Tag Archives: son

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.

WTF Tapas

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L to T in the other room:

“Can you call someone to see about getting me a Batmobile?”

What in his life experience so far leads him to believe that T or I have people to call about things like this?

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Having a conversation with S is an exercise in madness. Between trying to figure out wtf she’s saying and the fact that her brain does not work in a linear fashion like mine does, we go around in inane circles that make my head hurt. This is an example of a conversation I’ve had in the car with her on multiple occasions:

S: Etend dis is a bus. (sic) (Pretend this is a bus.)
me: OK.
S: Mommy?
me: Yeah?
S: No! You not my mommy! You da bus diver. (sic)
me: Right. Sorry.
S: Mommy?
me: I’m not your mommy. I’m the bus driver.
S: Etend you’re my mommy now. (sic)
me: Uh, OK.
S: Mommy?
me: Yes?
S: Nooooo! You da bus diver!
me: I’m pretending to be the bus driver pretending to be your mommy. This is getting confusing.
S: Why?
me: No more talking on the bus!

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L on Saturday, trying his best to behave during our enforced quiet time*:

“If I don’t say anything, can I please run around and around like a crazy person?”

*There was to be no talking for any reason. This just killed L. Asking him to play quietly and by himself for a designated period of time is about as effective as asking him to stop breathing.

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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

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Some kids are great verbalists. Not mine. L couldn’t pronounce his own (totally uncomplicated) name until he was well over 3, and he still erroneously begins words with the letter B (“becited”), and mispronounces several words like “hostible” and “resternaut.” I love these mispronunciations and am probably doing the exact wrong thing by not correcting them.

At 2, S is a chatterbox. She almost never stops talking and almost none of what she says is remotely understandable. I get about 70% of what she says. Luckily, L understands more like 85% and often acts as translator. When neither of us is around, she’s probably constantly frustrated and misunderstood. With good reason. Here are a few gems that she said just yesterday:

Me eek keys in the boo-koo-montney?

Me want more bup in my cup!

Me all done beeking!

(singing) Cakey car ish kittniss!

Any idea what she’s talking about? I actually was able to understand all of them. There was plenty she said that I couldn’t understand but I thought it might be fun to put these out there and hear your guesses. I’ll translate tomorrow.

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.

 

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 Holiday Edition

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Listening to a commercial for Rosetta Stone:

me to T: We should learn a language. That would be fun.

T: No it wouldn’t.

L: I want to learn a language! Can I?

me: Sure, what language do you want to learn?

L: Italian Restaurant.

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Looking at the NORAD live Santa tracker on Christmas Eve:

me: “Oh, he’s in Africa. His next stop is The Democratic Republic of Congo.”
L: “S! Santa’s really close! His next stop is the Democrafic Beploc of Bongo! He’s close! He’s close!”

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On all the days leading up to Christmas:

me: S, who’s going to come on Christmas if you’re a good girl?

S: Frosty the Snowman!

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L, finally going to sleep on Christmas day: “Mommy, tomorrow can we do the same exact thing we did today?”

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It’s Like a Fairy Tale Over Here (Not in a Good Way)

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Have you heard that “rule” that you’re supposed to say 4 times more positive things to your kids than negative? Do any of you manage that? I don’t. Not by a mile. Actually, I might with S, but with L? Not a chance. Last night I had a revelation: I am like a fairy tale evil stepmother to L. That sucks.

We all know that I love the kid. If I didn’t my life would be so much easier because I wouldn’t be racked with guilt, angst, and worry all the freaking time. But do I like him? Sometimes. I like that he’s curious, polite, empathetic and incredibley kind and sweet (when he wants to be). This is mostly how he is with other people. I dislike that he’s ornery, hyper, always looking for a fight, fresh etc. Those are things most parents dislike. But I go even further. I also dislike just about all of his interests. I find just about every single thing he likes mind-numbingly stupid. We have nothing in common.

Do I want to see him jump from the couch to the table to the chair to the floor and do a flip and run back to the couch in less than 4 seconds? No. Please don’t do any of those things.

Do I want to go for a bike ride in search of bad guys and shoot them with sticks and throw rocks and scream as loud as we can? No. I want to do none of that.

OK, so most of you probably are thinking that this is just normal 4-year-old boy stuff and of course I don’t want to do any of it because I’m a grown woman and little boys are stupid. (You were thinking that little boys are stupid, right?) I go even further. I say at least 4 times as many negative things to him than positive on a given day. How is that going to effect him? How can he possibly grow up into a confident, good man when he’s constantly being told that he’s too loud, too wiggly, too annoying, too obnoxious, too fresh, too wild, and just plain old too much all the time? The message he’s getting from me? It must be “GO AWAY I DON’T LIKE YOU.” Or maybe it’s “EVERYTHING YOU THINK AND DO IS WRONG AND ANNOYING.”

