Whenever I Can Fit It In

I know.

It's been more than a month since I did one of these. But, you guys, the month of May was so not my fave. First, I (stupidly, and against my will) turned 40. And that's not even the worst thing that happened last month.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

A couple of good things did happen, like both The Bud and Lady had birthdays, so now I have a five year old and a one year old. A kindergartener and a toddler. *sniff* Work had its good and not-so-good moments. Life keeps tripping by, some days, sorely trying my patience and mental fortitude.

Anyway, that's my list of excuses. What I have for you today is some musing, mingled in with some life bloopers, if you will. Enjoy.😚

• Today, I discovered that I'd been wearing one of my shirts backwards since I bought it six months ago. It fits much better the new way.

• I discovered that a lone (but powerfully effective) dingleberry--yes, it's what you think I mean--got washed and dried in a load of laundry. You know the saying, "One bad apple doesn't spoil the whole bunch,"?

One dingleberry does. It really does.

• The other day, I had the thought that if I could invent a pair of women's underwear that kept in line that tiny front butt that shows up sometime after the 2nd kid, without cutting off circulation to one's outer extremities, but that wasn't so flimsy the undies constantly roll down below said front butt, I'd be a millionaire. Then I realized I'd never get around to fleshing out the idea. No pun intended. I'd get distracted trying to inobtrusively (is it in or un??) roll my current underwear back over my tiny front butt while in line someplace inappropriate. Like Starbucks, H&M, the office, or if I'm honest with myself, anyplace outside my personal bathroom.

• I am completely over post-partum boobs. They were a novelty for a while, but now I just really need my shirts to fit.

• If the newborn is now a year old, can I still call them post-partum boobs?

• My five year old is learning how to deal gracefully with disappointment. I don't have the heart to tell him he'll still be working on that in 35 years. Seems mean.

Portrait of Valentine's Day

Disclaimer: this post contains graphic content. But, there's no need for gasping, clutching of chests, or any other such shenanigans. It's about Valentine's Day for parents of a three-year-old, for crying out loud.  Nobody is having any kind of sex, whatsoever. I hope that makes you happy.

Meany.

7:00 am: Awaken to a small mouth-breather, standing 3" from your sleeping face, demanding help to go pee (he can do it himself, he just chooses not to first thing in the morning, when it would mean the most to his exhausted parents).

7:03 am: Crawl hopefully into bed and try to go back to sleep.

7:05 am: The kid climbs into your bed, takes over your pillow, and starts an annoying dinosaur growling war in your ear. Daddy gives up and lets him take the iPad, as long as he promises to use it in his room. With the door closed.

8:35 am: Reawaken with a start, guiltily realizing that you've let your child start his day watching almost two hours of unsupervised dinosaur fight scenes on YouTube. Do not get out of bed. The damage is already done, may as well savor the relative peace for a few more minutes.

9:15 am: Daddy gets up and starts coffee. You start the chai latte you've become addicted to since you successfully convinced yourself tea was just as good as coffee to kick start a day. Turns out, it is. Make breakfast.

10:30 - 11:15 am: Field 3 temper tantrums caused by various parental infringements upon the will of a threenager.

11:20 am: Spank and time-out.

11:30 am: Bath.

12:30 pm: Mama takes (an accidental, but much appreciated) nap.

1:30 pm: Daddy puts the kid down for a nap. This one's on purpose.

[1:30 to 4:00]: Blessed peace ensues.

4:30 pm: Family Jenga. The kid wins. He cheats, but tattling is frowned upon in your house, so...

After Jenga but before dinner is a blur, really. Somebody threw several fits over pooping in the potty, resulting in soiled shorts and wiped bottoms. *shrug* Could've been any one of you.

7:00 pm: Mama and Daddy finally sit down to a lovely, home-cooked Valentine's Day meal with the soundtrack to yet another fight scene echoing romantically in the air. The kid touches none of it. He eats cereal. Mama and The Belly got a single, precious sip of Daddy's wine. (Sue me, it was delicious).

7:45 pm: Mama calls a moratorium on tantrums for the day, declaring it (early) bed time. Books, prayers, songs, and kisses see the kid down for the night.

The day ends with Mama and Daddy, huddled together for warmth and strength, watching a movie and feeling the baby kick. Each declares today the best day, ever.

And it was.

