Tag Archives: children

I Suck More Than You Do

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I imagine that the relationships between other mothers and their young (toddler-preschooler) children remain pretty consistently good. Sure there are challenges along the way, but the actual relationship is warm, loving, supportive, not-strained. For some reason, my relationship with L has never been like this. We go through periods where we get along OK, but inevitably every few months we end up back to butting heads over everything.

This is all a surprise to me. I fully expected to need to work on my relationship with my husband, that my relationships with friends would go through ebbs and flows, that my relationships with my siblings and parents would change over time, that my relationships with my kids as they progressed through the teen years into adulthood would have challenges and need extra work. But I never imagined that my biggest struggle would be my relationship with a 4-year-old. What does this say about me?

This is the stuff that’s supposed to just come naturally, right? I’m the mom, therefore my feelings towards my son should involve things like overwhelming love, an overwhelming desire to support him, help him learn and grow, overwhelming wonderment, blah, blah, blah. He’s the child so his feelings towards me should involve things like love, thinking I’m kind of a superhero, thinking I’m the best thing since sliced bread, (despite his overwhelming desire to push boundaries,) etc. I don’t expect a nearly 5-year-old and his mom to never have disagreements, but I would expect the relationship to be straightforward. Ours is not. None of this comes naturally to me. This is all a reflection of my ineptitude. I feel like he is not a child I can parent properly. I am always irritated with him just being him. That can’t be how a mom is supposed to feel.

My “dislike” of all things L isn’t a one way street. He clearly dislikes all things mom too. He always has. He has always worshiped T and somewhat tolerated me. His first sentence was “No Mommy, Daddy!” He used to cry when it was me who came into his room to fetch him from his crib in the morning. And it was me every damn day. He’d throw his toys at me and tell me to go away that he wanted Daddy. Seriously. This started around 10 months of age. Not cool. This preference was supposed to be a phase, but it hasn’t changed one bit.

None of this is right. None of it is how it’s supposed to be. Since he’s the kid, clearly I’m the one doing something wrong. This isn’t a parenting issue that can be solved with trying a new discipline or parenting technique from a book, this is a basic thing that should be natural that I’ve got all wrong. And it’s highlighted daily by the fact that he has a sister who adores me (as she rightly should!) and who I properly adore right back. Even when she’s doing her 2-year-old gig, I “get” her in a way I’ve never gotten L.

I do not want my son to grow up with the constant message that he’s annoying me. But he is annoying me. This whole post makes me sounds like a monster. And I feel like a monster for thinking and feeling this stuff. I feel like it can’t be right. I must be missing some part of me that would make me a good mom for him. I’m hoping there are others out there feeling this! I hope there are others who went through this and now have a wonderful 20-something son to show for it. I just don’t want to ruin this child and I feel like I am.

Family Quality Time, or, Why I Have a Headache

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I’ve had many of rude awakenings on this whole motherhood journey. Most of my lovely images and excited anticipation have been bashed with the hammer of reality. One of these mega-disappointments has been cooking with my kids. I imagined flour smears across cherubic faces, giggles, a few stray egg shells and a bit of a mess but all worth it for the quality family time. Nice image, right? Reality involves much more pushing, crying, illegal knife wielding, disinterest, fingers in noses, and whining to make any of it worth it. Nevertheless, sometimes it’s Saturday. Saturdays are loooooooooong days that need filling. This Saturday’s project: pick a recipe, buy ingredients, cook, eat.

The kids’ interest waned long before any ingredients reached our kitchen. And yet we persevered. Once again, I snapped photos which capture what the experience should be because I know that one day my memory will falter just like everyone’s does. I can show these photos to my future daughter-in-law and prove that I really did treasure every moment. Bwa-ha-ha-ha!

My kids are not 6 feet tall. They are standing on a wooden bench.

See S in the corner there? She’s screaming. Nothing is fair. Those shallots in the pan? Burning.

Now I’m holding S. She’s hitting me. And screaming. I wanted L to keep his hat on for the pictures. He threw a fit. “I don’t even care what you want! You don’t even matter anyway!” WTF? Oh well, look how cute the photo is!