Then I realize that those are the messages I’m sending and I try to make up for it by telling him how kind he is. By telling him that I’m so proud that he’s such a great brother. I tell him he’s clever, that he’s cute, that he’s considerate, that he’s funny and that I love him. Then, in his excitement at getting positive attention, he takes a running leap and throws himself through the air and crashes into me. Undoubtedly his intention is to hug me, but instead of just hugging me like a normal person, he manages to knock me over, give me a bloody lip, hurt himself, and somehow knock over a full bowl of cereal and I’m right back to telling him that he’s too wild and not fit to be indoors.

As if all this messaging wasn’t bad enough, at the same time I’m cuddling with S. I’m smothering her in kisses. I’m accepting countless cups of imaginary tea, thanking her for cleaning up, exclaiming about what a big girl she’s becoming. She is receiving a loud and clear message that she’s mostly good, very cute, well-loved, clever, sweet and nearly perfect (if she’d just quit hitting everyone and throwing dramatic fits).

This is why I’m an evil stepmother. I’m leaving my kids with indelible impressions that she is good and he is bad. That she is welcome and he is barely tolerated.

Please tell me I’m not alone in this. Is my son doomed to a life in gangs or something because he’s growing up under the thumb of his evil stepmother?

WTF Tapas

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7

L as he darts upstairs pushing past his sister: “Whoever gets there first gets to eat a rotten egg!”

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In the car, listening to Christmas music:

L: I don’t like this song.
me: Why not?
L: Because it has bad words in it.
me: What? No it doesn’t.
L: Yes it does! It keeps saying “Jesus Christ.”
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I love when I find out something new and funny that my kids do or think. Here’s one from a recent conversation with L:

L: Mommy, my gum hurts.

me: Really? Maybe you have popcorn or something stuck in there. Try brushing your teeth.

L: No, not those gums! This one!

 

He holds his thumb out to me and shows me his nail and torn cuticle. L thinks his cuticles are called gums! I stifled my laughter and ran to the computer before I forgot.

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Conversation from the car yesterday:

L: Mommy, can we do that thing with the crayons that we did a long time ago?

me: what thing?

L: When we looked for those special crayons.

me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

L: Remember? Me, you and Daddy looked for crayons. It was a long time ago. Maybe before S was even born. We looked for crayons in the trees.

This is where I figured out what he was talking about. Any guesses?

He was remembering a hike from when I was early in my pregnancy with S (over 2.5 years ago!). L was getting bored and restless with hiking so we gave him a job – to look for the markers on the trees denoting the trail.

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Selective Interpretation, or Why my Baby is Better than Yours

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I have a confession to make: while you were all judging me and L and thinking I was a bad parent and he was a wild, out-of-control toddler, I was judging you and your well-behaved babies thinking that they were stupid. Sure, my kid may have been 12 feet off the ground in 0.3 seconds up a bookcase in the library, or climbing the walls to retrieve the thumbtacks and then giving those tacks to babies in music class, but he knew how to blow his nose. None of this smearing of snot all over his face. Gross! Teach those babies to blow! What’s so complicated about it? I soothed my bruised ego with thoughts of your stupid, snot-faced babies while I dragged L out of every library, class, museum, store, park, party, etc I ever brought him to between the ages of 15 months and 3 years.

Well, now I have S – a well-behaved child who would happily sit through a music class if I ever bothered to bring her. But blow her nose? Not a chance. She just does not have the cognitive understanding of what we’re trying to accomplish and/or the physical coordination to accomplish it. L did it right away. I said, “blow” and he blew through his mouth. I said, “no, breathe hard out of your nose” and he did. Voila. Surely all babies could do this? Turns out, nope. Either your babies were not stupid at all, or S is just as stupid as they were.

The truth is somewhere in the middle. Honestly, what baby isn’t stupid? One thing about L is that he is terrifically physically capable. He just has an innate sense of his own body and this makes him able to manage physical tasks quite easily. Mostly this presents itself in gross motor skills – he could swim and ride a two-wheeler at age 3; he can dribble a soccer ball; he also has mastered other tasks like blowing his nose as a baby and potty training before he turned 2.

His physical competence is a natural talent for him. As a struggling new mom, I took it as a clear indication of his superior intellect. I somehow ignored sure signs of inferior intellect that presented themselves daily – his constant desire to put disgusting things in his mouth, including, but not limited to, poop found on the road, rocks, poop found on the grass, old gum found stuck to the underside of tables and the bottom end of drain pipes after a good rain for a drink. (WTF? He’d throw aside a perfectly good sippy cup and drink from drain pipes!)

Please ignore the 3-year-old eating wood chips, that is, until he has a runny nose. Look at that kid blow! Yes, isn’t he wonderful? He’s been doing it since he was a baby. *Beaming*

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