Tag Archives: wtf

We’ll Look Back at This and Laugh One Day (if we survive)

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I’ve been stressed lately about our upcoming trip to New Zealand. I can’t get my head around the mind-blowing 31 hours it will take to get us there. As far as crazy is concerned, I think I’ve been handling myself quite well considering how crazy anxious I am about the whole ordeal. I’ve gotten to a weird place beyond stress and anxiety. It’s kind of peaceful here, even if it’s in a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest sort of way.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  • I just sent an email to my doctor asking if a person can take a Xanax and an Ambien within 24 hours and still wake up alive on the other end. (In related news, my doctor now thinks I’m a junkie.)
  • I have Melatonin which I plan on giving to my kids around hour 15.
  • I have 2 iPhones, an iTouch and an iPad loaded with games, movies, books and music.
  • I have 2 Leapsters and a handful of new games.
  • I have bought out the dollar store and the dollar section of Target so I have every cheap, lead-based toy out there.
  • I have crayons and stickers and lollipops.
  • I have crafts and wind-up toys and tiny toys and cuddly toys.
  • I have eye masks and ear plugs. Enough of the latter to hand out to surrounding passengers if need be.
  • I have pajamas, pull-ups, and changes of clothes.
  • I have sippy cups and water bottles and wet wipes and hand sanitizer.
  • I have even been practicing making balloon animals and I’m bringing all related gear for minutes of entertainment during long layovers! (I did say I was going crazy, remember?)

My carry-on luggage might need to be packed by an MIT engineer.

My image of how the trip will go involves T and I walking miles in airports carrying our own bags, the kid’s bags, and each of us with a crying, kicking, screaming kid under an arm. I envision sweat, assorted potty accidents, tears, drool, food stains, and blood and/or vomit saturating my hair and clothes. I can see little feet kicking seats. I can hear crying jags complete with boneless children on the ground yelling embarrassing things. I can feel my annoyance with everyone and everything, especially T because he just isn’t me. I can’t even bring myself to picture the horrors that will go down in the planes’ bathrooms.

Basically, I’m expecting the worst. If I’m not detained at customs for being too dirty, crazy, and mean to enter New Zealand, it’s a win. If my 4-year-old doesn’t end up in an air marshal’s handcuffs at any point, it’s a win. If any of us manage any sleep at any point in our journey, it’s a win. If my body can tolerate a mix of Xanax and Ambien and stress and sleep deprivation without landing me in a hospital or morgue, it’s a win.

My expectations are low. If I’m not pleasantly surprised, then there stands a good chance that we are inadvertently moving to New Zealand because I will not face the journey home. Or I’ll come home in a straight jacket.

Any which way it goes down, I’ll take notes and blog about it when I get a chance. I will not be able to blog consistently, but I promise that I will not suffer in vain. We will get comedy out of this by God!

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?

………………………………………………………………………………………..

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!

…………………………………………………………………………….

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.

……………………………………………………………………………

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.

 

 

 

 

Vlog Happens

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Inspired by the brave and funny Iris over at The Bearded Iris, I decided to go ahead and try my first vlog. I’ve been meaning to do it for a while now, but was put off by my husband telling me that I look stupid/crazy and not funny. I say, no! I am funny, not crazy! Which, of course, is exactly what a crazy person would say. Anyway, without further ado, I give you my first vlog:

So, what’s the verdict? Stick to my day job?

 

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.

 

WTF Tapas

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L’s totally reasonable response to “No, you can’t watch TV now.”:

“I don’t care about you. You don’t even matter. I do not wish I had you for a mommy.”

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

L is unphased by my anger or raised voice. It happens A LOT towards him. S still gets upset by it. I overheard L trying to calm S down:

“Don’t worry, S, Mommy still loves us. She’s just really bannoyed (sic) at us for messing up the whole house. We don’t have to clean it though. She’ll get over it.”

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

Strange at it may be, my kids are obsessed with eating dates. I’m happy as dates are one of those fibery foods that counteract my kids’ natural constipated ways. Anyway, this morning as my kids are begging for a fourth date each, I am reminded of my childhood.

When my sister and I were little, real little, maybe 4 & 6, we used to eat a breakfast cereal that had pieces of dates in it. Whenever either of us got a date on our spoon, we’d call out who our “date” was with. I don’t remember all of the men we pretended to have dates with, but I do remember calling out, “This is a date with Billy Joel!” Billy Joel? Every little girl’s dream boat.

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Stranger in the House

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When did I become a cliché? At what point was this whole motherhood script put into my brain? Do they pump out some subliminal messaging through PBS cartoons? Is it in the air in Target? Is there some secret coating on Goldfish packages that slowly changes a woman’s brain chemistry to go from typically saying sarcastic quips to things like, DO I NEED TO PULL THIS CAR OVER?!

Sometimes I take a step back and don’t recognize myself. Physically, I’m certainly not the same girl I once was. Weight issues aside, I’m dressed head to toe in clothes exclusively from Old Navy, Target, Marshalls, TJMaxx, and, if I’m lucky, Kohl’s. Long gone are my cute outfits from Banana Republic, Tahari, or anything resembling a boutique. My hair used to be styled, put together, cute, sort of healthy looking. Now I’m limp and bedraggled. Regular manis and pedis have given way to chewed nails, torn cuticles, and sad, ugly feet. Youthful glow replaced by adult onset acne. Cute pumps? Try clogs. My fitted purple vintage overcoat? That would be replaced by grey polar fleece. And that’s all just the superficial stuff. I’m unrecognizable to the core, People!

Today I got so fed up with my kids constantly complaining of boredom. I heard words come out of my mouth that some other mom* would say, not me. I told my kids if they were so bored they could occupy themselves by packing up all their toys to give to less fortunate children who would “only be too happy to have them.” I sent them away from me with the instruction that “I better not hear any fighting or the word ‘bored’ or else!”

*No doubt this “other mom” would be dressed in clogs, ill-fitting jeans and fleece, with wimpy hair somewhere between wavy and frizzy, and adult onset acne.

These aren’t natural things for me to say. Well, they are now. But what happened to put these words into my mouth? Is it really just par for the course that parents turn into entirely different people? At some point, when the kids are older and my life isn’t quite as consumed with every detail of their lives, will my old self re-emerge? Will I ever be the funny girl in the room again, or am I doomed to a lifetime of stereotypical motherly and wifely nagging and nothing else to say? (Oh, yeah, I nag too.)

Note from editor (me): I am fully aware that I am seeing my former self through rose-colored glasses. I picture myself in only my very favorite cute outfits, constantly funny, happy, and the life of the party. This is certainly not accurate or true to life, but caused by the same failure of memory which will one day make me feel nostalgia and longing for these days.

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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?