Armageddon Days Are Here Again

Oh god.  My two year old is climbing out his crib.  A lot.  I can't keep him in it.  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

This is the end.  My only friend, the end.
There will be no more sleep in my house.  Naps might be done.  And they still need naps!  I STILL NEED NAPS.  It's going to be all exhaustion and crankiness and edge all the time up in this joint.  Oh, god.

For the past couple of days, we have spent every naptime and every bedtime putting the Little One back in his bed every 2 minutes.  Last night, we did this for 3 HOURS.  And then I woke up at 3:45am to a tiny person standing next to my bed staring at me.  It was terrifying.  I put him back in his crib with strict "NO CLIMB!" instructions.  At 7:15am, he was back.  With trains.

Then, at naptime the next day I put the child back in his bed 25 times- TWENTY FIVE TIMES- before I finally gave up because around put-back 23 I'd switched him from his pack n'play to his crib and he fell and cried the 25th time he climbed out.

This sucks.

If I can convince the Little One to stay in his crib (and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to convince him to stay in his crib), there may be a couple months of hope remaining.  Hopefully just long enough for us to move out of our current place and into one with separate rooms for each kid.

But if I can't (and it really seems like I can't... I've already counted his actual crib out what with the falling and all)... I'm going to have to switch him to a toddler bed.  Which means I'll have to switch the Big One to a toddler bed.  Because they share a room and the Big One will not have that kind of injustice.  Which means that the magical cages... I mean CRIBS, I've managed to keep my boys in will be no longer.

(And to those of you saying, "OMG!  You still have your 4 year old in a crib?!?!"  I say, YES.  YES, I DO.  AND IT HAS BEEN AWESOME.)

What will happen when I switch a 4 year old and a 2 year old to toddler beds simultaneously?

I can only assume the Apocalypse will begin.

So... start gathering canned goods, people.  This shit is going down soon, and it is not going to be pleasant.

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.

Clarification

Dear Little One,

I feel there are a few things I need to clarify with you.  Please listen closely:

* Making something fly through the air does not make it a ball.  Please stop saying, "Ball!" and then throwing things.
         Example: That little metal truck you just hucked across the table?  Not a ball.  The bit of sandwich you called a ball and then threw at lunch?  Also not a ball.

* Screeching like a psychotic monkey will not get you what you want.
        Example: When I go to change your diaper and you twist and scream that horrid scream and throw things (which are still not balls), I still have to change your diaper.  I win.

* Calling it a button does not mean you have to push it over and over and over again.
         Example: Your bits are your bits, so... I'm not trying to be bossy and I definitely want you to enjoy... things... but we do have to get things done and... there's a time and place for....  We'll talk about this when you're older.  Nevermind.

* Trying to twist out of my arms while I'm carrying you somewhere you don't want to go isn't going to hurt anyone but you.
        Example: All of the times you do this.  Quit doing this.

* Refusing to eat will not make me suddenly decide to feed you nothing but cookies and milk.
         Example: See the part about only hurting yourself.  And the part about me winning.

* While that mischievous grin of yours is killer and makes me smile every. single. time... it does not give you free reign for naughtiness.
        Example: Flashing that smile at me before you pitch your breakfast or smash the metal car into the wooden table does not excuse it.  You're still in trouble.  So just stop.  Oh, stop.  Yeah, it's cute- stop.  Ohmygod, I totally love you.



And, actually, while we're at it....

Dear Big One,

You clearly need some clarification on a few things as well.  Listen up, big fella.

* Repeating something a quadrabillion times in a progressively more irritating voice is not likely to make it happen.
       Example: Hollering from your bed at nap time, "Mommy, I need the door a little bit closed!" (meaning open) over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

*Just because you say, "Excuse me," doesn't necessarily mean you're excused.  Hollering over your parents as we're attempting to talk in the five seconds we have to figure out dinner is not going to help anyone.  And yelling, "Excuse me," kinda cancels out the polite, there buddy.  See previous bullet.  And just hold on a second.

*Nap time really isn't for you.  It's for me.  So it's not optional.  You do not have to sleep, but you do have to stay in your room without yelling for a full hour at least.  (Note: that does not mean you get to start yelling after the first hour.  I merely require one hour for sanity.  More will benefit all of us.)
        Example: Today when I put you down for nap, you solemnly swore that you would lie down and stay quiet.  As soon as I left the room you bounced up and down and yelled my name for 17 different things that would mean I needed to come to the room and/or get you out of bed.  "I have to pee!"  "I have to poop!"  "I need a drink!"  "What was that sound?!?"  "I need my hippo!" (which is now across the room where I threw it so you'd have to come and retrieve it.)  "I'm hungry!"  "Can I read a book?"  "I miss you."   All of that is infuriating.  Please quit it.

*Saying you "need a break" right after you've done something that you know has earned you a time out will not get you out of time out.  Nice try though.
         Example: The other day when you pushed your brother over out of nowhere and then ran as fast as your legs would carry you to the corner of the kitchen yelling, "I need a break!!!"  Nope.  Still get a time out.

*Cracking up in the middle of your tantrum, while simultaneously amusing and exasperating, will still not get you out of whatever I'm asking you to do.
          Example: Yesterday when I asked you to go potty and get your shoes on before we had to leave to pick up Daddy, and you screamed and yelled and threw yourself to the ground... and then started laughing like a little lunatic... you still had to go potty and get your shoes on.  I believe this falls under the "I win" category.  But that transition directly into mania from fury was pretty impressive, Squishman.

