A few months ago I visited Israel and stayed for a few nights with some wonderful friends. These were friends from my neighborhood here in New York City before they returned to Israel. Like us, they have three kids, of similar ages to our children. But when I first entered their home I noticed that something felt different. Eerily different.
It was quiet.
One kid was watching TV on a laptop. Another was reading on a couch. Another was happily ambling around, before he silently joined his younger brother at the laptop. “This is remarkable,” I said to my host. “I have literally, in my whole life, never witnessed this number of kids at this degree of cooperation.”
My friend laughed. “Oh, just wait,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Several hours later, that moment arrived. The kids were eating dinner, and one of the older ones wanted the apple juice. The apple juice was directly in front of their youngest. A kid took the apple juice away from the youngest. “Hey,” said the youngest, and he put his head down and sniffled twice. “Are you sad?” asked the parents. My friends consoled their child and passed the apple juice, and he returned to his smiling, contented self.
Wait—that does not count!
Thinking back just on the past few day, I’ve been hit, pushed, pulled, and screamed at more times than I can keep track of. I’ve told kids to stop jumping, kicking, biting each other. I’ve talked to kids on the floor who refused to leave the apartment. I’ve had the exact opposite conversation with that same kid on the ground outdoors.
And then there are the insults. Dummy. Meanie. Stupid. I don’t want you, I want Mommy! Get away Daddy! This is a group of children that, there is zero doubt, mostly want their mother. Though it’s not like they act much differently for the two of us. As I’m writing this right now a child marched into the kitchen and started screaming at my wife: MOMMY! YOU CAN’T START COOKING WITHOUT ME!
In a lot of ways, we won the family lottery. Our children are energetic, clever, funny, interesting. They are aggressively curious about their world. Most of all they are healthy and they were very badly wanted, we wanted them all so badly, and we are blessed to have them. I know my lot is not the hardest. But certainly—certainly—it is not the easiest.
This was the year when my hardest parenting days started feeling like my hardest teaching days. I found myself accidentally slipping into the habits of speech from home in my classroom. The boundaries between home and school at times fell apart. A 4th Grader wore the same Old Navy sweatshirt as my son. I accidentally say “kiddo” to a 3rd Grader. I heard myself using a register of voice at school that I had previously only used to discipline kids at home. I use moves honed in my classroom to help my oldest get himself out of a rut.
My attitude at school has long been, well, some groups will be more emotionally taxing and others won’t. Obviously everybody has their limit, and my school isn’t your’s, but within those parameters, sure, put the kid in my class, give me a“tough” class to teach. You give me the kids, I’ll figure out how to handle it. Everybody needs a teacher.
Well, that brings us to the homefront. And I’m trying to remind myself that these are not miniature Michaels. These are children who are the way they are for whatever reasons, it literally doesn’t matter why. They are not my reflection. They are my genetic stock, I suppose, and you can sort of even see it if you squint, but this is simply not relevant. The only thing that actually matters is that they are my kids. And everyone needs parents.
But goddamn are they loud!