Tag Archives: mommy

Suspiciously Good

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12

L has been good. Too good. I’m getting lulled into a sense of peace and harmony – that I am a normal mom and can just take my kid anywhere and have a normal-to-good time. This is a trap. It must be. There is no way a person can change so dramatically so quickly, right? Then again, he’s only 3. Is he sophisticated and cunning enough to pull off a farce like this? To behave so well that we let our guards down? Is it the Santa effect?

OK, I’m mostly kidding. I don’t really think that L has an elaborate scheme. I’m mostly sure that he’s not devising a plan, waiting for me to lower my guard and raise my expectations, just to crush and destroy me with a doubly evil outburst during some inopportune outing. I’m really mostly sure that’s not what’s happening. So what is it?

“L, it’s time to get ready for bed.” “OK, Mommy!” WHAT?
“L, let’s get shoes on, it’s time to go.” “OK, Mommy!” HUH??
“May I please have bezzert?” [sic] “Not tonight, you had a cookie earlier.” “Ok, Mommy.” WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY REAL SON?

I feel myself relaxing. I sense that my expectations are rising, despite my best efforts to keep them at rock bottom. If this is due to Santa’s list and the nearness of the reward for being good, then I’ve got to figure out some way to have an old, kid-loving man spy on L all year round. Parents everywhere would thank me! If not Santa, could it be that L is, gulp, outgrowing his desire to constantly be at odds with me? Dare I even think it? I just jinxed myself, didn’t I?

Whatever it is, I’m soaking it up. L is bursting with pleases and thank yous and agreements and general good will. I should record it. I’m sure you’d appreciate me whipping out my camera to show you a video of my good boy next time he’s shooting and chasing your child in the playground or knocking down a display rack in your store.

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One of Those Days…

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13

You know those days when everything goes wrong? S had one of those days today, and therefore, so did I. It all began around 5:15AM when S woke up screaming. Her fever of 104 last night had dropped to a refreshing 102 this morning. Despite my repeatedly explaining that her crying would wake the boy up, she continued to cry. Sheesh!

So, both kids up by 5:30. Awesome. One sick and miserable, the other jealous and pretending to be sick and miserable. The early morning actually works in my favor since I have a teacher conference at 8AM with L’s teacher. Turns out, he’s a delight at school. Who knew it was possible?

Dr. can’t see S until 11. I bring her home for a fitful nap. Then a long wait at the Dr. My normally happy, sweet, laid back S has morphed into a miserable, crying, HOT baby. Her temp is 101.6, medicated. Ugh. She’s had this fever since Monday. Poor thing. Nothing is wrong with her that the Dr. can find. She’s poked, prodded, listened to, rectally invaded – all very much to her dismay. Dr. decides we need to run labs. She needs blood drawn and a clean catch urine sample. Huh? Will wringing out a diaper do? No.

If you’re wondering how to get pee from a baby, there are two ways: catheter, or this funny little bag which actually seals all around the outer labia and then sits inside the diaper. First, she needs to be sterilized down there, then some sticky something or other is applied and then the bag. This does not look comfortable. None of this is S’s idea of an OK time. I pack the bag into the diaper and we’re off. Back home for another uneaten lunch and fitful nap before heading to the lab for blood work.

I check the bag when S wakes up. Success! There’s pee. Now I need to peel the thing off of her. It’s like an extremely sticky and large band-aid, with pee all over it, stuck on very sensitive skin protected by squirmy kicky legs. I maneuver the thing off before thinking. Now what? I have a bag of pee and an undiapered baby and the container I’m meant to put the pee bag into is in my purse in the kitchen, which is right next to the cookie I was about to enjoy before S started crying. (Spoiler: the cookie gets ruined. Can you guess how?)

I one-handed diaper and lift the baby, carry her and the pee bag into the kitchen and maneuver the container out of my purse and open it with my third hand. (You know, the mom-hand that we all must have to actually do some of the stuff we do with our hands full.) Sadly, today that third hand must have been a left one and it very uncoordinatedly spilled pee on my purse, the counter, and yes, the cookie.  Ew.

Off to the lab where the poor girl had blood drawn from her arm just like a big kid. She did not like it one bit.

And it rained all day and the basement flooded.

And it’s 9PM and S is still up.

I want a cookie.

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Farewell Nana, Farewell Zen

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17

My zen is crumbling around me as I return to the familiar territory of irritability. Just like the ugly, gigantic pajama pants that I normally put on every night after tucking the kids into bed. (You know, the ones I bought when I was 7 months pregnant, that were then cute(ish) capris but now drag on the floor even when hoisted up all the way to my boobs.)

The pants disappeared with Nana’s visit. I just pretended to be the type who keeps her jeans on until bedtime. I also pretended to be calm. I pulled it off so well that I even fell for it. But as soon as outsider eyes stopped watching, I hitched up my huge pjs and I got annoyed at everything.