S was just beyond miserable by this point. So we offered to turn on the TV for her. L thought that wasn’t fair. He wanted to watch TV. He no longer gave a flying chef’s hat about the sauce. TV! TV! TV! So, in order to have him come back and finish the final steps, which involved a blender for goodness sake, poor S had to just suck it up and cry more.

So, we did it. The kid made tomato sauce that came out great. There was yelling done by all four members of the family. Tears from two. Some wine consumed. A couple of promises of “never again!” got thrown out, and a couple of assurances of “I don’t even care!” thrown right back. When L got overly fresh over dinner T reminded him that I had just done this super nice thing with him. L’s response? “Who cares? Mommy didn’t even do anything. I cooked dinner.” Ah, quality family time on a Saturday afternoon.

 

 

 

 

S-isms Solved

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OK, so here’s the answer key. There were a lot of creative answers and a couple of you got some right. Everyone was stumped by the first and last ones though.

Me eek keys in the boo-koo-montney?

“Me eat cheese in the supermarket?” Can’t go to the market without stopping by the deli for a slice of cheese. Luckily, even if I’m not buying cheese the folks at the deli counter are always willing to give S a slice. Try to get the girl to eat a slice of cheese at home? She’ll have none of it.

Me want more bup in my cup!

“Me want more milk in my cup!” Bup has always been her word for milk. I tried to teach her to say it correctly by having her copy me saying “mmmmm” and then “mmmmm-milk.” But she says “mmmmmm-bup.” Oh well.

Me all done beeking!

“Me all done sleeping!” Naturally, beeking = sleeping. She shouts this over and over again when she wakes up.

(singing) Cakey car ish kittniss!

This one is S singing along to the radio, and I had the pleasure of hearing it for the entire length of a song, and most of the rest of the day. “Taking care of business!” You would have known it if you heard it because girl’s got rhythm.

This was fun. I might add S-isms as a regular feature along with my WTF Tapas. What do you think?

Why 24 Hours Feels Like 30, and Still Isn’t Enough Time

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Here’s the thing about motherhood that I didn’t fully appreciate until at least several months into it (ie: when it was waaaaay too late): it never, ever, ever ends. I mean, of course I knew that, but I didn’t know it. Let’s take last Friday afternoon as an example:

I’m home with just S as L is in school. I get a bunch of things done early in the day and plan on folding 4 loads of laundry and watching my DVR’d episode of Parenthood while she naps. But she doesn’t nap. By 2:30 I knew she wasn’t going to nap but up until that point she just hadn’t napped yet. Therefore, instead of giving up on it and doing anything else, I spent 2 solid hours going upstairs every 10,15, 20 minutes to bring her to the potty, find her lovey, give her a beloved book, rub her back, sing one last song, tell her that she just has to lie there and shut her mouth for long enough to fall asleep…. By the end of it I was exhausted and she was as wide awake as ever. But grumpy. (You and me both, Kid.)

This is when I’d like a break please. No dice.

Instead, I put on my extra-good-mommy-hat and bundle her up in snowpants, boots, hat and gloves – each item met with absolute refusal on her behalf – and take her out to play in the snow. She has a great time, except when snow got in her glove (47 times), when her hat got itchy (18 times), when she fell down (88 times), and each time she was told that if she absolutely had to eat it, to please eat the snow off the lawn and not off the driveway (122 times – seriously, why not go for the fresh white stuff instead of the brown, driven-over crap?). Finally, she had a complaint I just couldn’t fix for her – she wanted to sit in the snow but the snow was cold on her “gushie” (sic). But she wanted to sit in the snow. But it was cold on her gushie. But she wanted to sit… (It’s like she took lessons on How To Be a 2-Year-Old.) So we came back inside where she did not want to take off her boots or snowpants or all the other stuff that she had not wanted to put on just 20 minutes earlier. (She apparently aced those lessons.)

