Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This... Kind of.

I failed as a parent yesterday.

I don't actually feel like I'm a failure at parenting in general, but specific days of feeling like a failure are becoming more commonplace.  I don't like it.

Here's the thing: I feel like a pretty decent parent, actually.  I love my boys and I know they love me.  They are confident, strong, playful, joyful little fellows.  They get along pretty well (as far as I can tell as an only child parent with boys 20 months apart).  We have regular family meals and trips to the park.  I feed them good food.  We have 90s jams dance parties.  We laugh a lot and there are a lot of wonderful parts of each and every day.  Every night I find myself thinking wistfully of them after they've gone to bed and I often go and peek at their adorable little sleeping bodies and peaceful little faces.  I adore my kids and I love being their mama.

But there are also the days when I've used up every last wisp of patience by 9:30am.  Days when I repeat the phrases over and over that I repeat every single day, "Please stop jumping off the couch.  Please stop jumping.  Stop jumping.  Stop jumping!  STOP JUMPING!!!!"  Days when, the second I turn around from pulling the Little One off the table, the Big One has climbed on top of the same table and jumped off.  Days when I literally watch the clock waiting for meal times when I know they'll be strapped down in their seats, or nap time when I know they'll be contained, if not peacefully asleep.  Days when there are no naps and they are beyond cranky and obstinate.  Days when I seriously consider going to a bar- by myself- when my husband gets home at 10:30pm just so I can be somewhere where no one is asking anything of me.  And there is beer.

I used to have a shockingly large amount of patience.  My students used to comment on it.  I was described, repeatedly, as serene.  As a teenager.  But somewhere along the line, my patience disappeared.  Perhaps while teaching I used up the amount allotted to me for the early years of parenting.  Perhaps, along with iron and calcium, my babies absorbed my patience into their own bodies.  Perhaps every parent of two young children feels this way.

All I know is that I do not have the same level of patience I once had.  I hear my own voice coming out and think, "Ugh.  She needs to chill out."  But holy begeezus, people, I CANNOT CHILL OUT.  I try, but I fail more often than not.  It's just so much some days.  These little creatures are 19 months and three.  They are Dennis the Menace all the time.  Having two boys with a serious case of the naughties test the boundaries every second of every day is a lot.  It's a lot.

I'm exhausted by the end of every day.  Some days I'm exhausted by the time breakfast rolls around.

A friend messaged me the other day asking for advice on keeping his two and half year old occupied and happy now that she was out of preschool.  When I got the message, I literally laughed out loud.  I thought, "Holy shit, brother.  If I knew how to do that, my daily life would look very, very different."  But as I sat down to craft a helpful response, I realized I DO know how to do that.  I know how to do all the right things and plan a day for a restless toddler.  I've done it.  I was pretty good at it, actually.

It seems it's TWO restless toddlers that have me thrown for a loop.  They are just far enough apart that they can't do the same things and neither one is trustworthy yet.  Going to the park gives me a coronary- I have to choose which kid to watch on the play structure (answer: the Little One) and hope that the other one doesn't leap to his death.  Trying to do art is risky- paint is out of the question (unless it's finger painting with yogurt in the bathtub, which is actually kind of awesome), and crayons are pitched across the room and at walls by the Little One (thank you, Magic Eraser).  Regular puzzles are instantly destroyed by the Little One and the Big One is too old for peg puzzles.  The Little One pours out bubbles and sucks on the wand.  The Big One doesn't want to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider seventeen times in a row.  The Big One could read for a solid hour, but the Little One yanks books out of his hands.  They can't play blocks next to each other without destroying each other's creations and then trying to rip each other's faces off.  And the Big One tackles the Little One any chance he gets.

And so some days, I turn to the almighty quieter.  The babysitter of shame.  The magic box.  And I swore I would NEVER do this.  I was going to be SO conservative with how much T.V. my kids watched.  The Big One almost never watched T.V. before the Little One was born.  But then, I had two kids under two.  And I had to figure out how to keep the Big One busy while I put the Little One to sleep.  Enter: PBS Kids.  And now, the Big One ADORES the T.V.  Begs for it.  He usually only gets his pediatrician recommended top dose of two hours, and even that seems like a ton.  But then those days come along and I have to find a way to make dinner without the Little One getting pummeled... and then he gets more.

I hate it.  I hate that sometimes it's a relief to turn on the television.  I feel like a fraud.  A bad mom.  A failure.  I know that a lot of people would roll their eyes at me for feeling like this.  I know that a great many kids were raised on Sesame Street and they turned out just frickin' fine.  I know that ultimately it's not a big deal.  But I intended to do other things with my kids.  I intended to have the patience and the forethought and the goddamned time to be a parent that doesn't rely on T.V.  But it ain't working out that way.

