Quit It

You know how sometimes, when something terrible has happened, some people say something like, "God/The Universe/Life would never give you more than you can handle," and you just kinda want to punch them in the neck?

Yeah.  That.

Except it's ME I want to punch in the neck.  Because I found myself saying that very thing... to myself.  "Self!  You can do this!  People do this all the time!  Buck up and be a woman!  None of this is more than you can handle!"

And then I got more to handle.  AND IT'S TOO MUCH TAKE IT BACK UNIVERSE I CANNOT HANDLE IT ALL.


Two weeks ago, the Big One and I got in a small car accident on our way home from preschool.  Because, as my mother-in-law so aptly put it, we needed that like a hole in the head.

It was my workday in my son's co-op preschool class, so I was enjoying some rare alone time with the Big One.  We were happily chatting about our day at school and I slowly approached this terrible uncontrolled intersection that people always speed through.  I looked, saw no one, entered the intersection, and BAM.  Got T-boned on the left side.

Thankfully, we were all okay.  It could have been way, way worse.  My kid was in the car with me.  We're all okay.

The Big One is still fine- didn't have a single sore muscle or red mark- and I could not be more grateful about that.  He didn't even cry after it happened.  Just looked at me with this mildly surprised look on his face and said, "Mommy?  Did we just get crashed?  We should call 911."  So, he learned that, apparently.

I escaped relatively unscathed, too.  Just a cervical strain and back sprain, which will hopefully be helped and healed by some prescribed massage.  We have a great insurance company (SHOUT OUT TO USAA!), so the fact that this could have sucked so much more does not escape me.  I am grateful and thankful and all of that.  I am.

However.  COME ON.  Have you ever tried to take care of a 2 year old boy and almost 4 year old boy with a jacked up neck and back?  AND A GODDAMN "WALKING" BOOT?!?

It's getting ridiculous around here.  After a week, I was just barely able to bend and pick something up without yelping.  Driving sucked.  Getting dressed sucked.  After two weeks, I'm finally able to move about almost normally, but it hurts.  Doing laundry and dishes sucks.  Lifting 30+lb kids really, really sucks.  And I have to do all of this ALL. DAY. LONG.

You guys, I did not think I could get any whinier.  BUT I CAN.

This fucking sucks big crinkly balls.  You heard me.

I've been in this damn boot for 9 weeks now.  My husband has been working his ass off creating a game at school and handling his team, so he hasn't been home much.  Even over "break" he spent much of his time working.  The kids are on fire lately- in total terrorist mode.  They're testing the boundaries and fighting the power and doing all the things that are completely developmentally appropriate, but the screaming, hitting, and ignoring me is so infuriating I can hardly contain the screeching that wants to escape my throat.  There's our usual lack of money and all the fun that comes along with that.  My mom has been ill for a while and the hope we had for recovery is waning.  And now, this accident.  And all the gazillion phone calls and emails it entails.  Plus a neck and back that only sort of work and hurt like a motherfucker.

I just.... ugh.  A week ago I was completely out of the patience and strength required for quality parenting.  I don't know if I was doing a good job before, but last week I was definitely not.  I let the kids watch way too much T.V. because I can't get on the floor to play with them and I can't intervene every 5 seconds to stop them from killing each other or destroying the house.  I was snapping at my kids and my husband left and right.  I was completely exhausted.  Exhausted from lack of rest, lack of relief, lack of resources, lack of help, lack of patience, lack of calm, lack of energy, lack of... everything, it feels like.  I feel spent.  And frustrated.  And weirdly complaisant. 

Then, I decided to do something about it.  I decided to dig down deep while my husband was around for break and we chose to focus on the positive.  To be patient even when we felt like we couldn't.  To play with the kids and give each of them special time and to be present- even though we're both exhausted.  

And you know what?  It helped.  It didn't fix everything and we're still having to work very, very hard not to get overly frustrated and focus on the negative, but it helped.  It helped enough that to feel some relief.  And maybe that's enough.

A Day in the LIfe

This was a 4 hour portion of my life the other day.  It's pretty standard, in case you're wondering. 

-Toilet clogged due to Big One and Little One locking themselves in bathroom and unrolling half the toilet paper roll into the toilet.

-Both children freshly bathed due to potty water/toilet clogging/wet toilet paper fight.  

-Mommy freshly showered due to wet toilet paper (fresh out of clogged toilet) being thrown at me.

-Bathroom rug needing to be freshly washed due to Little One squatting and peeing on it IMMEDIATELY after stepping foot out of shower. 

-All three of us freshly traumatized after all of the yelling in the past hour/day/month (that yelling coming from all 3 of us, btw).

-Beef stew cooked all day but finally made, done and delicious.  

-Beef stew cut up and carefully plated for both kids.

-Beef stew rejected by both children and thrown all over the carpet by the Little One.

-Attempts at getting both children to bed early turn into hour and a half long battle.

-Mommy trying to decide if getting freshly drunk at 8pm is cool.  Probably not.  Doing it anyway.

And You Shall Be My Twitchy

Dear Kids,

I love you boys dearly and I treasure the time I'm able to spend with you while you are so little.  Nonetheless, if you could just hurry on past these toddler years, I'd be grateful.  My eye twitch is starting to freak people out.

