The Sick Post & Still More Things They Say

This isn't a real post.  This is me being overwhelmed and, therefore, WAY behind on everything.  Hi! How ya doin'?

The past month has been one long sick-fest in this house.  (Hence the month-long break in any sort of posting or writing 'round here.)  The Big One caught a nasty case of 90-year-old-emphysema-hack at preschool, and then he brought it home.  And he shared.  He shared with all of us.  So kind to share.

So then the Little One caught it, and it turned quickly into croup.  Goddamn, croup is the worst.  It's terrifying and sad and means that the croupy kid gets zero sleep.  Which means that one or both parents get zero sleep.  Which usually means that one or both parents get the thing that started the croup.  Which is exactly what happened.  Sonofabitch.

Thankfully, this round of croup only lasted about three days, but the hack and runny nose and generally shittyness lasted well beyond that.  All told, we were stuck at home because of one kid or another for two weeks.  TWO WEEKS.  Have you ever been stuck in house with two sick kids and a sick you for two godawful weeks?  Let me give you some ground-breaking information: It sucks.

We watched so much PBS Kids and Sprout and Disney Jr. that I thought all of our brains were going to explode.  Even the KIDS got tired of T.V.  That does not happen.  There was water, and tea and juice and soup and no one wanted any of it.  There were blankets and kleenex and snot smears on everything.  And whining.  So. Much. Whining.  The kids were whiny, too.

And then, just when everyone started to get better and feel human again, the Big One got nauseous on the swings during a park date with his dad, and puked all over the car.  And you know what sucks even more than two weeks of house arrest?  Puke in a car.  And trying to get puke OUT of a car.  It's no small feat, my friends.  Booster seat covers- not washable.  Actual seats in the car?  Spot clean, only.  Seat belts?  IMPOSSIBLE TO CLEAN.  Even the end-all, be-all of puke cleaning- the MAGICAL Nature's Miracle (no seriously, it is amazing, and they didn't even pay me to say that)- couldn't get the puke smell out of the seat belt.  That little bugger got soaked 3 times AND wiped down with soap and water AND got a good Febreezing... and it still smells a bit vomity.

If you teach your children nothing else, teach them to vomit AWAY from the seat belt.

Or, better yet, teach them to TELL YOU when they're going to vomit.

But you guys, in spite of all those bodily fluids and all the whining and the general ick, something amazing happened.  Some good came out of this darkness.

And here it is: The Little One learned to use his Coughing Corner.  It's a whole new world, people.

*      *      *

And here are some cute things my kids are saying lately:

Little One
-fweet = sweet
-pupcakes = cupcakes
-fweeszers = scissors
-schrank = drink

While eating a salami sandwich: "Lawmi!  Deeeeewishus!"

Big One
- mackin = napkin

-Explaining digestion: "When you eat something, if it's too hot, you spit it out.  If it's too cold, you spit it out.  If it's just right, you swallow it and it goes down your mouth, into your froat, and into your belly.  Then it goes around your belly, to your pooper section."

Your pooper section.  The more you know, people!

Sometimes, There is Good

Oh, hi!!!  How are you?!?  I know.  It's been a while.  We really need to do this more often.



This week has sucked.  The kids have been sick with fevers and coughing and have been exhausted human barnacles.  And now we're on to the aftermath of the sick which involves all of the whining, but none of the reasoning.  It sucks and I'm drained and it sucks.  But rather than talking about the suck (the whining... SO MUCH WHINING), I'm going to talk about something else.  Because I've had enough of the suck for today.

Instead, I'm going to talk about some things I've noticed lately.  Good things.  Silly things.  Things that make me smile.  Because really, those are the things I'll remember (and want to remember) in the long run.  So here they are. Some things that don't suck.

- The other day I told the Big One that I used to love to eat frozen peas when I was a kid.  He looked intrigued, so I gave him some in his school lunch.  He ate every last frozen pea.  I gave them to him again today, and the grown-up at his table at preschool raised his eyebrows and said, "Frozen peas, huh?"  And he smiled and said, "Yup!"  And I smiled, because, yup.  That's my guy.

- Kid perspective is awesome.  It is only after having kids that you get to hear things like this:
Big One - "Sometimes? Beans look like they're barfing."

- I noticed a little while ago that the Little One says, "Okay" in a very specific, adorable way.  I realized about a week ago that he says it just like me when I'm trying to comfort them.  I realized yesterday that I say it (and, therefore, the Little One says it) exactly like my grandmother says it.  I love it so much more now.

- Parenthood makes you realize weird things about yourself.  For example, I have learned that when I am pissed off or anxious, I clean the kitchen.  Why?  Dunno.  It makes me feel less anxious, certainly, but I think it also gives me an outlet for my anger.  (So many pots to bang around and stubborn counter stains to scrub at!!)  I just saved myself $500 in therapy!  Good job, me!

-Also, the sun came out (in May!  In Seattle!) and these things happened.  And they were good.

 Kid yoga is awesome.  We are stars.

 I am not as angry at the juice pouch as I look.

As you can see here, I am part vampire.

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.