This is where I’d really like to insert a break. Again, no dice. Instead, right after taking off all that stuff, I need to put some of it back on so we can go out and pick up L. Naturally, S falls asleep in the car only to be awoken when we arrive back home. And now she’s pissed. She’s perfected the underfoot cry attack. This is staying just out of sight, but right in your way so that no matter how you move you bump into her and knock her down, which will propel her into a fit of hysterical crying which is simultaneously pathetic and totally annoying. She does this primarily while I’m cooking dinner in a hurry. Her favorite time for the underfoot cry attack is when I’m carrying a pot full of boiling water and pasta to the sink.

Naturally, the food I put down, which I prepared within 10 minutes of arriving home, does not meet my children’s standards. They just don’t want chicken, broccoli and spaghetti - their favorite things. No, you can’t have dessert. Break time? Nope.

Bed time.

Stop running around and let me brush your teeth.
Stop squirming and let me put your PJs on.
Stop jumping on the bed if you want a story.
Lights out.
Lights out.
Seriously, lights out.
Potty? OK.
Now lights out.
I said lights out.
I already hugged you.
I kissed you too.
Is there a fire? Then you should be back in bed.
Lights out.

Break time? Not exactly. I finally “get to” fold the 4 loads of laundry I did earlier today. Then fall into bed exhausted. It all starts again bright an early, if not intermittently overnight.

See, there is no break. No calling in sick. No vacation time, personal days, or long weekends. Your job is right outside your bedroom door; it’s trying to get into your lap while you are on the toilet; it’s touching you with sticky hands no matter what kind of mood you’re in. This is the never-ending part. I just wanted to sit down and relax so many times that day and it just wasn’t in the cards. Even this recap of my day skips over a million other little needs that I tended to every minute. No matter how much effort I put into one moment, it doesn’t buy me any kind of break the next moment. There is no time off, no end date.

Today? I kind of want to call in sick.

 

Marital Bliss, Except at Bedtime

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I’m struggling with something that I imagine is pretty common, especially for couples where one partner is a stay-at-home parent. So, I want to put it out there and hear what you all do to keep your marriages copacetic. Here’s the scenario:

I’ve been home all day with the kids, or even part of the day with some of the kids if it’s a school day. I’ve made dinner, gotten them fed, lived through the first half of the witching hour (which, in my house, is actually 2 hours – from 5-7,) and then my husband comes home at 6ish. The kids get all wild and wound up to see him and immediately start acting like jack-holes. I’m DONE. I need to walk away from these small people. T also feels like he is done. He’s tired from a long day at work. He’s hungry. He doesn’t think that it’s fair for me to just pass the kids off to him when he walks in the door.

Our kids go to bed early. By 6:30 S is asking to go to bed, and L just gets wilder and wilder the longer he stays up so we try to put him down around 7-7:30. That doesn’t leave any time for T to come home, get some unwind time, and then face the kids. Basically, he walks in, gets to eat if he’s lucky, and then it’s bedtime routine time.

We just can’t agree on this. What do you do? I imagine that this scenario plays out in millions of homes every night. We both end up feeling frustrated, under-appreciated, and aggravated.

 

If You Were Good, I Wouldn’t Be Mad

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Lately my temper has been a little short. Like, for the last 35 years or so. I come from a long line of short-tempered people. It’s in the genes and I’ve passed those genes on, unfortunately, to both of my children. When I tell you that we are all borderline crazy, you should believe me.

I’ve been known to blow a gasket if T doesn’t hear whatever random thing I just mumbled. An innocuous “what?” or “sorry?” can send me over the edge if I’m feeling stressed. Luckily, I only feel stressed when I’m awake. I try to balance this particular personality characteristic with lots of charm and humor, but sometimes I know the scales tip the wrong way and T deserves some sort of official recognition for surviving (so far) his marriage to me.

L’s temper isn’t news to anyone. His is a hair-trigger, tripped by the tiniest perceived infraction. Just last night he flew into a rage because he didn’t like the shrimp he already put in his mouth and I didn’t jump right up and get him a paper towel to spit it into when he yelled, “GET ME A PAPER TOWEL RIGHT NOW!!!” The kid had a whole fit and then a time out, and then surprised me when he still had the shrimp in his mouth. Seriously, it was maybe 7 minutes of storing half-chewed, unpleasant shrimp in his cheek. (The shrimp thing has nothing really to do with his temper, but c’mon! 7 minutes of shrimp in his mouth? If nothing else, the kid doesn’t give in easily. He eventually got his paper towel from me.)