Love,
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.)

Hello. Welcome to the Winter of My Discontent.

When the goin' gets tough... you still have to take care of your kids.  So you go out and get a job at the mall.  Like you did 10 years ago.  Because every other option is exhausted and you have to suck up your pride, stop acting like Winona Ryder in Reality Bites and STOP WHINING ALREADY.  Gah.

Sometimes it really sucks to be the grown-up.

I'm realizing just how- righteous?  Proud?  Insistent?  Hopeful?- I've become, and taking a job at the mall is stupidly humbling to say the least.  It feels like a step backward.  It's literally something I was doing 10 years ago.  It's a 60% pay cut from my previous career as a teacher.  And it's probably ultimately good for me.  But I can't say I love the idea of it.  Not yet.

The truth is, it's probably going to be awesome once I adjust to the idea of working with former students. (No literally, I am WORKING WITH A FORMER STUDENT.)  But the thing is, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with getting a job at the mall.  Or working with a former student.  And retail can be totally bomb, yo.  I'm only pissed off because I feel like I was forced into a corner and I didn't get the jobs that I really wanted.  You know, the jobs that I'm actually completely unqualified for.  But I'm going to be working at a store that I actually really like.  I get a kick-ass discount.  I'll get to talk to other adults (!!!) about things other than poop or sleep (!!!) AND I'll get something that is all mine.  Something separate from "Mommy"... and that is something I've been craving.  And I'll probably get some new clothes out of the deal... once I get a few paychecks.

But.  But.  I can't get over the fact that I'm doing was I doing 10 years ago.  It feels... stagnant.  It feels out of place.  It feels anti-progressive.  But it's also necessary.  We're struggling.  My husband is a student at a private college and financial aid is getting harder and harder to come by.  I believe in what he's doing- what we're doing- and I believe in my choice to stay home rather than work exclusively to pay for day care.  Even if I'd never stopped teaching, we'd still be in the same position.  My salary wouldn't even have covered daycare for two little ones.  And I've always valued time with my children and my husband above money.  But.  But.  I'm tired of people telling me to deliver pizzas.  I'm tired of people thinking I'm slacking.  And I'm tired of being scared all the time.

So.  A job at the mall.

And also, as of yesterday, a job tutoring.  Which feels a little more my speed.  I'm attempting to do both for a while.  Which means I won't actually see my husband.  Ever.  We'll be communicating entirely through post-its.  Which sucks.  But... when the going gets tough... you still have to take care of your kids.  So, here goes.

IDIOTS

There is something special about parenthood that makes even the most confident among us feel like complete idiots.  That unique something: kids.

There you are, minding your own business, thinking you've got it all figured out.  You've read all the books and poured over all the research.  OR you've worked with kids your entire life.  OR you've known you were cut out for parenthood your whole life.  OR everyone has always told you you'd make a wonderful mother one day.  OR you're simply a genius who excels at everything she does.  You got this.  You're ready.  You will definitely not be the kind of mother who does that.  Or that.  Your kids will never behave that way.  You know you need to be consistent and loving and you have it ALL PLANNED OUT.

And then you have kids.

The other day, I became the mother I always swore I wouldn't become.  I had seen such things and my children would never,  ever behave that way in public.  Until they did, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

All of a sudden, I was the mother pleading with her whiny, crying toddler splayed across the floor of the Nordstrom women's bathroom TO GET UP while her 14 month old screamed and tried to claw his way out of the Ergo.  I was attempting to remain calm while negotiating with a tiny terrorist.  I was pulling on his limp arms and doing that horrible whisper growl while random women stared and smiled judgingly.  One grandmotherly woman even asked my son to pull her finger (thinking it would make him laugh I guess?) and then offered to pick my toddler up off the floor.  Yes, woman I've never met.  Man-handling my tantruming son will absolutely improve this situation.  As will teaching him fart jokes.  Thank you.

Ugh.  It was completely humiliating.  And probably an appropriate rite of passage for a formerly self-righteous-not-yet-mother who just knew she would never let that happen.  What I did not know then is that sometimes you can't stop it from happening.  I was caught completely off-guard.  We had had a lovely morning playdate and were just running into the bathroom to change an ill-timed diaper on my 14 month old.  Everything had been fine.  Then my toddler's internal lunch bell must have gone off, because he totally lost his shit for no reason at all.  And then he laid down in front of the door in the Nordstrom women's bathroom.

As I was pleading and begging and threatening and negotiating, I overheard a conversation between two new moms who were in the lounge breastfeeding.  They were discussing the horror stories they'd heard about 3 year olds (anxious glance at my son) and how they simply couldn't believe that it was really that bad (second wary glance at melty puddle of toddler getting smacked in the head by women's room door).  I managed to drag my son up off the floor, pointed down at him and said, "This is three."  And then I smiled a great big giant smile.  Good luck, ladies!