Here I Go Again

What's that?  What's that, you say?  The title of this post is the same as a Whitesnake song?  IT IS?!?  Well, thank god.  I have so much in common with Whitesnake.

Anyhoo...

I dropped off the face of the earth there for a second.  Whoops!  Caught the edge though, so all is well in SquishyLand.

I got sick.  And I took on a big new job at the Big One's preschool.  And I'm looking for an actual paying job again.  (Did I ever mention that the part-time super awesome great paying tutoring gig that I loved got killed?  It did.  A state educational waiver killed it.  And my super awesome great paying job that I loved.  Dead.  Gone.  Damn it.)  And also I have two small boys who ALWAYS NEED SOMETHING RIGHT NOW GIVE IT TO ME NOW.  So, that stuff kept me busy.  I'm back, though.  Hi!

So, the getting sick part.  That part is lame.  Like super lame.  Like extra super double lame.  Know why?  Because parents are not allowed to get sick.  More specifically (and sexist-ly), MAMAS are not allowed to get sick.  Because there is no rest for the weary mama.  There is a little more rest for the weary dada because they usually come down with a man-cold, which can only be survived in the following fashion:

Poor little bunnies.

Anyway, babies and laundry and dishes and meals and toddlers who NEED everything all the time do not stop because you feel like crap.  In fact, sometimes they like to ramp it up when you're sick, just to be little assholes.

I'm mostly all better (apart from the periodic disconcerting hack of a 90 year old smoker), but I was sick off and on for a couple of weeks.  And it was annoying.  I was not dying.  I was not in need of a doctor.  I was not even sick enough to warrant much of a change in our daily routine.  But I was sick.  And it was hard.

5 Reasons It Sucks to Be Sick When You're a Parent:

1. Kids don't get "Mama can't __________."  Especially two kids under four.  They don't even get, "Please be more patient with me" or "Please give me extra time to do stuff" or "Ow."  They only know that they still want that damn quesadilla and they want it NOW.  Snap to it, MOM.  (Hack, hack.)

2. Kids don't have sympathy.  At all.  At least, little kids my kids' age don't.  They have curiosity (Mom?  Are you okay?  No?  Huh.  Get me that toy from up there and make me a sammich and scratch my back.  NOW).  They have observations (Mommy?  Do you feel icky?  You do?  Huh.  Make me some noodles).  They will have sympathy eventually, of course, but at the ripe old age of three and a half and 21 months, they got nothin'.

3. Kids don't stop.  Ever.  Like, EVER.  They are go, go, go from before sun-up to after sun-down.  You can't rest as a parent because there is no pause in the constant motion of kidness in which you can rest.  So... you just gotta try to keep up.  While feeling like ass.  And making a sammich.

4. Getting better requires sleep.  Sleep requires that your children sleep.  I don't know about yours, but my children don't sleep enough.  So I don't sleep enough.  The end.  Enter 3 week long cold.

5. When you start to feel even slightly the tiniest bit better, it is expected that you catch up on all the stuff you couldn't do because you were hacking and snotty and exhausted.  Suddenly your only slightly better self is faced with mountains of dirty dishes and laundry and food that needs to be cooked before it goes bad.  Also, errands, phone calls and emails you didn't have the energy to complete.  Plus, KIDS!  WITH ENERGY!  WHO NEED A SAMMICH!

Being sick sucks.  Being sick with little kids sucks extra hard.  Maybe when they're in elementary school I'll teach them how to make mama some soup and bring me tissue.  Or maybe I'll just teach them to play quietly in the other room and leave me alone for a full 30 minutes.  That sounds nice.



P.S. Total random sidenote: I'm going to be changing the name of this here blog soon.  Squishy will remain, but the reference to the line in the Disney/Pixar film will not.  Because I am not that person.  And I fear I am misleading the lovely people who adore Finding Nemo, but do not enjoy it when I say fuckballs.  I'm caring like that.  Also... I'm a tad worried that if more than 10 people start reading this, I might get sued.  So, there's that.

P.P.S. Please don't sue me.

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.

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.

Premature Teenaging

My toddler appears to be experiencing what I can only describe as premature teenaging.  It's weird and unpleasant.  And also a tiny bit funny.

He now regularly asks me to stop singing, stop dancing, or stop doing anything else that might be, like, TOTALLY embarrassing.  OMG, Mom.  He's getting smelly.  I constantly think about a friend telling me about a house she visited inhabited by two teenage boys.  Her one comment: "It smelled like balls and feet."  (Oh my god.  MY house is going to smell like balls and feet!)  Recently, when I ask him what he wants to eat, he says, "I don't know.  Just get me somefin."  Um, really?  And he's started trying to call me Mom instead of Mommy.  As in, "Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  MOM!"  "Mom" wears pleated khakis and has that weird, frizzy, mid-length, triangle bob.  I AM NOT MOM.  It feels bossy and premature and I hate it.

How did this happen?  He's not even three yet.  Do all toddlers go through this?

Or wait... does this mean he's getting it out of his system before junior high?  Cause that would be AWESOME.