*Being gentle and kind and loving with your brother will always get you 4,271 points with Daddy and me.  And your brother.  Keep it up.
         Example: Today, when we got home from dropping Daddy off at school, you very sweetly and gently helped your brother take off his jacket and shoes.  Of your own accord.  It was amazing.  I love you.

The Secret to Potty Training

I have it.  Are you ready?  Are you ready for this revolutionary information?  READY?!?!?!

Here it is:  Your kid will be potty trained when s/he is good and damn ready.  The end.

I know.  Shit, fuck, goddamnit, that's what all the other books and doctors and Google were saying.  I THOUGHT YOU WERE DIFFERENT!!!!

Well, friend, so did I.  Until I had kids of my own.  And tried to potty train them.  And they had other plans.  And it turns out some of my friends' kids had other plans, too.  And then I went, "Well, shit.  This is not going at all as planned.  It's as though these little bastards have minds of their own!"

And they do.  They so, so do.  And, while you'd think that they wouldn't have such rock solid control over their bodily functions and how not to use them, they so, so do.

And so... potty training doesn't always go like you thought it would.  Sometimes it does!!!  (And to those people, I say congratulations!  And pppppffftttttppt.)  But very often it doesn't.  And then we, the parents, feel like giant failures who have failed our kids and failed ourselves and fail, fail, fail.
(Oh.  You don't feel that way?  Well, then you are remarkably reasonable.  Congratulations.  I FAILED.)


There are a billion and one methods and a billion and one philosophies and all of them work.  On the right kid at the right time.  You can pick and choose whatever you like.  Best of luck to ya.  But, apart from the actual potty training method itself, there are a great many other parts to this equation.  And we can not leave these out.

Here are the top 4:

#1. Parents.
Parents can be trained.  Parents can be trained really, really well.  Parents can be trained to take their kid to the potty every 30 minutes, or to begin putting their child on the potty at 6 months, or to recognize that look and rush them to the toilet in the middle of chopping raw chicken.  Or to precisely follow the directions in any potty training book on the planet.  And all of that is super great and awesome and uber-effective.  Except that training ourselves doesn't equal a trained child who can recognize the need to go and then go in the toilet.  Eventually it might!  But probably not right away.  So, if you're willing to be in for the long haul and be trained yourself first, do it.  All of these methods will absolutely work.  On the right kid.  At the right time.

#2. Kids.
Hey, did you know these things came with such wildly different needs and personalities?  Did you know they reached milestones in such different ways and on different time lines?  Did you know that, sometimes, they can CONTROL when they meet these milestones?  Like, they're in charge?  THEY'RE IN CHARGE?!?  We're all fucked.

#3. Fear.
Some kids are actually frightened to go to the bathroom in the potty.  Some kids feel ownership over what they "created" and are bummed about flushing it away.  Some kids don't want to stop being babies, and potty training is a clear sign o' the end of that road.  Some kids have painful poop and are frightened of the actual act of pooping... and trying to do it in a new place in a new way is just too much.  

#4. Health/Genetics/Diet.
Sometimes other things come into play.  Some kids take a little longer to recognize the actual feeling of having to go to the bathroom.  Some kids have health issues, like constipation.  Some kids diets are weird because they refuse to eat anything that grew from the ground, or will only eat white food, or hate whole grains.  The genetics and health and diet of the child play a HUGE role in potty training and all of these things can hold it up a good, long time.  Be prepared for this.  And try not to be too pissed off about it.

There's a lot that goes into this.  It's kind of a miracle anyone ever gets potty trained, actually.


Anyhoo, none of this is to say that you have to wait until they saunter up to you one day and say, in perfectly clear English, "Pardon me, Parent Dear, but I do believe I'm prepared to utilize the toilet at this juncture.  Please pass Anna Karenina. "  Cause if you're still willing to change your kid's diaper and wipe his or her butt, that day might never come.  Your kid ain't dumb, friend.  S/he knows that kind of personal service won't roll around again for a good 70 years.

Listen, if your child is developmentally ready and you are mentally prepared to take on this mighty adventure we call Potty Training, then by all means, get 'er done!  Pick your method and run with it!  It'll totally work!!!  (IF your kid is ready.)



I know.  This was no help at all.  I'm sorry.  You had high hopes.  We all did.  I failed.  AGAIN.

Look.  Here's the thing.  I jest and make fun and laugh and act all apocalyptic about potty training because potty training can be one of the most confusing, frustrating, embarrassing experiences of parenthood.  Or it can be super easy and awesome and exciting.  YOU NEVER KNOW.  Because, hey!  Guess what?!?

The kid will go when the kid is ready to go.  The end.

****

Best of luck to those beginning this Potty Journey.  Don't stop believin'.

And hang in there, comrades in Potty Hell.  We will all be done changing nasty, dumptastic diapers one day.  One day soon.  And our houses will no longer smell like feces.  Damn it.

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.

The Goblin King.. er, Queen?

You know those days when your two kids feel like 64 goblins?

Yeah.  That.

We have been awake for all of two hours and the Little One has already tried to chop his fingers off with the box fan, electrocute himself by removing an outlet cover, cover the house (and himself) in both my Rosebud Salve and cream blush, and has participated in a 20 minute cry-a-thon.

This combined with the fact that my children have decided to listen to me never has made me feel a lot like David Bowie's character in Labyrinth.  (Oh, I'm sorry, is my nerd showing?)

Perhaps this should be my solution:

Well... laugh.

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.)

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.

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