Because I knew I couldn't warn them.  They wouldn't believe me!  Not their kids.  Seriously, I don't how every single one of us marches into parenthood filled with such moronic aplomb and certainty.  Admit it: it all goes to hell as soon as the kid arrives and throws a little humanity in our best laid plans.  What's worse is that we continue to announce what we will and will not do until our kids grow up and move out.  Or until we die.  Why do we not learn?  It is impossible to anticipate how you're going to react in any given situation.  You may swear up and down that you will never, ever, ever let your baby sleep in bed with you, but then one day you haven't slept in a week and she's sleeping so peacefully on your chest and... eh.  Plans, schmans.  You might vow that you will NEVER be the parent who allows your child to cause a ruckus in a restaurant, but then you find yourself with a warm plate of delicious food sitting right in front of you (something you have not experienced in, oh, however long your child has been out of the womb) and you hand him the spoon.  Because it's not that loud and they can just deal.

Parenthood causes you to eat your words faster and more often than any other experience on the planet.  Perhaps because we are all stubborn idiots who insist we are right all the time.  The Mommy Wars need to be done, my friends.  None of us are right.  We all try to be right and we all try to do what is best for our kids.  We HAVE to believe that we are right because this shit is hard.  But believe this: you ARE going to do that thing you swore you would never do (cheddar bunnies for dinner?  sure.)... and it's all going to be okay.

My kids had a ginormous tantrum in public, and I survived.  I was that mother.  Whatever.

Those Days

You know how sometimes you look around and you're like, "Is this my life?" and then you realize, "Yes, this is my life," and then you want to crawl in a hole for 2 months?  Yeah.  That.

The past few days have been those kinds of days.  They have required the kind of heroic patience, perspective, and fortitude that I currently lack.  Shockingly, things are not going well.

Yesterday:  Nothing went smoothly.  Changing diapers, pull-ups, and clothing became epic battles.  All forms of even beloved food were rejected (and thrown onto the freshly vacuumed carpet).  Mommies were screamed at and requests were denied.  Time outs were had.  Much whining occurred.  This was the kind of day where Mama used overly loud and harsh tones with the kids because HOLY SHIT MAMA CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE... and then burst into tears in front of them.  Because then there's the guilt.  Why can't I handle this?  And then as a final infernal straw, my toddler screamed about needing water after going to bed (right after I brought him water) until he woke up his baby brother.  Who then also screamed.  And this is the one weekday my husband doesn't get home until after 10pm.  Ah yes, THAT'S why I can't handle this.

Today:  A lot more screaming and a lot of ignoring Mama.  Four time outs before 10:30 a.m.  And then there were two more before lunch.  My toddler said the words, "I don't like you," for the first time.  To his baby brother.  While said brother was gazing adoringly at him and grinning.  I worried all morning about money (or our lack thereof).  I spent lunch begging the toddler to stop sticking his hands in the bowl full of buttery corn and trying to convince the baby to eat anything resembling a vegetable.  Lost on both counts.  And then my husband called just as I was about to get everyone all dressed and ready to go pick him up (which sometimes is a blessed 30 minutes of strapped down-ed-ness) in order to tell me he needed to work late. And then I burst into tears (again) in front of my children (again) and couldn't stop for an hour.  This totally freaked my toddler out, so I had to turn on the T.V. and hide in the kitchen where the baby toddled adorably over from time to time grinning and bringing lovies and soggy cheerios in an attempt to cheer me up.

People, I am experiencing a slow, but steady panic attack.

(Hold on... don't tell me you don't have days like this.  You better have 'em, people.  YOU BETTER.  I'm holding on to that hope like a menstruating non-swimmer to a leaky, inflatable life vest in shark-infested waters.)

Pffffttt.  I don't know if this is a special brand of insanity reserved for stay-at-home parents, or a special brand of insanity reserved for me.  All I know is that I am not a fan.  NOT.

I know that every little thing is getting to me much more than it otherwise would because life is handing me flatbed upon flatbed of lemons.  AND I DON'T HAVE ANY SUGAR TO MAKE LEMONADE.  I know that eventually- if for no other reason than ODDS, for the love of all things holy- things are going to turn around and start to get better.  I know that all of this is temporary and that I have the things that really matter in life.  I have a supportive, loving husband that I adore.  I have two beautiful little boys who make me laugh every day.  I have amazing friends who are willing to listen to me bitch and support me in any way I'll let them.  But sometimes I just wish life could be a little easier.  I wish there were just a few things to worry about instead of everything.  I wish I could say one thing was going smoothly so that I could focus on the other parts that are not.  But there are too many parts and nothing is going smoothly right now.  I'm tired.

Sometimes, I wish I had some sort of escape.  Last night, the best escape I could conjure was Simpler Times and watching trashy T.V.   Tonight it will likely be more Simpler Times and a shower that lasts until the hot water runs out.

Ahhh.... simpler times.  I'd like those.

Please tell me you have days like these.

Power Struggle

First, some bad poetry by yours truly:

Once a teacher of literature,
Purveyor of words and ideas,

I now disseminate Cheerios,
Teach nose-blowing, please and thank you.

Some days I am lost
In a sea of trains and tiny socks.


While there are a great many things to love about being a mother (and I assure you, there is a lot that I do love), I have found that becoming a stay-at-home parent has created a serious power struggle within me.  And honestly, I did not expect this.

