Bits and Pieces

There are bits of my son all over this house. I don’t mean that he has exploded. Or that he has turned into a tornado and left things everywhere. Though, that’s what it kind of looks like. It just means that he has infiltrated every part of my life, our lives, our home.

For example. This office? (Which will be moved downstairs in about two weeks. Ordering carpet tomorrow!) It’s my space. TheHusbandMan also uses it. But it’s my space. On the floor we have: a Golden book, a CD cover taken out of the case, the open CD case, a toy pig, a fire truck book, some babylegs, a pair of toddler sunglasses, a sock, and a book that has been taken out of the jacket, which I did not do. And that’s just the floor. Don’t make me describe my desk. Or the contents of the futon.

It’s like this in every room. The bathroom? A boat and a duck sit on the floor. A fire truck tooth brush sits next to the tooth brush holder. It has lights. No sirens. Our bedroom? A book about doggies sits next to the bed so he can read it while he moseys around in the mornings. The hallway? A radio. The kitchen? Letters all over the fridge along with some recently colored “portraits.” Let’s not talk about the sippy cups that line the counter. The living room is a veritable toy box. The bottom of the stairs? A ball sits, thrown over the half wall. The basement? Where BigBrother has never even really been? Is filled with his old baby stuff, to be cleaned and reused for LittleBrotherBaby. Outside? A slide, a play house, a turtle sandbox, a bike, and more fire trucks.

I don’t want to talk about the inside of the Jeep, okay?

He’s everywhere. Thankfully, the veritable toy box cleans up well. (And once we get the office moved downstairs and the crib moved in here for LittleBrother to use, most of BigBrother’s toys will go to his bedroom, leaving room for things like bouncy seats and swings and Pack N’ Plays and play mats and… oh, it’s just going to be another kind of toy explosion.)

The point is: my son(s) is(are) everywhere in this house.

And I can count the number of physical representations of my daughter in this home. She hangs on the family picture wall in four different picture frames. She’s in a frame by my bed. She’s on the refrigerator. There’s a box of Munchkin Memories in the basement. Her pink blankie follows BigBrother wherever he goes (along with his blue one; he’s not gender-specific, bless him). An old binky of hers is in the top dresser drawer in BigBrother’s room. The necklace with her birthstone (along with some bracelets and charms that are about/for/from her) sit in my jewelry box atop my dresser. Another frame sits on top of the one end table (which is the picture that BigBrother takes with him when we talk about her). And on my desk here is the yellow rose.
The point? She’s not everywhere. Her physical being is not present in every nook and cranny. And sometimes that’s upsetting to me. I like when she’s visiting and I find her socks in random places and clothes strewn about. I like stepping on Pony pieces (ow) and reminding her that the boys can’t get ahold of any of it so she needs to sit at the table. I like finding things after they leave, smelling the smell that she’s left behind.

It’s just strange, to have two completely different experiences in how my children infiltrate my life. You think that it would be equal. But it’s not. Now, as for my heart? Oh yeah, I love my kids so much I could burst at times. Perhaps Munchkin is lucky because she doesn’t get enough one-on-one time to frustrate me to the level that Mr. BigBrotherNack can do. But even on his worst days, I love him as much as I love his sister. And that’s a ton.

But sometimes I wish her socks were just hanging around next to her brothers. So I could yell for them both to pick them up.

And then do it myself.