I am a duck. I am a duck. I am a duck.

Fuck it. I’m no duck. I’m the mom who took off L’s doorknob yesterday and turned it around so I could lock his door from the outside, after a solid hour of back-to-back time outs where I had to stand there holding the door closed pretending I couldn’t hear his “stupid mommy!” and “poopy mommy!” and him hurling himself and all that was not nailed down at the door.

Maybe a little bit of my flirtation with zen did stick. Although I eventually yelled, it was only a little bit. I quickly regained control of myself and did the door knob thing instead, which certainly shocked and disturbed L more than any yelling I could do. When all was said and done I was able to bring my blood pressure back down to a low simmer and get on with the day.

So, I’m no zen master and I’ve lost that zenny ease I had while Nana was here. Then it was easy. I simply had no choice. Now I’m free to show my ugly-mommy side and it really wants to be seen. Here’s hoping I have some zen-retention though. I know it’s possible anyway.

Sex Books

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7

I decided not to buy a sex book for L after all. I realized that it would certainly become his favorite book and I’d be stuck reading about testicles and vaginas more often than I’d care to. So I took him to the library instead. I asked the children’s librarian for a book about sex appropriate for a 3-year-old. I’m going to go ahead and believe that her assumption that I was pregnant was more related to my question than my appearance.

She found a few books for me, full of diagrams, drawings and photos of things that I really didn’t want to talk about. I decided to work my way backwards through one of the books. Starting with the baby, photos of the baby in utero, etc, hoping L would be bored before we got to the actual seed planting bit at the beginning.

Turns out, boredom never happened. BUT he was entirely mesmerized, amazed, aghast and distracted by umbilical cords. We looked at all the books and he only wanted to see the pictures with umbilical cords. I can talk umbilical cords all day, no problem! Does the baby get ice cream through the umbilical cord? Does the baby get carrots through the umbilical cord? Much better than does daddy use a knife to put the seed in your belly?

With L’s curiosity sufficiently satisfied, we left all the books at the library and I have heard not a peep about any of it since. So, if your kids start asking and you’re not up for the conversation, stick with umbilical cords.*

*I do not condone keeping kids in the dark about sex forever. Just for now.
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Mother Abuse

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16

I have failed in some fundamental way. My son is the worst of all of his peers. I see how the other kids are, and mine is worse. I’m at a complete loss. I don’t see how there is any way that his absolute horridness is anything but my own fault. He wasn’t born horrible. I must have made him that way but I don’t know what I did so wrong.

I don’t know what to do with him. I don’t know how to get through to him. I don’t know how to make it so that he does not treat me so poorly. I’m crying as I type this because I’m so upset about how he is, how he acts, the way he treats me.

He is fine with other people. Not perfect, but you know, he’s 3. But with me he is so rude and disrespectful. Where does he get the idea that I deserve to be spoken to that way? That I can be kicked and spit at? That he can call me names?

Today in the car after he called me stupid for telling him to stop bothering S, I reached back to hand S her cup and L kicked me as hard as he could. I pulled over. Now what? I needed to punish him in some way. So I unbuckled his car seat and took his beloved Spiderman t-shirt right off of him. The whole time I was struggling to do that and then buckle him back in, he was spitting at me. Actual spit. In my face. See what I mean? He’s the worst one.

He’s out of control. I don’t know what to do. Right now he’s still in the car. In his carseat. In the garage. In a timeout. No doubt he’s screaming his head off. I told him earlier that we were having chips for dinner (nachos). He couldn’t believe his luck and was so excited. In the car, after I had already taken the shirt right off of his back, I told him he will not be eating chips for dinner. That I will make him something else. Because he spit at me, and hit me, and called me names. I have nothing else to take away from him. Nothing matters. Of course this brought new tears and new insults.

I don’t deserve to be treated this way. I don’t know why he does it. I’m not lenient. I don’t let him get away with it. I’ve read every fucking parenting book known to man and I just don’t know what else to do.

The problem is that no consequence really matters to him. He’s smart enough to know that at the end of the day I will still love him, still feed and shelter him, and still clothe him even if it’s not in Spiderman t-shirts. So, he knows that nothing I can take away really means anything.

I really can’t do this anymore. I can’t believe that my life has led me to this abusive relationship with a 3-year-old. (Abuse from, not toward him.) How shitty a mom I must be!

How long can I leave him out in the car? He’s safe. But not happy. It’s been 8 minutes. I have to go get him. I had planned to play outside until dinner time since I’ve done all the prep work. But I don’t want to play outside with him. I want to send him to his room. And make him a PB&J for dinner and then send him back to his room. None of it will matter. He’ll just scream abuse at me from upstairs.

Sorry for the rant. I probably shouldn’t hit publish but I will.