As I and many of my fellow at-home mamas stand on the precipice of sanity, I'm left wondering how it is that we- the stay-at-home parents- can maintain a sense of self.  This isn't to say that I don't have a sense of purpose.  I do.  I believe wholeheartedly in what I do.  At the risk of sounding saccharine and cliche, I will say that staying home with my children has been an absolute gift.  I know the time I've been able to spend with my children is irreplaceable and I am so thankful I've been there for the first steps, first words, and the little bumps and bruises.  Nonetheless, I can't help but think that parts of me have begun to disappear along the way.

I used to be a teacher.  I used to teach and discuss literature all day, every day.  (Or almost every day... there were, of course, the obligatory days of discussing why it is not okay to steal or to yell or to sleep through every class.  Or take your pants off in the middle of a Socratic Seminar.)  I used to create curriculum, discuss ideas and teaching strategies with colleagues, immerse myself in piles and piles of poetry.  I used to meet with friends under the guise of planning, and end up discussing the glories of Walt Whitman or the intensities Heart of Darkness.  

Now, I spend my days playing trucks and cleaning sticky little hands and faces.  I change diapers and fetch tiny pairs of underwear covered in trains or Sesame Street characters.  Instead of reading Emerson, I read Dr. Seuss.  Rather than grading papers, I do laundry and make baby food.

I'm not complaining, exactly.  I like reading Dr. Seuss.  I love getting down on the floor and playing with my boys.  I feel good about making healthy food for the kids.  I do NOT miss grading papers or the politics that are ever-present in public education.  But it's a strange transition from individual to stay-at-home mother.  An individual's decisions are based entirely on the individual.  She may take her partner into account and may even put her partner's needs ahead of hers at times, but she is still her own person.

As a stay-at-home mom (especially of children under 3), my childrens' needs always come first.  This doesn't necessarily sound significant, but it means that everything I do must ensure that the kids are taken care of first.  On the small scale, it means I can't even pee until I'm sure that both kids are safe and aren't going to climb atop a table or pull a pot down onto their heads.  Even then, one or both of them usually follows me into the bathroom.  On the large scale, it means that my needs are sometimes not met at all.  I can't sit down and write when inspiration strikes.  I can't go to yoga or sit and read with a good cup of coffee.  I can't unload the dishwasher when I want to because the baby tries to crawl inside and yank all the dishes out.  It means I can barely complete a sentence without interruption.

And again, I'm not complaining in the way that it sounds like I'm complaining.  I've chosen this life and, as frustrating as it can be, I feel good about it.  I know that despite difficulties, it's the right choice for my family and I feel lucky to be at home with my children.  I know that being a working mother has its own giant set of problems that I can't begin to understand.  I can only speak to my own experiences and for me, it is hard to feel like I'm disappearing under all this mothering.  I love identifying as a mother, but it's getting to the point where that's ALL I identify with.  Most of the time I am no longer Shannon; I am only Mommy.  And this leaves me feeling sad and confused.

Recently, I've had a few opportunities to spend quality time with some wonderful friends and some wonderful drinks sans kids.  (Thank you, Husband o' mine!)  What I find is that I revert quickly to my old self.  I am relaxed, listening intently, laughing and swearing like a sailor.  It's awesome.  This is not to say that I don't like myself as a mother, but I like other parts of myself, too.  Having a few hours of uninterrupted conversation with a friend feels so indulgent now, and I find that I crave it like mad.  I am clamoring to get out and find more opportunities to be me.  To figure out who me is now.  Not separate from Mommy, but in addition to.

And this, in great part, is why I started this blog.  I wanted to have an outlet, a way to nurture the part of me that gets buried under all the diapers and laundry and milk cups.  I still want to be Mommy- it's my most treasured role- but I think it's important that it not be my only role.

I am more than diapers, damn it.  Sometimes I can write words in a row.  Hopefully those words sometimes manage to sound nice and make sense and possibly even cause a person to think or laugh or smile in empathy.

Chaos Personified (aka: "Mommy").

Holy shit, Internet (and by "Internet" I obviously mean "Eight friends who read my blather and kindly pretend to find it interesting"... Hi Guys!!!).  Why can I not get it together?  Why can I not leave my house in under 40 minutes?  Why can I not unload the dishwasher (which was run 24 hours ago) before 10pm?  Why can I not clean up the toys scattered hither and yon throughout the house?  Why can't I do/fold the laundry fast enough for it to NOT resemble Mt. Vesuvius every 2 days?  Why can I not pull a decent meal together while both kids are awake without one beating the other one up?  Why, why, why?  (And, p.s., why can't I stop WHINING?  OR E-YELLING?)

This shit is getting out of control.  I would like to blame this often unfathomable craziness on my kids (because I'm an awesome mother like that), but it's not their fault.  I would also like to blame it on my husband (Hi Honey!!), but it's not his fault either.  All these boys in my life do their fair share o' dirtying, certainly, but I do my part, too.  And it's supposed to be my job to clean it all up.  I am the stay-at-home parent.

This is where I feel like somehow feminism has backfired on me.  What began as, "You can have it all!" turned into, "If you don't have it all, you are an utter failure."  And p.s. look awesome and keep the house clean and cook nutritious, delicious food while reading Tolstoy and writing that brief for your client in Norway.  I am a failure (at life and at properly encapsulating feminism.... damn it!).  I realize this is not technically true (if what my peeps tell me is actually correct) nor a logical thought to have.  Nonetheless,  I feel like a failure a shockingly large portion of the time.

