Little Surprises

In Real Simple houses, blankets are neatly folded or artistically piled on unstained sofas. Your sofa has pencil illustrations, marker streaks, and blood stains.

Illustration by Liz Sarb

When you share a house with a 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, or 8 year old, little surprises greet you at every turn. A pumpkin sticker appears on the light switch. You find a post-it note upon which is scribbled “Noodles and Butter!” with an image of… dancing snakes? Oh, no, those must be noodles with smiley faces. A small, stuffed hedgehog makes you jump when you open the pantry. A trail of “cloos” is scattered throughout the hallway, leading to treasure caches (the treasures are: raisins).

The little surprises frustrate your prefrontal cortex. This isn’t what homeownership is supposed to look like! It wants your house to look like a Real Simple house, with clean countertops and organized drawers. Real Simple houses don’t have cloos taped to every wall. There aren’t castles (nee diaper boxes) threatening to trip you around every corner.

But whichever part of your brain ties more directly into your human soul whispers that it’s like living in a fantasy land. Tiny hints of magic at every turn. Surprises and adventure await, if you look at it right.

(The whisper can only be heard when the kids are at school and daycare and there are no other noises competing with it.)

The blanket a beloved and long-dead family friend made for your family is on the floor, covered in lego people. It’s an ocean! whispers the soul-brain, but you can’t hear it because the kids aren’t away, they’re here and they’re dancing and stomping and “splashing in” your beautiful memento.

GET. OFF. yells the prefrontal cortex version of you, and the little sharks scurry away. In Real Simple houses, blankets are neatly folded or artistically piled on unstained sofas. Your sofa has pencil illustrations, marker streaks, and blood stains. Mostly though, it is covered in a patina of grime because the little sharks don’t see it as a sofa, but as:

• A warship

• An island

• A safe haven from the lava-covered floor

• A bird nest

• A cheetah den

• And more!!

You’ve affixed a toy basketball hoop to the wall. The little sharks are no longer sharks or birds or cheetahs but they are feral. They have crammed the hoop so full of beach balls and action figures and stuffed animals that it is falling off.

Stop, you’re breaking it! you cry but the feral ones don’t see a toy basketball hoop; they see a challenge of the id. They celebrate and dance below the ripping hoop like the boys from Lord of the Flies: Kill the pig! Cut its throat! Bash it in!

The netting rips and the entire fixture falls. Their cheers drown out your protests. Sucks to your ass-mar! the cheers say. And a quiet, thrilled part of you feels their celebration rise up within yourself.

This is your life.

You are part ass-mar, Real Simple, superego.

You are part wonder, magic, soul.

Later, one of the tiniest Lords of the Flies approaches. “I a fairy!” he declares, holding up his hands. The hands are covered in glitter. A trail of glitter gleams behind him.

You have complicated feelings about fairies and three-year-olds, but very clear feelings about glitter.

What did you do? Your voice is low enough, calm enough, dangerous enough to snap the child out of his imaginings for a moment.  

I- I- I puts fairy dust on Bae J! He tells you.

True to his word, he has sprinkled a vial of glitter over his sleeping brother. The baby, his blankets, his stuffed animals, the whole room sparkle purple.

Isn’t it beautiful? Your soul tries to whisper.

Your Real Simple self storms about in a fury. Vacuuming glitter, throwing cloos in the trash, sweeping up raisins, and stabbing half-deflated balloons with a steak knife.

This is your life.

You alternate between seeing magic and chaos. Between appreciation and irritation. Between whispers and yells.

“CHOOSE JOY” blares another quote post, another bumper sticker. As if it were that simple. As if you had any control at all over which voice won. 

Yes, whispers your soul, I choose joy. 

Ha, mutters ass-mar. YOU try choosing joy when you’re stepping on fucking legos.

You pull clean laundry from your dryer and discover – yet again – little surprises. Glitter (fairy dust!) and broken shells (fairy houses!) line the lint trap. Three coins (treasures!) and two rocks (beautiful gems!) lay on the bottom of the machine. 

You shake your head and sigh. But you’re smiling.