Yesterday was not a good parenting day.  I'm not proud of my "solution."  I know it's not a solution and that it's not good for my kids.  But I felt like it was a preferable alternative to yelling.  So there we have it.  Another Mother of the Year award for me.

Please Make the Lambs Stop Screaming

I just experienced my first full-on, committed, psychotic, no-holds-barred, kicking, screaming, hysterical big boy tantrum two days ago.  It lasted 40 minutes.  And it started because I wouldn't give him free reign with the squeegee in the shower.

So he kicked the shower walls and threw his towel on the shower floor.  Then it escalated because the towel I gave him to replace the now soaking-wet one was too small.  The Too Small Towel tantrum lasted a full 20 minutes on its own.  Then it escalated further when he finally went to use the too-small towel and realized that he was already dry (having air-dried whilst tantruming).  So then the tantrum became a Where Are My Drips; I Need New Drips tantrum.

(FYI: Attempting to explain evaporation to a screaming, kicking, writhing 3 year old is not effective.  The more you know.)

Finally I decided that I just needed to get him in bed, at which point getting him dressed for bed turned it into the I Need To Go Hide tantrum.  Because naked hiding is, apparently, the only logical option when one's towel is too small and one has no drips.

Round two happened yesterday.  This one was over blueberry yogurt.  It lasted 35 minutes.  Apparently we are making progress?

Holy shit.  I have no idea what is happening, but it is highly unpleasant.


(Ed. Note: The title of this post is stolen directly from the mouth of a good friend and fellow mama.)

Upside, Downside

I am looking for balance.  Life has felt perpetually off kilter for quite some time now, and I'm attempting to give it a kickstand.  In an effort to temper my incessant whining (you guys, I know... I'm sorry!), I've decided to look at the glass as half-empty AND half-full.  Both sides of the coin.  Cloud with silver lining.  Yin and yang.  Luke and Darth.

You get the drift.

We all know I can't stop whining all together.  It's in my DNA people - I couldn't make it stop if I wanted to.  I grew up in a house where sour moods spread like wildfire.  But I also grew up singing "Shiny, Happy People" and Ren & Stimpy's "Happy Happy Joy Joy" with my dad whenever anyone (usually my mom- sorry, Mom!) got a little pouty.  So if I can buffer the whining with a little sunshine and lollipops... well, that doesn't sound so bad.

Accordingly, I'm playing a little game of Upside, Downside with myself.  Every time I want to wallow in self-pity or complain or be a generally hellish human to be around, I'm going to attempt to find the positive side of the situation.  Because I don't want people to stop talking to me.

Anyhoo, I don't know how long this happy-happy-joy-joy will last, so fair warning.

Upside, Downside: Episode 1. Going Back to Work

Upside: While I was working at "that store," I learned to relish the time I have with my kids.  As in, the book-it-as-fast-as-I-could-out-of-the-mall, leap-into-the-car, and speed-my-way-home kind of cherish.  Leaving "that store" and just doing tutoring now has not lessened the effect, despite the fact that I ADORE tutoring.  (OOH!  Upside!  I HEART TUTORING!!!)  I've always loved my time with my babes, but now I genuinely treasure my time with them (as barf-tastic as that sounds), because I've experienced having that time taken away.  The time I took for granted is limited, and that's a tangible concept to me now.  Even amidst all the screaming.

I have come to realize that I do want to teach- in some form- and to be involved with everything I have always loved: kids, literature, writing, and learning.  Tutoring has been absolutely awesome.  It's helped me readjust my view of who I am and who I want to be... something I was struggling with as a full-time stay-at-home parent.

Downside: Holy adjustment, Batman.  My kids struggled BIG TIME with my going back to work.  They were totally pissed off at me and misbehaved WAY more than they did before.  The Big One cried when I left for "that store" (not in the dramatic way, but in the quivering lip, slight whimper, ask for a hug and try to be brave, but totally break your heart kind of way) and told me daily that he was sad/scared when I left to go to "that store."  We didn't get family time or weekends at all for a couple months.  My husband had a hard time getting all of his school work done and we were all exhausted.   We realized that working for $10 an hour, getting a stress fracture in my foot, and having stressed out kids and no time together was not worth it.

Upside: I quit "that store" a few weeks ago.  It was awesome.  I've never felt so good quitting a job.  And it's not that the job was all that bad, it was just a bad fit for me and my family.  Nonetheless, I'm delighted that I no longer have to take bullshit from people who feel, apparently, that anyone working in a clothing store deserves to be treated like vermin.  I'm tickled frickin' pink that I will never again have to experience the heartache of looking in newly vacated dressing rooms to find giant piles of inside-out clothes next to giant piles of hangers.  Oh, the horror.