And then there’s little S, my darling daughter. She is so sweet, affectionate, and adorable that the temper is always a bit of a surprise to other people. But it’s there! “No, you can’t play with the stapler,” is met with screaming, throwing stuff, hitting, and huge pathetic tears. She’s only 2, so her ability to think rationally, listen rationally, do anything at all rationally is a big fat naught. When she gets pissed, which she does a lot, she gets physically violent. “Me hit L!” She’ll walk up to him with her arm cocked and ready to deploy her worst. Generally, the hitting doesn’t hurt him, so she pulls hair. Poor L *usually* doesn’t hit back but just cries for help and cowers while she has two handfuls of his hair, laughing maniacally. I’ve tried pulling her hair back, to show her that it hurts, but she knows it hurts. That’s why she’s doing it.

A WTF family outing goes something like this:

  • I get flustered and mad getting everything ready;
  • T points out that I’m mad for a fun family outing;
  • I calm down;
  • I ask L to go potty before we leave;
  • he throws a tantrum completely out of scope with a simple potty request – you’d think I asked him to amputate his leg for me;
  • 20 minutes go by while L throws his fit;
  • I get SUPER pissed and scream at him;
  • he pees;
  • we load into the car;
  • S demands a particular song;
  • we say no because if we hear If You’re Happy and You Know it one more time we will drive ourselves straight into a lake;
  • she then throws her lovey and pacifier and screams for their return;
  • they’re returned;
  • she throws them and screams again;
  • repeat last 2 steps several times;
  • I get pissed and yell at her;
  • L gets pissed at me for yelling at his sister;
  • T finally gets pissed because everyone is pissed.

You totally want to come hang out with my family, right?

This cycle is completely destructive, stupid, unnecessary and all my fault. I’m aware of that. I know that I am the one who has to change first, blah, blah, blah. I really do know it. And I try. But The Mad always comes back. It might creep up, or it might jump out of nowhere, but it always finds me.

Every night I promise tomorrow will be better. Every day I break that promise.

It’s just that these people are so damned annoying!

Really? You’re going to throw a fit because I’m asking you to pee as we’re on our way out the door to go to happy-child-run-and-play-and-toys-and-candy-and-funfunfun-land?

And you? You’re going to cry because I took the blender away that you got out of the cabinet and set up and PLUGGED IN during the 1.5 minutes I was in the bathroom?

And what about you? Are you seriously asking me what’s taking me so long while you’re standing there after putting on your own coat but I’m breaking a sweat because I’ve wrestled 2 unwilling children into shoes, coats, hats and gloves and I still haven’t had a chance to pee since I woke up this morning??

Sigh. Is there any hope? Will we ever have an actually fun family outing?

 

WTF Tapas

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On the way home from school:

L: I know where babies come from. ______ told me at school.

me: Oh yeah? Where?*

L: From the hostibal! [sic]

*For the record, I have discussed this with him and explained where babies come from. Well, sort of. 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

At breakfast, L talking to S:

L: Remember when Santa came? Wasn’t that awesome? I just love that guy.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Conversation I have with S daily:

S: Happy, Mommy?

me: Yeah, S, I’m happy.

S: Me too am happy.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Stalling at bedtime:

L: Mommy, can you please give Daddy a message?

me: Sure, what do you want me to tell him?

L: Ask him if this weekend we can go on a, something that begins with ba-ba-B. Do you know what it is?

me: A bike ride? Might be too cold.

L: Not a bike ride! A bacation!

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

In the car, over and over and over again:

S: Oooh-oooh-haa-haa. Me owaka. Me bye keys.

me: What? Are you a monkey?

S: Yeah! Me bye keys!

me: You need my keys? You want to buy keys?

S: (clearly frustrated) Oooh-oooh-haa-haa! Me owaka! ME BYE KEYS!

Trust me, this conversation goes on for a long, long time until finally,

me: I’m really sorry, S, I don’t know what you’re saying.

She cries like I’ve slammed her fingers in a door. We pick up L from school.

me: Say to L what you keep saying to me.