I know this is reality a lot of stay-at-home parents struggle with.  There's no way to actually do it all and maintain your sanity or stamina.  One can certainly keep the house clean, the laundry done, and make breakfast, lunch and dinner daily... but that requires plopping one's children in front of the T.V. and/or ignoring them for the majority of the day.  One can also take the children out on exciting playdates, spend quality time playing on the floor with each child, and maintain a healthy nap schedule... but that means that one's house quickly begins to look like an episode of Hoarders.  Toys are spread in an even foot-severing layer across the entire floor, dishes accumulate on the counters and in the sink, and laundry piles begin to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  So we have to choose: parenting, or housekeeping.

You'd think this would be an easy choice.  Kids should always trump dishes, yes?  DUH.  But eventually, I start to look around and the messiness in the house starts to make me insane.  And then I start to feel like I'm not doing my job, because my job is to take care of the entire homefront, right?  No, actually.  This is where we get it wrong, peeps.  My job is to take care of the children and do what's best for them.  I am not a housewife or homemaker- I actively reject that title for a reason.  I am a stay-at-home-PARENT.  My priority is my children.  If I were working a paying job outside the home, I would expect my partner to pull his weight and help with household duties.  Though my job is unpaid and happens to occur inside the home, I don't really feel like this should change things.  Perhaps I am delusional, but thankfully I have a partner who is willing to pitch in.

When he's here, that is.  When he's not here... well, therein lies the rub.  Try as I might, I still cannot find a way to do it all.  I'd like to (especially as I prepare to- hopefully- take on a little side job), but I just can't figure it out.  Maybe it's just me.  There are people out there who appear to have it all: their houses are always clean, the TV is never on, their kids are always happy and well dressed with healthy snacks filling their go-bags, and inexplicably, they look put together and seem to thoroughly enjoy life.  I don't know how those people do it.  It seems impossible to me.

So... I like to think that those people have a big ole Monica Gellar-style closet.  A closet full of the mess that would otherwise occupy their homes and minds.  It's filled to the brim with dirty dishes, blocks, broken crayons and half-used Swiffers.  It smells of two weeks worth of dirty diapers and sour milk and sweat stained clothes.  There are Cheerios plastering the floor.  Attached to the inside of the door is a giant hidden flat screen with Finding Nemo playing on a 24 hour loop.  And the reason she can keep that smile plastered to her face despite her three children under 4?  She keeps several flasks of vodka strapped to her body at all times.  SEVERAL.

Fun with Toddlers and Neighbors!!!

Subtitle: The post wherein I rant endlessly and show that I may well have anger issues.  My apologies.


Quoth Daddy while speaking to my toddler: "We're going to take a shower because your balls smell, and Mama needs a break."

So true, Daddy.  So true.

2011 ended with a bang.  November and December were doozies.  El Toddler is on fire lately and is testing every last nerve remaining in my body.  I hear a lot of, "NOOOOO!!!!" and there is a lot of smacking and laying atop the baby by said toddler.  I don't know if this is just your standard "terrible twos" or if it's a special brand of awesomeness that my boy has concocted in response to the obvious stress around these parts, but it sure is swell.  I can't tell you the joy I reap from having my oldest son tell me he doesn't like me and then watching him throw his cup right at his baby brother's head.  It's just pure delight.  The screams my toddler now produces on a stupidly regular basis have also taught my baby how to scream.  He now thinks that is how to communicate.  So it's a bit of a scream-off around here.  It is awesomefuckingtasticness.

In addition to kid fun, I have the downstairs neighbor from hell.  Living in an apartment with children is not ideal by any standards, but it many cases, it is simply a necessity.  We have to live here right now because we can't afford to live anywhere else.  We have to make it work.  When we were first moving in (as in, the FIRST TIME WE SET FOOT IN THE APARTMENT), we were measuring for cribs and, out the window, saw a little man looking up into the room from the 2nd floor hallway, shaking his first.  That's right folks, shaking his fist.  Is he ninety years old?  Nope.  Just a dick.  We decided to be the bigger people and went downstairs to greet him and apologize for the noise we were apparently making.  (Actually, I wanted to go down and yell at him for being an asshole, but my husband rightly pointed out that this would not be the way to begin a friendly, neighborly relationship.  Whatever.)  So, knowing we would be living in a building with a persnickety downstairs neighbor, we taught our toddler how to do "sneaky feet" and "walk like a bird."  We have also taught him that he is not to jump, run, throw, or bounce in our home.  Is this reasonable to expect from a two and half year old?  Not at all.  Is it likely that it will be at all successful?  Nope, but we're trying like hell anyway because it's the nice thing to do.  We spend all day every day reminding our poor toddler to use quiet feet and walk gently.  Nonetheless, he sometimes runs for 5 seconds, or falls, or pounds a toy 4 times before we can stop him.  Obviously, my son is clearly trying to ruin this man's life.