I Give Until It Hurts; It's My Cross to Bear

An old friend, who I just recently discovered is a faithful reader of this here humble blog, and who probably thought he could trust me, posted a tongue-in-cheek request for advice on my Facebook page. He’s father to two of the most adorable little people in the Midwest, which means he’s being manipulated on an hourly basis and is sinking fast under the onslaught of cute. Since I’m always looking for things to write about that take no effort on my part, I thought I’d exploit him here. Besides, he needs my help, and why am I here, if not to bring solace to those in need?

He writes:

Dear Leida (Abby),

I am the father of a child that likes to get up at five every morning for "dad payers". He will go back to sleep but then oversleeps and makes us both late. LOL... As I said, I'm exploiting him, so I choose to take this as a request for advice. You are welcome.

Dear, “P’ayers”:

Ah, yes...the pre-dawn “dad payer” sneak attack. I know it well. And I know you, too.

This little cupie doll has you wrapped around his finger, what with all the eyelashes, and bed head, and cuddles, and “p'aying.” He knows your weak spots and it looks like prayer is one of them. I can relate—my kid knows the only time I will let him play with my phone if he asks to use the Bible app on there. *shrug* #faithfulparenting. Your son knows you haven’t awakened to natural light since he figured out how to pole vault out of his crib. By the time sunlight shines through your windows, your little negotiator has worn you down with a list of inane demands, until he finally lands on one that will win you over.  You run 15 to 30 minutes behind schedule every morning because, after you finally give in and let him stay in your bed, you fall deeply asleep 20 minutes before your alarm is set to go off and sleep through the damned thing, every.single.day. And we all know there is no more satisfying slumber than that of the vanquished. It’s Stockholm Syndrome, for sure, but who cares when it feels so good?

Let’s keep it real. On your own, you don't stand a chance against him, and I can bet your wife is as susceptible to him as you are, so she’s no help. But take heart, I’m here. I’ve developed a tough, outer shell to these tactics and I’m not currently within smelling distance of your child (they smell delicious when they’re all sleep-warm, don’t they?) Ahem, anyway, I’m impervious to his charm. I might be your only hope. Follow these three, tried-and-true tips and you’ll see your way to waking up when your alarm actually goes off in the morning, again. Maybe you’ll even make it to the office in time to get a seat at the conference table for staff meeting, instead of skulking in and sitting in the back corner of the room with the Starbucks you just had to stop for. Crazier things have happened.

Anyway, here’s what I suggest. Medical disclaimer: none of this will work.

1. Kick him out of your bed. It’s not time to wake up, and he needs to respect that.

Why won’t this work? He can’t tell time. He’s been asleep for 9 hours already and is too young (read: selfish) to care that you haven’t. He’s rested; therefore it’s time to party! He also has cunning. Much like a snooze timer, he will let you nod off for 4 ½ minutes, then shock you awake with requests to go pee in the potty, to sit in his high chair and have cereal (that he won’t eat), and the holy grail, a yelp of pain that catapults you out of bed and to his side, where you discover he was actually making that noise to simulate pain in one of his stuffed animals that he was hitting in the head with a train car. This pattern he will repeat until you accept defeat and get up to join him in his pre-dawn shenanigans.

2. Give him what he wants, the first time he asks. Maybe that’ll placate him so you can go back to sleep.

Why won’t this work? You give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. If he can get milk at 5 am on the first try, his pre-frontal cortex will cattle prod the little hamster in there on its wheel (I’m sure that’s how and where decisions are made—do not doubt me), making him wonder, “what else can I get out of this guy right now?” It’s a slippery slope from there. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up giving him your room, where he will relax, in your bed with your wife, eating dry cereal on your pillow, and watching Super Why on your iPad. Meanwhile, you’ll be down the hall, trying to steal a precious few more minutes of sleep in the toddler bed in the nursery.

3. Pull him into bed with you and commence to “p’aying,” in hopes that he’ll fall asleep once you’re done, so you can sleep for another hour.

Why won’t this work? Frankly, you’ve got me stumped. From your letter, it seems you’ve had a degree of success with this tactic, if you can call being late for all the things every day, success. Some of us have not been so lucky. We’ve tried this, only to have our kids wiggle, squirm, and punch in the circle of our arms, turning what was supposed to be a sweet, Gerber-style hour of spooned sleep into torture. It’s not until we can open our eyes all the way and our sensory receptors start to register pain (by 11 am, typically) that we notice the bruises and scratches they’ve left behind. And for our stripes, did we get any more sleep? No, we did not. SO not worth it, IMO...

What’s this all about? What is it they want, you ask? I'm only speculating, but my guess is your bed or your soul. *shrug* Who knows? But there is a bright side! Accept that there’s no way you can win. He gets what he wants and an opportunity for a 2 hour nap after lunch, and you get an excuse to drink in the afternoon.