S: Oooh-oooh-haa-haa. Me owaka. Me bye keys.

L: (clearly thinking I’m an idiot) She said, ooh-ooh-aaah-aaah because she’s pretending to be a monkey. She wants to get out of the car and climb trees.

Obviously.
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Proud to be a Bigot

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Today I was called a bigot, closed-minded, and prejudiced. I don’t think I’m any of these things, and I actually think the person slinging the insults in this case is the one with the problem. But, nevertheless, it got me thinking. There is a person out there, whether she’s certifiable or not, who hates me. Or, if hate is the wrong word, who feels strongly enough about my inadequacies as a person to take the time to tell me all about it. In writing.

I’m not really that upset over the strange hateful email I received, more bewildered by it than anything. In truth, I didn’t take the time to read the email, which required several scrolls to reach the end – an eloquent “sucks to be you” sign off. In skimming it I saw it had something to do with her being a church-going person, a majority opinion-holder, and a believer that gay people are deficient, “malformed,” and not great parents because of the unnatural ideas they’d influence their children with.

Are you saying WTF? I know, right?

The truth is, I am prejudiced. I don’t know this woman. Never met her, have no idea what her life is like, but I don’t like her one bit. I’m closed-minded. I don’t want to hear any more of what she has to say because I think she’s wrong. I am a bigot. I am completely intolerant of her ideas. So much so that I won’t read her email or respond to it. She can rest assured that she’s right in her assertions of my character.

I am a closed-minded, prejudiced bigot. 

She also called me a coward. That one I’m not sure about, but she could be right. After all, I am afraid of people like her. I’m afraid of their influence in society, politics, and on fragile individuals on the receiving end of their message.

But I’m not afraid to stand up and say:

  • I think every person deserves the right to love whom they choose;
  • A family is about love and caring and not about who has which organs;
  • Frankly, as long as everyone involved is a consenting adult I don’t really care what your sexual preferences and predilections are.

I’m not afraid of gay people influencing my children. However, I am afraid of anyone who takes the time and energy to write a hateful email to some random blogger influencing my children.

I am lucky enough to live in a time and place where I am generally not the recipient of other people’s hate or ignorance. At a different time I would have been persecuted for being Jewish, kept down for being a woman; hell, at the right time and place I’d probably be burned for being a witch! There are millions of people out there who don’t have my luck, who are living in a time where a person’s sexuality is for some reason important to other people. We can all look back on segregation, women’s suffrage, and various ethnic and religious persecutions and see how obviously, insanely, staggeringly wrong it all was. Of course women should vote, blacks and whites should go to school together, we shouldn’t collect people of certain ethnic backgrounds into cattle cars. That’s all CRAZY! There will be a time when disparate rights between hetero and homosexuals will be among the list of past, obvious, ill-conceived ideas.

Until then, I’m surprised to find myself proud to be a cowardly, prejudiced, closed-minded bigot. I hope my children grow up surrounded by bigots just like me and become bigoted citizens. I hope they find a partner to share a life with. I hope they have families of their own. (So I can sit back and laugh as they get what they truly deserve!) I hope that for your kids too. And I hope none of them ever feel lesser-than, or are ever told they are somehow defected because of who they are or who they love.

So, are you a bigot like me?

The Trick to Keeping Resolutions

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I don’t like New Year’s resolutions. It feels contrived and because it feels that way, for me, they don’t stick. Will this be the year I organize all my closets, keep my house consistently tidy, lose weight, stick to a tighter budget, enjoy my family more, watch less TV, eat more veggies and change in a million other tiny ways to make me better? Probably not. Will this year be just like last year in that I will try to reform in a number of ways throughout the year with mixed success? Probably.

Last year I tried to be a nicer mommy. I tried to be a stricter mommy. I tried to be a more playful mommy. I tried to be a more mindful mommy. In the end the change happened to the kids and I basically stayed the same. I cleared out some closets and then let them turn into cluttered messes again. I decluttered and donated about 200 metric tons of stuff only to turn around and find that I had somehow accumulated 300 metric tons of new stuff. I cut back on my use of “damn” and increased my use of “shit;” cut back on “asshole” and increased in “douchebag.”