After living here a little over a month, Mr. Persnickety came up to pound on our door 10 minutes after we got home from the grocery store.  My toddler had banged a toy on the floor a couple times, so he came up to complain and request -I kid you not- that we teach our child to be quiet.  Um... seriously?!?  First off, we have been falling all over ourselves trying to teach a TODDLER to be as quiet as humanly possible already.  It's unbelievably unfair to expect him to completely alter himself, his nature as a child, and his playing in order to please a pissy little neighbor man, but we are asking him to do so all the same.  Secondly, we had been home for TEN MINUTES.  Ten.  Really?  Dude, you live in a building and in buildings, you share walls.  Not sure you're aware of this concept.  Shockingly, when you share walls with people, you hear them.  Whaa?!?  Yup, that's right folks, you're gonna hear your neighbors when you live in a building.  GROUND-BREAKING INFORMATION.  Meanwhile, we hear this same persnickety motherfucker playing his electric guitar EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.  Sometimes we can hear what he's playing along to.  (In-a-Godda-Davita, anyone?)  We hear our upstairs neighbor pumping house music at 6a.m. every single morning.  We also hear her penchant for moving furniture around.  At our last place, we heard our neighbors hammering in an inexplicable number of nails for pictures and doing what I can only guess was carpentry indoors at the weirdest hours.  Have we ever gone to yell at any of them?  No.  Why?  Because we CHOSE to live in a building where we shared walls.  Because we are somewhat reasonable human beings.  Because we are aware of reality.

Thankfully, my husband answered the door when Mr. Persnickety came a-callin', or he would have gotten an earful of the above from me.  IN ALL CAPS.  My husband told him that he was sorry for the pounding and that we had already been working on being quiet with our TWO AND A HALF YEAR OLD CHILD and that we would continue to do so.  My husband was kind.  I would have bitch-slapped that sonofabitch.  Actually, I probably would have burst into tears, because that's what I do when I'm mad, but then I would have yelled at him... while crying.  Which is not particularly effective, FYI, but I can't help it.

Anyhoo

All of this happened about a month ago and in the meantime, we have been attempting to live our lives normally.  We are still reminding our toddler not to stomp across the floors and trying to keep him from doing the laps that all toddlers do from time to time, but sometimes it's a losing battle.  During those times, we're trying to remember that we are not doing anything wrong.  We have fallen all over ourselves trying to keep our neighbor happy and be as quiet as possible and he still complains.  So, fine.  We won't trouble ourselves anymore.

He called again a few nights ago because- god forbid- it was 3 days after Christmas and our kids were still filled with yule.  We had a friend over and our toddler was having a blast.  He wanted to dance for a moment and (gasp!) I didn't stop him.  It was 7:15pm.  Within minutes of said dancing, our phone rang.  At first we didn't answer because we had a friend over and weren't sure we wanted to pursue the inevitable drama, but my husband decided to call him back and have at it.  Persnickety claimed that there was a ton of stomping going on for an extended period of time and it "felt like living in a bass drum."  This, apparently, was getting in the way of his nap.  A nap.  At 7:15pm.  Not even joking.  I would like to make his head into a bass drum.  My husband proceeded (very kindly) to tell him that we are constantly, constantly, CONSTANTLY trying to be quiet and bend our lives to fit his ridiculous requirements (i.e. total fucking silence at all times), but that we cannot actually physically strap the children (or ourselves) down 24 hours a day.  He responded by saying that "perhaps this isn't the right building for children."  Wow. Really?  First of all, restricting children from living here would actually be totally illegal, you douche-bag, so that's kind of a moot point, don'tcha think?  Secondly, is he seriously attempting to bully us out of our home?  As though we would actually turn around and say, "OMG!  You're totally right!  We should move immediately!"  What was that comment supposed to accomplish?  Am I aware that half of the building is full of older couples with grown (or no) children?  Yes.  Are there play structures scattered across the grounds?  No.  Does that mean that we have no right to live here?  NO, it does not.  Trust me, we will fly out of here like 4 little jet planes as soon as humanly possible, but that little fact is due to YOU ALONE, SIR.  Ugh.

Anyway, my husband told him in all kinds of ways and all kinds of tones that he was being ridiculous and that we needed to behave in a neighborly fashion.  That we hear our neighbors (including him and his goddamn guitar) all the time, but that we don't run whining to their doors.  He backed down, but I know we'll hear from him again.  We always do.

I cannot wait to live in a house where my children and I can run and jump and have dance parties and generally enjoy our lives without wincing every time the phone rings.  And I cannot wait to see who moves in here next.  I hope they have triplet toddlers.  And mastiffs.

May 2012 be a shinier, happier year and may it bring all of you the love and laughter you deserve.  With less bitching from that persnickety fucker downstairs.  (And less whining from me.)  Yeesh.

Mother of the Year

So, what did you do today?  Oh, nothing much.  Just locked my baby in the car.

I'm sorry, what?  What was that?  Did you just say you locked your baby- as in a teeny, tiny helpless human- in the car?  Yep.  Yep, I did.  I locked my baby in the car today... and not on purpose either.  That's right kids, MOTHER OF THE YEAR, RIGHT HERE.

Technically speaking, my toddler locked my baby in the car today, but it was my fault for leaving a feral toddler in the vicinity of a button and a door and for doing so without first pocketing my keys.  Ironically, my toddler was "helping."  You know how helpful toddlers can be.  Eh em.  I jacked up my hand a week ago (see previous post) and my toddler has started to shut doors for me.  To help.  He also really likes to press buttons and has ninja-like speed, so he somehow pressed the button that locks all the doors without me noticing or hearing.  Whether or not he intended to lock his little brother in the car... well, that's actually pretty likely, but I'm not sure he's that premeditated yet.

