Just Admit Failure

I know that there are several people that struggle with infertility, but for me, getting pregnant was pretty easy, meaning that for the first two babies, all it required was uttering the phrase "Maybe having a kid/another kid would be cool," attending a Christmas party at D'Amico Cucina, washing down gnocchi with large amounts of white wine and then tearing one off. Even Zoe's pregnancy was accomplished without any disappointment, except for the fact that I found out I was pregnant right before we took the boys on a four-day mini-vacation, which meant no beer or tequila for me. Just the first of many inconveniences that this girl has created for me.

And although these babies all arrived with ten fingers, ten toes, a set of eyeballs and what appears to be a pair of ears, I'm pretty sure that the ears don't actually work. Or maybe it's that they do work, but there's a defect somewhere between the ears and the brain, causing the words that they hear to fall down somewhere around their belly button. Or maybe they don't understand anything I say because I bonked their heads on the door frames one too many times as I raced through the house carrying a suddenly-longer-so-now-their-head-sticks-out-two-inches-past-my-elbow-baby in my arms.

Whatever the reason, I'm sick of repeating myself. It's to the point where I'm physically incapable of pretending that I'm not annoyed when I say things two, three or seventeen times, and then having to repeat myself again the next day, week or even two months later. So now, every time I have to remind someone of something, it comes out embedded in sighs, eye rolls and arm flailing, and honestly, all the extra effort is kind of exhausting.

About a week ago, with Zach in the passenger seat, I pulled up to an insanely busy intersection and prepared to take a right. Yes, the light was red but everyone knows that you can take a right at a red light. Unless, of course, there are three ginormous signs that say "NO TURN ON RED" staring you in the face. Just as I was about to turn I noticed one of these signs and, since Zach is going to start drivers' training in the near future and I need to start setting a good example, promptly slammed on my brake. Then I said "Ugh. I hate those signs. I failed my first license test because of that stupid 'No Turn on Red' sign."

"I know, I remember you telling me this story," he said. I was shocked. When had I told him about this? I had no recollection of ever having a conversation with this kid that included the topic of hey guess what mom is kind of a moron because she failed her drivers' test once. And since when does he remember me telling him things?

And that's when it hit me: they will always remember stories that involve a parent screwing up and/or embarrassing themselves. So from now on, when I remind them to do something, I'll tack on a little tale of personal woe from my own fucked up past and maybe that'll make our conversations more memorable. For example:

• Please rinse the hunks of food out of your braces with a couple gulps of water. I had to wear a headgear when I was little and my brothers teased me relentlessly.
• I need to initial your practice report every week. After I didn't practice, I used to forge my mom's signature on my band practice reports in high school.
• No, you can't swipe two gummy worms out of the bulk bin because stealing is wrong. I once got busted for shoplifting at a ShopKo in 7th grade.
• Please use two hands to carry that plate. I once walked into a screen patio door carrying a full plate of BBQ ribs and dumped them all over myself.
• Don't run around the store because you might bash into someone. In junior high, while quickly walking into The County Seat at Maplewood Mall carrying an extra large cherry ICEE, I tripped on the edge of the carpet and launched my ICEE all over a rack of clothes.
• We're leaving at ___ o'clock. After arranging to take my brothers to a Wild hockey game for their birthdays, we arrived at Xcel Center, and because I forgot to double check the game time, we arrived a little early. Seven hours early, to be exact.
• You need to study for your social studies test. I hated political science in high school and slept through most of the class, especially when we were learning about Watergate. I bombed that test, but now know that Deep Throat is more than just a porno.
• Stop talking to me and expecting me to hear you while you're three rooms away and I'm standing next to the dryer/doing dishes/rocking out to Metallica/screaming at your brother. Sorry, but I have no embarrassing story to share when it comes to this request. I will, however, start requesting that they pull their heads out of their butts, scrape the poop out of their ears, and START LISTENING!