Child’s Play Isn’t as Fun as I Remember

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9

As a stay at home mom, I think I’m supposed to spend at least some of my time playing with my kids. Not only is the act of playing with L not at all fun,* but it inevitably leads to tears and screaming, (I’m not telling who does which). Sometimes I feel like it’s just not worth starting.

I have fun playing with S because she’s just in such a delightful stage, but I know what lies ahead. (Bad stuff.) Even as giggly and sweet as she is, I get bored with peekaboo, this little piggy, trot trot to Boston, etc pretty quickly. And I’m especially sick of the she-takes-everything-out-of-my-cupboards-and-I-put-everything-back game, which is naturally her favorite.

Does it ever get fun to play with your kids? Or will it always be a chore to endure? It must be normal for an adult to not like playing with little kids, right? It seems like the other moms I see don’t look as harried and miserable as I do. Maybe the love they feel for their kids trumps how annoying it is to play with them? Or maybe I really am just a huge douchebag and the rest of you are having the times of your lives playing with your toddlers and preschoolers! Either way, the bottom line is that I’m a crap mom. Again. Damn that bottom line.

*OK, I reluctantly admit that it is sometimes fun to play with L. Like when he plays Charades. But today he was a little turd all day and I’m extremely, very much looking forward to when he’s asleep and I can begin to feel fond of him again.

Charades

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6

If you’re wondering whether or not L would be good at charades, the answer is no. Of course not. Nevertheless, I’ve been playing with him. We have a game made for little kids and the cards each have the word or phrase, as well as a simple picture so L is able to play. Well, has the potential to play anyway.

So, yesterday we’re playing and for his turn L stands up, with his arms outstretched and his eyes closed. “That’s it?” I ask. “That’s it.” he answers. “Is there anything else you could do to help me out?” He opens and closes his hands at the end of his outstretched arms.

“Are you a tree?”

“No.”

“Isn’t there anything else you could do to help me guess?”

“I’ll give you a clue. It starts with a ‘te, te, te’ sound” (He makes the sound you’d make when sounding out the letter T.)

“Are you sure you’re not a tree?”

“No, Mommy! I’m a ‘tatue!”

See, L drops the “s” from the beginning of words. So star is ‘tar, school is ‘cool. Meanwhile, I looked at his card and on it was a clear picture and the word “BOAT.”

Hero Mommy (It’s Easier Than it Sounds)

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1

Best lazy (me, not them) hot afternoon activity ever: 2 kids, 2 Popsicles, bubbles and a bathtub. Kids played happily for an hour at least. I kept adding more hot water, lest they get cold and I have to think of another activity. I got to sit and do next to nothing, just blow bubbles and occasionally right a tipped over S. And I still ended up a hero! It feels good to have a win once in a while!

“Backsards”

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9

That’s how L says backwards. Yesterday he was preoccupied with counting “backsards,” but he can’t help but say 8 after saying 7. So all of his attempts were like this:

10…9…8…7…8…9…10

Each time he found himself at 10 again he thought it was funny and frustrating. “It’s not working.” As if it were the numbers’ fault. “Mommy, you try. See if it works for you.” I’d do it. He’d try again and again find himself back at 10. This went on for longer than you’d think possible.

Poop Update

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15

I’m sure you’ve all been wondering about and losing sleep over L’s poop issues. I was going to write this great post about how he hasn’t had any Miralax for almost 2 weeks, and he’s been going, without that much of a fight, a couple of times per day with nary a pooped-in pair of undies to be tossed! I’ve been ruminating on this great update post in my mind for the last day or two.

Then just now happened. Just now is not a good mommy moment for me. It’s bedtime. The kid has gotta go. It’s obvious. He stands like he’s gotta go; he squirms like he’s gotta go; he smells like he’s gotta go. So, I tell him it’s time to go.

“NO! I DON’T POOP ANYMORE! I WILL HOLD IT IN FOREVER!!” Out of nowhere. Suddenly tears.

Next comes me trying reason, trying kindness, trying scary-serious voice, trying wrestling and finally giving up and picking the kid up, tossing him into his bedroom while saying (yelling), “Fine! Then you can go straight to bed with no books, no PJ’s, and no brushing your teeth! Your teeth will all rot right out of your head!” Door slams.

He’s upstairs now crying, “Get me out of here!”

I am the best.mom.ever. Anyone want some advice? Come to me! I’m sooooo good at this. I can’t believe that it’s actually my job to raise this child without entirely fucking him up. Clearly, I’m not capable of this.

Hang on, here he comes….

OK, it’s now 20 minutes later. L came down fairly calm. I asked if he was ready to go and he said yes and went. Then asked, “Are you so proud of me?” I told him that I was not. That I would have been proud if he just went in the first place. Mean, I know.

Well, now he’s in bed fully evacuated at least. I suck at this job.