer side emerges when his cousin Darren is around and he insists on feeding him, wiping his nose, directing you on how to change his diaper, and most of all giving his little cuzo hugs when he cries.

But beware of boys they always have something up their sleeves. 

The Boss: “Hey Brittany.”

Me: “Yeah?”

The Boss: “You see all those presents under the tree?”

Me: “Yeah, there are a lot of them.”

The Boss rests his chin on my knee and looks up at me with big eyes and a cheesy smile. “I can open them for you!”  

At that point I had suppress my urge to laugh and tell him no, he could not open his presents before Christmas.

The stories don’t end there. I could fill your ears with stories of a boy who wouldn’t keep his clothes on, and another little girl who can switch the charm on an off, but that would take too long and I still have to talk about my little monster. 

Darren finally found something that made him master the art of crawling.

(Yep, you heard me. HE’S CRAWLING!! )

That things is a red remote control sports car operated by The Boss. 

If a crawling baby isn’t momentary birth control. I don’t know what is.