So once I realized my keys- and my baby- were locked in the car and I had no way to get them out, I entered panic mode. I ran over like a crazy person to the first person I saw in the garage with me- a freakishly kind man who was working on the garage door- and asked him if he knew how to get into a locked car because "OH MY GOD MY BABY IS LOCKED IN MY CAR."  Now, if that's not the way to immediately gain respect for your mothering skills, I just don't know what is.  He looked at me all astounded and, let's be honest, a little freaked out and said, "Um... I'm just working on the garage door.  I don't know how to break into a car."  You incompetent, idiot mother.  Then a neighbor from my building came in the garage and saw me quivering with panic and helplessness.  He asked what was going on and again I had to say, "My baby is locked in my car."  With the keys.  And my phone.  And pretty much anything else that might prove helpful at this particular juncture.  Aren't you impressed with me right now?

He also gave me a startled and slightly horrified look (because seriously, what kind of mother am I?!?!) and then asked if I'd tried to slim jim the car yet.  I said no, but when my husband tried that, he left giant dents all over the driver's side door, so I was guessing that wasn't going to work.  The garage door man asked if I had someone I could call.  I said I could call my husband, but he was in class and probably didn't have his phone on.  My neighbor handed me his phone and I tried calling him.  I was correct- no answer.  Then I said I could try to call my insurance company to send out a tow truck, but I didn't have my phone or my insurance card with the number.  Garage Door Man called his company and had them look up the number for my insurance company.  Then he lent me his phone to call.  (Did I mention these people were really, really kind?)  My neighbor ran to get tools and I began to officially Lose. My. Shit.  I started crying while calling the insurance company.  They said they would dispatch someone right away, but it would take 20-30 minutes for them to get to me.  That seemed like an awfully long time to just stand around while my BABY WAS LOCKED IN THE CAR.  Jesus Christ.  I looked at my neighbor and Garage Door Man.  "Is that too long?  What do I do?"  They suggested I call the police.  So I did.  And I cried again like a big ol' baby while telling yet another person that my baby was locked in my car and I could do nothing at all to help him.  They told me that they could send a police officer, but that they would be able to do nothing for me but hang out with me until the tow truck got there.  Or they could break the window.  Seriously?  No other options?  Sure, send someone out to look at me like a dumbass while I wait for someone else to come and look at me look a dumbass (but at least the latter would be freeing my baby while judging me).

So then another neighbor entered the garage and saw me crying next to Garage Door Man while the first neighbor was trying to break into to my car.  Naturally, he was curious.  So asked what was going on.  And for the fifth time I got to say it.  Baby.  Car.  Locked.  Bad Mother.

Perhaps it was just the fear in my face or the giant tears rolling down my cheeks while my thoroughly confused (but suddenly beautifully behaved) toddler gawked at me, but the second neighbor also offered help.  He went outside to wait for the police and/or tow truck while I stood next to my locked car with the first neighbor trying to break in to free my baby.  The baby who, I'd like to point out, was now happily sleeping.

The first neighbor kept me calm by chatting with me and pointing out how nonplussed the baby was by all of this.  It helped, but I still felt like a total shit.  One last minute shopping trip before Thanksgiving gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Eventually, the tow guy showed up and, with the help of one amazing little airbag device (that I'd now like to purchase and keep in one of those magnetic hide-a-key thingies under the car with a GODDAMNED SPARE KEY), he opened my car door in about a minute and a half.  And there lay my baby completely conked out and oblivious to the drama occurring over the last hour.  I thanked the tow guy profusely and said, "Please tell me you get a lot of these calls."  He grinned at me and admitted he gets at least one "help me get my kid out of my locked car" call a day.  Bad mothers UNITE!

So all ended well as Garage Door Man and my two neighbors looked at me, heads cocked to the side in pity and amusement at my idiocy, while I signed paperwork saying that yes, I did just lock my baby in the car.  Awesomeness.  I thanked everyone profusely for their help and grabbed my baby, my toddler and my groceries, leaving my parental pride in a puddle next to open car door.  One of my neighbors grinned at me and said, "Let's get you upstairs," and led the way to the elevator.  He stopped at the door, turned to me and said, "Got your keys?"

Yes.  Yes I do.  I intend to sew them to my navel.  Next to my "Gold Medal Mother" tattoo.

Sharing a Room: Part Two

Which is worse: No sleep, or lots and lots of crying?

HA!!!  That's a trick question!!  The two can't be separated.  They are tied together in a hideous tango of pain.  If the kids don't sleep, there is lots and lots of crying.  If I try to make them sleep, there is lots and lots of crying.  LOTS AND LOTS OF CRYING.  No matter what.  Sometimes, it's me crying and wishing I was sleeping.

(Dear god, make them sleep!)

I'm trying to hold on dearly to the promise that "they" made me.  "They" say that the kids will adjust.  "They" say that the kids will learn to sleep together without waking each other up.  "They" say the novelty of sharing a room will wear off.  "They" say that this will work.