Cheers!

Parenthood: Making Humans Out of Robots Since The Beginning of Time

 

The other day (could've been yesterday or two weeks ago, I don't even care), I showed up to daycare to get my son, with no carseat. We own two, but I had neither of them. Don't worry, he's home now. I eventually got us both there (the same day, I think) with a loaner carseat from a dear friend who lived close by, and only inconvenienced 4 people in the process. Nice, low number...less than 5, so I can round down. See how I know math?

 

I used to be on top of things, I swear.

 

I was the one to count on in a crisis and to call on in a pinch. I started packing a week before a trip. I kept a daily to-do list, and actually marked all the stuff off each day. And if I was able to fit in tasks that weren't on the list? I put them on there, just so I could mark them off. I considered 5 minutes early to be on time and always planned for contingencies. Yeah, that girl: Little Miss Capable.

 

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

 

I've mentioned before that I suspect parenting teaches us way more about ourselves than about the kid(s) we're raising and I'm seeing that more and more in my own life, the further into the parenting game I get. Becoming a mom punched a big, ol' hole in my Capable persona and as much as I miss being on time places, the changes haven't been all bad.

 

I wince to admit that being so together all the time pretty much made me a smug jerk. I used to count approving glances at my Little Miss Capable antics like notches on a bedpost, secretly judging others who didn't have it quite as together as I did. I was impatient with mistakes, with missed deadlines, messes, helplessness, neediness and apologies. I swooped in to fill holes where I found them, deflecting grateful thanks with a smile and "I'm just glad I could help." Mary Poppins on an ego trip. Then, I gave birth to a squalling, 3 lb inconvenience (a story for a different day), and became the writhing mess of vulnerability I'd secretly scoffed at.

 

These days, I consider it a win if I only have to go back in the house twice to get something I forgot, if I'm late anywhere 15 minutes or less and if, when I leave the house, I remember to take the kid with me on the first try. I'm perpetually sleep deprived and everything is a mess. I have ground up Goldfish Crackers in every upholstered surface I own and dried chili on the floorboard of the backseat of my car from a spill that happened last October. My rationale for not cleaning it up when it happened? It was cold enough outside not to spoil and smell bad. Lucky for me and my future passengers, that calculated risk paid off. I've stopped apologizing for forgetting things or making mistakes. Well...that's not exactly true. I say sorry because it's rude not to, but I no longer feel bad, inside. Call me a sociopath, but I don't have enough hours in a day to beat myself up over something that happens so regularly. I've found that a blank look and a shrug covers a multitude of sins, or at least makes the other person so disgusted with me that they go away without a fight. Silence...score. Some days I'm just glad I remembered to brush my teeth and to put on underwear. Too far? After what I just admitted about saying sorry, would it mean anything to you if I apologize? M'kay. Moving on.

 

My son has turned my life upside down with his needs, his timeline, his bowel movements and his developing will. He always gets sick on weekdays. He's never in a hurry--he wants to take life in slowly, and if I don't let him, there will be blood. Probably mine. He doesn’t care that it looks bad for Mama to go to work with a peanut butter paw print on her butt--he's going in for that last hug anyway. And the pooping? I can't talk about it. 

 

He's the most adorable wrench in the works that I could've ever imagined, which helps make the bitter pill of walking around like a mental patient in mismatched shoes, much easier to swallow. It's taking being a mom to humble me enough to make me human. I'm chock-full of vulnerability and I'm getting more okay with it by the day. And the most amazing thing? People are so nice to me, including all the ones who I was a secret jerk to AND the ones I regularly inconvenience; they cut me slack for peccadilloes large and small, and they do it because they get it. They were probably human well before I joined the team, so they already know that it isn't okay to let your strength in one area leave you without grace for others who show weakness in that same area. They know that the only acceptable responses to another's vulnerability are 1) grace, 2) a hug, and 3) indiscriminate bottles of wine, as needed.

 

I'm humbled daily by all the humans who look past my shortcomings and simply lend me a hand when they can, a hug when I need it and a chance to laugh at myself and not take it all so seriously. What gifts. I'm so glad I don't have to know how to live without them. So, if you're a human, too--in training or already broken in doesn't matter--and need someplace to shake off the mistakes you make all the time(s), stop on by. I'm home, unless I forgot an ingredient I needed for tonight's dinner again, in which case I'll be back in 10 minutes. (No, I'm not sorry). Get excited; there will be wine.