The truth is that I am who I am. I consider myself a fairly self-aware individual and I’m forever striving to be a better version of myself (in my head) while I sit on the couch in my PJs. I will never opt for a wheat-grass protein smoothie over a cup of coffee or glass of wine. It is not in the cards. Likewise, I will never say that kale chips are totally a satisfying replacement for potato chips. People, it’s baked kale for chrissakes!

The real deal resolution that I will make is that I will try to do more good than harm in 2012. I will try to have more fun times than aggravating times with my family. I will try to have more homemade meals than plates full of nugget shaped objects. I will try to make more good, healthful choices than spoonfuls of Nutella choices. This is the kind of resolution I can get behind because built right into it is forgiveness and leniency. I know that I’m still me and a spoonful of Nutella here and there is just gonna happen. But carrots and apples will happen too and it’s all going to be OK.

Who’s with me? Let’s quit trying to make promises to ourselves that we can’t keep, only to end up feeling let down. The problem isn’t with us, it’s with the promises in the first place. Keep it small. Keep it in perspective. And before you know it, 2013 will arrive and you’ll look around and say, “Wow, that closet might be slightly cleaner than it was last year!” Then you can sit back in your PJs with your spoon of Nutella and feel good about yourself. Doesn’t that sound nice?

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Up All Night

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If you’ve never suffered from insomnia, you may not be able to completely relate to this. We all feel stressed at times, but the stress that keeps a person awake during the dark, cold, lonely hours of the night are like everything scary in the dark – scarier. For me it’s a chicken and egg thing. I’m not sure if I’m awake for some reason so my mind wanders to my worst fears, or if my worst fears are keeping me awake. Either way, it’s psychological and physical torture. We all know what it’s like to have a sleepless night. Fill that night with waking nightmares, where you play out every fear that lurks in the recesses of your mind, and by morning you’d confess to witchcraft to make it stop.

So what keeps me up at night? Last night it was waking up to find S actually died from her inability to breathe properly in her sleep due to her horrible chest congestion. This was a good one that my twisted imagination could really sink its teeth into. I walked myself through how it would unfold in the morning: 8AM, she’s still not up. I go in to wake her because I have to get L to school. I find the unthinkable. Then what? Scream and cry. What to do with L? How to I call T? How do I manage to speak to the receptionist in his office and ask for him? Do I call 911? What’s the point? Do I call my mom? My neighbor to come help me? Do I have to actually tell every person I know? How would everyone find out? Do I have my sister make the calls? Who comes and takes her body away? How could I ever let them take her? Would my marriage fall apart from grief and blame? Would we have another baby?

Sounds fun right?

Another worry that kept me up last night is not nearly as morbid, thankfully, but is much more real. What takes 28 hours one way and 27 the way back? That would be our upcoming trip to New Zealand to visit family. Thoughts of the flights and layovers would keep me up at night without kids, but doing it with the kids? Holy terror! I made mental lists of all the stuff I’d have to have crammed into my carry-on. Managing the security line, getting all our stuff, our shoes, all the crap from T’s pockets, while keeping the kids in arm’s reach and getting out of the way of the next passengers, while not losing the passports, tickets, kids, the tons and tons of crap I’ll need to keep them occupied… The 4.5 hour layover in San Francisco… Taking the kids to the in-flight bathrooms… Dealing with fits and crying while stuck in a tube 40,000 feet up with hundreds of other people for flights that range from 2-14 hours… Dealing with the jet lag, how tired T and I will be, and how miserable the kids will be… Arriving at my mother-in-law’s house with two bratty, crying messes… Spending 3 full weeks in strange places where I don’t have the kind of control I have at home… EARTHQUAKES… Can I rent carseats there? Can we find a crib to borrow? Will my kids be gracious and accepting of the differences or stubborn and resistant? Will I manage the shift from morning coffee to all day tea? Is all of this worth it since my kids won’t remember it? Will I be able to keep up my daughter-in-law demeanor while dealing with all of this stress and jet lag? EARTHQUAKES!

So, that’s what I did last night. What keeps you up at night?