The Things We Do for Love

In last week’s column, I begrudgingly admitted that I took my kids to see the Dog Man movie—an experience that I would not have chosen for myself but did anyway, because the things we do for love know no bounds. Parenthood is full of these moments, where you willingly indulge in things that make you question your life choices, all in the name of seeing your kids happy.

For instance, I have purchased no fewer than five indoor trampolines for my wild monkey child to use to get his energy out. He has managed to break all of them but the most recent one, which currently resides in his bedroom. This is in addition to the outdoor trampoline, which I had foolishly assumed would be sufficient. But no, the once peaceful indoors must also be filled with bouncing and chaos — at bedtime. Love is not easily angered.

Then there’s the swing hanging from the corner of our library. Yes, our library. Some families dedicate a cozy, peaceful nook to the joy of reading. My children have instead decided that reading must be a full-body experience—one that involves constant motion, mid-air page turns, and a few well-timed crashes into walls. It’s hard to maintain an air of refined literary appreciation when a child swings past your head like a flying teddy bear. Love is patient.

Speaking of boundless enthusiasm, one of my children was obsessed with pirates for four years. Not “I like pirates” obsessed—no, no, this was a full-blown lifestyle commitment. He legitimately believed he was the captain of a ship, and our house was his vessel. I lived in a constant state of mutiny, wherein everyone was reminded who the captain of the ship was by a precocious pint-sized priate. You think Elon Musk’s kid likes to take charge — he’s got nothing on my little pirate. I love that kid, but I was one fake treasure map away from walking the plank myself. Love keeps no record of wrongs.

My youngest child loves music. At first this was exciting news, he actually appeared to have good taste in music, such as classical and tunes from Baby Einstein. We were under the impression he was growing a deep musical appreciation. However, much like all forms of twaddle and brain rot, video games entered the picture and soured his musical tastes. Now he fills our house with video game music and the dulcet tones of the Bluey soundtrack. He comes to us with his puppy-dog eyes and says “Can I pwease wisten to moo-sic?” Unfortunately, his idea of “moo-sic” now is cringe at best and torture at worst. We aren’t even talking actual songs. We’re talking 10 second soundbites that he puts on repeat. Some mornings I come down the stairs to find my wife descending into madness because she’s heard the same eight notes on a loop for the last 45 minutes. Love bears all things.

Of course, it’s not just the kids. Love, in all its forms, demands sacrifice. My dear wife has Crohn’s disease—a condition that, for the sake of everyone’s dignity, I won’t explain in great detail. But suffice it to say, before we had kids, I spent many a night beside her in hospitals. If you ever need someone to tell you which hospitals in Georgia have the best cafeteria food, I am your guy. I have developed strong opinions on which institutions do chicken tenders justice and which ones should be ashamed of what they think are mashed potatoes. Love always protects.

That kind of love and protection is how I ended up standing on a bed attacking a giant spider with a vacuum cleaner. My dear wife Honey Doodle was sick last week and was trying to rest in the bed when she noticed it — a terrorizing gigantic fiend with eight legs threatening her life. Okay, not her life, but certainly her sanity. She didn’t want to risk an air assault from an arachnid, so she asked me to come to her rescue. Folks, I’m short and we have vaulted ceilings. I’m also clumsy, so trying to swat the sinister silken spinner with a broom or a very large fly-swatter would never work. No sir, my weapon of choice was the vacuum cleaner. There I am, standing on the bed with a vacuum cleaner, hose extended as far is it will go, ready to suck up the wicked weaving wanderer, and as I am concentrating my hardest to make sure the perilous predatory prowler goes into the vacuum instead of falling to the floor or the bed, I look over at Honey Doodle — and she is laughing her fool head off at me and taking a picture. Love is not proud.

To have our family at all, we went through several rounds of IVF.. Again, I will spare you the finer points, but let’s just say that infertility treatments strip away any and all dignity you thought you had. No part of the process is romantic, magical, or befitting of a tender montage in a Hallmark movie. It’s clinical, expensive, and full of moments where you and your spouse exchange uncomfortable glances as medical professionals casually discuss your reproductive capabilities like they’re ordering from a fast-food menu. And don’t get me started on the plastic cup. Love always hopes, it always perseveres.

As I’ve mentioned before, we also homeschool. Because clearly, in this house, love also means spending every waking moment with your children. We chose to homeschool to make sure our kids get the best education they can from my wife, who was a teacher before she was diagnosed. What this really means is that we now dedicate our time, money, and remaining shreds of sanity to curriculum selection, lesson planning, and keeping a small army of educational manipulatives from taking over the living room.

For instance, have you ever tried to explain long division to a seven-year-old while their sibling swings wildly from the library corner? It’s a test of patience that even Bluey’s dad would fail. But hey, at least we get to dodge school drop-off lines and PTA meetings, so maybe it evens out. Love is not self-seeking.

At the end of the day, though, you do it. You sit through the Dog Man movie. You buy yet another trampoline. You listen to endless hours of Bluey background music even though you now hear the theme song in your dreams. You do it because love, at its core, is about joy—whether it’s your own or the joy of the people who mean the most to you.

And honestly, if putting up with pirate rule and library swings is the price I pay for a happy, chaotic, laughter-filled home, I suppose it’s worth every bit of it. But if another trampoline breaks, somebody is walking the plank. It’s me. I’m somebody.