Will "they" please come over and make my children go to sleep?  Because I can't seem to do it for the life of me.  I've put them to bed separately.  I've put them to bed early.  I've run them ragged with exciting playdates and put them to bed late and exhausted.  I've begged.  I've pleaded.  I've sticker charted.  I've bribed.  I've guilted.  I've stared.  I've gone in every 30 seconds and laid them both back down and told them in no uncertain terms that it is TIME TO SLEEP.

But there is no sleeping.

If a napless day was the only problem, I could deal.  I could handle losing that precious, precious hour and a half in the middle of the day when I can answer my emails and eat a warm meal and watch trashy TV and pee in peace.  But naplessness leads to other problems.  It is the gateway drug to naughty and cranky.  A day without naps means a day filled with time outs, temper tantrums, and crying.  So. Much. Crying.

This embargo on sleep is causing me to lose my ever-loving mind.  I am stress eating Reese's peanut butter cups.  I am contemplating drinking starting at 10:30 a.m.  I am wondering if I will ever get to experience a day when my toddler doesn't yell in my face and I don't want to hide in the closet and my infant isn't hysterical because all of us are SO exhausted.

"They" are on my shit list.  I think "they" must be the same ones that said parenthood is easy.  The ones who make people think that being a full time parent is all baking and zoo trips and lattes and spinning circles in the park while the children happily skip to bed singing, "I love my Mommy!!"

Those days do exist, thank god, but they seem to be few and far between these days.  So until my days look like a scene out of Sesame Street, "they" better get their asses over here and put my kids to sleep.  And bring me a latte.

Universe: 742; Me: 0

Clearly I have done something bad.  Very, very bad.  The Universe does not like me very much right now, and its wrath is wreaking havoc on my life.  So, I'm doing my best to make up with it.  I'm sending it flowers.  Telling it how nice it looks in those new pants.  Offering to walk its dog when it has to stay late at work.
Alas, none of this is working.  It's STILL pissed off at me.  I've tried everything else, so now it's time to grovel.  I'm talking no pride, on your knees, begging for forgiveness here.  Whatever it takes.  Here goes:

Dear Universe,
I am sorry.  I know I have upset you/broken your heart/slept with your boyfriend/borrowed and ruined your favorite boots/hurt your feelings/pissed you off and I am sorry.  So, so incredibly sorry.  You have no idea.  I understand that you are angry.  You don't hide it well.  But I'd like us to make up now.  Let's take a walk and discuss it over a latte.
Universe, I am so sorry that I upset you.  I never meant to do it.  I have only had the best of intentions, but apparently I got lost along the way.  I hurt you, and that was wrong.  So wrong.  Universe, I want you to know that I care about you and I know that you were right.  I was wrong.  Do you hear me?  I. WAS. WRONG.
I'm ready to change my ways and I'm really hoping you'll forgive me.  I'm not perfect, Universe, and I don't pretend to be.  I just want us to be the way we were.  I want us to be able to spend the day by the water, enjoying the day unfolding before us.  I want to share a doughnut with you.  I just want us to be happy again.  And Universe, I know you want that, too.  You may not know it, may even believe that you're enjoying watching me fumble around, but deep down we both know that you're not that heartless.  Not even when you're this angry.
I understand that you wanted to me to pay for the way I made you feel.  I get that, and I've felt it.  I have felt sad, felt low, felt hopeless, felt like an idiot.  You win.  I am humbled.
So, Universe, I stand here before you, humbly asking if please, pretty please, could you please, please, please forgive me?  Can we play nice?  Can't we all just get along?
I'll totally pick up your mail and water your plants for you next time you're out of town.
Are we okay?
Hoping for reconciliation...
Love,
Me

The Bitch is Back

Ever have one of those days (eh em... weeks) when you KNOW you're being a raging bitch, but you can't seem to stop?  Yeah.  I'm having one of those.

Life is kicking my ass a bit and apparently, my response is to ruin the lives of the people around me (read: my husband).  Oh, the irony.  The Universe is mean to me, so I'm mean to the one person who loves and supports me no matter what.  Interesting choice, lady.

I have strange methods of coping with stress in my life, though I'm only recently starting to notice them.  My first response is to sit on my ass and brood.  Generally speaking, this doesn't get me very far.  Shocking, I know.  After that, I clean the kitchen.  Why?  I have no idea.  I'd like to trace it back to my childhood when my biggest problems- like not being able to go out with my friends- were generally solved by a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, but that isn't particularly logical now.  I no longer live with my parents, so I can't be grounded, and my problems are now significantly more complex.  A full dishwasher and clean counters will not solve anything, but somehow I feel more in control when I've scrubbed grout.  When that doesn't eliminate my stress (which it almost never does), I pretend like everything is fine to almost everyone, though I'm a fairly horrific liar, and then I take my anger out on my husband.  Because, as we all know, the fact that he has put the glass in the sink instead of the dishwasher IS THE REASON FOR ALL SUFFERING.

Oh wait, no it's not.  That's just me being mean and irrational.  Shit.

Anyway, I'm hoping by writing this and admitting that I know I'm being intolerable, I can find the strength to KNOCK IT OFF.  Jesus.

Honey, this is me saying, "Um, sorry I'm being a total bitch.  I don't really mean to, but I can't seem to quit it.  I'll work on that."

No really, I will.  Swear.  Seriously.