Now, I get to help people- little people and their families who are authentically thankful (wha?) and students who want, want to learn (WHA?!?).  IT. IS. SO. GOOD.  And on top of all the goodness, the money is significantly better than retail, so I can work fewer hours for the same piddly money I was making at "that store."  We have weekends and family time again.  My kids are happier.  And my family is happier.  And I am happier.  Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Little Heartbreakers

So, I just started a new part-time job (and am about to start another), and the babes are already starting in on the guilt tripping.  Oh, man... this part sucks.

Today as I was preparing to put the Big One (who turns 3 tomorrow... how the hell did that happen?!?) down for nap, he looked at me, grabbed my face between his soft little hands and said, "Mommy?  I miss you."  And then I died.  Time of death: 12:47pm.  Cause of death: guilt overdose.

Me: "Sweetie, why do you miss me?  I'm right here."
Him: "Because you go to that store and I miss you."

I have gone to "that store" (for my new job) twice.  Two times.  For four hours each time.  And already with the guilt.

I know I am garnering no sympathy WHATSOEVER from the working mamas who read this.  I know.  I know I've been spoiled.  I know you've been dealing with this and struggling through this since shortly after your babies were born.  I know I really have nothing to complain about since I got to stay home with the Big One for 3 years and the Little One for 15 months.  I know.  I KNOW.

But if I've established anything here, I think I've made it clear that I am a good-for-nothin' whiner.  And so... here I am.  Whining.  Like a punk.  Because all of a sudden I'm having to struggle with the very thing that 80% of parents out there have to struggle with.  Ridiculous, right?

We've worked it out (because we can't afford childcare) so that my husband is home with the kids while I'm at work, and I am home while my husband is at school.  This is great because our kids are with us.  This is terrible because not only am I not seeing my kids nearly enough, but now I'm not seeing my husband either.  And it is hard.

Walking away from a crying 15 month old is tough.  But I know that more than likely, he's going to see something shiny in a few a minutes and be distracted and happy again.  Having a 3 year old remind you repeatedly that leaving him makes him sad... well... that just plain sucks balls.

And I know.  I know this is good for them.  They're used to me being around ALL the time and it's good for them to get used to more time with Daddy.  It's good for them to see their parents taking care of business.  And it's good for them when we can pay our bills(ish).  It's good.  I know.

But it still sucks.  I knew being a working mom had its ups and downs.  I'm just waiting to discover the ups.  I know they're there.  I know I will find them.  But for now... oof.  This is hard, man.

(I'm preparing to receive hate mail from all the working mamas out there.  I understand.  Go ahead.)

Sleep Training Sucks Balls

I hate sleep training.

The result, I love.  A baby who can soothe himself to sleep is gift from heaven.  But listening to your child cry and keeping yourself from stopping it is excruciating.  It's awful.  

My six month old son is still not sleeping through the night.  He never sleeps more than 5 hours at a time- no matter how much he's eaten- so it's time to buckle down and commit to the sleep training once and for all.  We've half-assed it so far, but we need to make sure he can soothe himself.  I know it's ultimately better for him, but I still feel like I'm torturing him.  

We sleep trained my older son at four months and, though it sucked, it went relatively smoothly.  After a few days, he learned to put himself to sleep.  If he woke up in the middle of the night, he would fuss a bit, then soothe himself.  Done and done.  My second son has been a bit different.  Not so easy as the first one, this guy.  Luckily, he's cute as the dickens.  He's never had trouble going to sleep in the first place, but has always woken up more than I'd like and isn't able to calm himself at that point.  Normally, he'll sleep from 7pm until 10:30pm or 11pm, then nurse and go to sleep until 3am or 4am, then nurse and wake up anywhere between 6am and 7am.  Not horrendous, but it's rare that I get 4 hours of sleep in a row, and this is totally kicking my ass.  Last night he woke up 45 minutes after I put him down and would NOT be calmed.  I'm not nursing him back to sleep every 5 minutes.  It's time.  

I'm doing the good ol' Ferber method and going up every 5, then 10, then 15 minutes (and so on...), but I tend to have stubborn babies and it's not going quickly.  Yesterday, after two full hours he was still crying.  He wasn't hysterical and there was no blood-curdling screaming, but the last time I went up to pat his back, he startled and then realized I was there.  He looked at me with such relief and reached for my hand before smiling the biggest, most beautiful smile.  And then I had to leave.  And he started crying... again.  Holy guilt, Batman.  Nonetheless, his actions tell me one thing: he really just wants me there.  Many would say that there's nothing wrong with that.  I can be there, so I should be there.  But the truth is, I can't be at his side every time he stirs in his sleep.  He will continue to wake throughout the night for... oh, FOREVER, so he needs to be able to calm down on his own.  His smile last night bolsters my confidence.  He was wasn't inconsolable, wasn't feeling so miserable that he was past smiling.  He was just pissed off.  Pissed off I can handle.

Sooo... I am officially on the Sleep Training Roller Coaster.  It's a bumpy ride, folks.