Morning Parenting

I have come to the conclusion that my parenting before coffee is sub par at best.  I am not a morning person, and attempting to even speak is sometimes taxing the first hour I'm awake.  Handling two cranky, hungry children the second I exit the warmth of my bed at 6:30am makes me want to burst into flames.

And yes, I know, 6:30am is significantly later than many children wake up.  I know many of you are up at 5am every single day.  I used to get up at 5am and it's a hideous, ungodly hour.  I know it could be worse.  But as previously established, I'm a whiny little bitch.  And this morning hustle pisses me off.

I've had this problem for as long as I can remember.  As a teenager, I used to sit in the corner on the kitchen floor nursing my silent contempt for the world while my dad made coffee.  My mom avoided me altogether.  No one spoke to me or looked me directly in the eye.  When the coffee was ready, my dad would hand a cup down to me- without speaking- and I would sit and drink.  Once I'd finished, I could face humans (kind of).  My freshman year in high school, I completely ruined a friendship because my friend of 4 years who generously gave me a ride to school every morning was incredibly bubbly in the morning.  She wanted to talk... a lot.  So my solution was to be a super-duper bitch until I stopped talking to her at all.  Brilliant plan, no?

I'm telling you, morning time before coffee is my kryptonite.

So now it comes to bite me in the ass again.  Kids are morning people.  They enjoy getting up early and demanding breakfast.  They want to run and jump and play LOUDLY at 6:30am.  They want me IMMEDIATELY upon opening their eyes.  All I want to do is sit in the corner of the kitchen floor until I finish my coffee, but now I don't even have time to make my coffee until they have breakfast in front of them.

I get up, pee if I'm lucky (and the piercing screams haven't started yet), get one kid out of bed, get the other kid out of bed, get the big one on the potty and into underwear (which are usually buried at the bottom of the basket of laundry I CANNOT SEEM TO FOLD), then get the little one into a new diaper.  Then we enter the kitchen and I plop the little one on the floor where he beelines for the drawer o' kid dishes and proceeds, for the 80 billionth time, to pull everything out onto the floor (where I trip on it).  The big one starts asking to watch TV and continues to ask every 5 seconds until breakfast is ready.  I begin to make the oatmeal the big one loves while he whines that he doesn't want "opameal" and then step on a tiny plastic fork.  I get milk cups out for both kids and the little one chugs half, then immediately starts to slam his on the floor until I take it away.  The big one returns to ask for TV again and proclaims, again, that he doesn't want "opameal."  The oatmeal is ready so I portion it out, then put the two little bowls in the freezer to cool off.  At this point, I attempt coffee making while trying to herd both kids over to the table where I can strap them down.  Bibs, cups, "opameal" and oh-my-god why can't all of this happen at a more reasonable hour?!?

Yes, it has been pointed out to me that I could get one of those fancy-schmancy coffee makers with a timer so that I can wake up to pre-fab coffee.  Or that I could get up before the little darlings so I could caffeinate myself and be a reasonable human being when they get up.  And those are both probably good ideas.

But then how could I WHINE like this?

Morning parenting blows.

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.

Oh. My. God.

Dear Whiniest Child On The Planet,
In the name of all things holy, PLEASE.  STOP.  WHINING.  You and your brother did not sleep last night and, frankly, I can't take it.  So please stop.  If you don't want the tofu, don't eat the tofu.  Simple.  But please stop asking for it, then pushing it away, then crying for it, and then pushing it away again.  Ditto for the Cheerios.  Make a decision and stick to it.  Please.  I realize this is difficult for a two year old.  I know I am asking a lot of you.  But please, PLEASE just be calm and decisive today.  And quit whining.

Or at least take a very long nap.
Love,
Your Mama

Leaving On a Jet Plane

Oh. Dear. God.  In one hour, I am leaving on my first plane trip since having two kids.  I know this is not a big deal.  I know lots of people do this all the time.  I know I need to calm the hell down.  It's a straight-through flight and my husband will be with me.  Nonetheless, this trip terrifies me to the depths of my very soul.

Perhaps I'm frightened because the last time we were on a plane, my oldest son was 15 months and spent the majority of the flight hopping up and down on my husband's and my toes and hollering because we wouldn't let him run free.  This behavior was wildly unusual for him then.  Not so much now.  Perhaps I'm frightened because now he's two and he regularly hollers and hops up and down when he doesn't get his way.  Perhaps I'm frightened because our plane leaves at bedtime and we have to attempt to feed the toddler and the infant, then get them to sleep, only to wake them up when our flight lands at midnight.  Perhaps I'm frightened because my toddler- despite his toddlerness- is relatively easygoing.  My infant is not.  I fear him on this flight.  Perhaps I'm frightened because we will be driving a minimum of two hours every day of this trip.  Perhaps I'm frightened because I know neither child will get to nap or eat on their regular schedule.  We will be at the mercy of schedules and visits and people who don't remember what it's like to have two small children.  Perhaps I'm frightened because I know that all of this is a recipe for HELL.

Yup.  That's it.

I'll keep my fingers crossed and remember that if lots of people do this all the time, it can't be that bad.  Though I must say, I'm not optimistic.  Luckily, I'll be with my in-laws, so I can totally be myself and express any frustration I might have.  Oh... wait...