No one can push my buttons like my eldest son. In the 3 plus years of being Charlie's Mom, I've learned to let a lot just roll off my back - emptying all of my expensive haircare products onto the bathroom floor; pulling my hair out in clumps in an attempt to give me a 'hair cut'; hiding my expensive watch in the toilet bowl. My reaction depends on how much sleep I've had, most of these infractions would result in some time alone in his room or perhaps loss of TV or whatever object he's deemed most valuable at that moment.
But there are 2 things I cannot ignore and are guaranteed to light my fuse; 1. Child on child violence (meaning my kids, other people's kids beating the crap out of one another actually makes me feel better). 2. Naps being boycotted.
Charlie officially proclaimed yesterday, "Let's Get Mommy to Lose Her Shit and Watch Her Head Spin Around on Her Shoulders Day" and he enlisted his brother's help. First, naps were boycotted by both children. And this was after a long morning spent at a local farm milking goats (no, I'm not kidding), chasing chickens, baking bread and decorating paper bag puppets with wool and chicken feathers. My shit was dragging and all I wanted was a few minutes with a bag of chocolate chips, a jar of peanut butter and my computer.
After 40 minutes of non stop negotiations/threats with Charlie from his bed, it was obvious my tiny window of sacred personal time was gone. I was left feeling robbed and bitter. This impeded my ability to deal with Charlie's all out assault on his brother for the remainder of the afternoon. Meaning things that usually rolled off my back were sticking, like dog shit on your shoe.
When I say shit, I mean smacking Gregory in the head with a wooden spoon, sitting on his head in the kitchen, mashing his poor face into the linoleum, grabbing Gregory by the throat and throwing him off of the couch, pushing Gregory into the toy box as he was reaching for a fire truck.
Oh yeah, this fuse was lit and heading for the powder keg. After each attack I yelled, put him in his room, yelled some more, took away his videos, but still his behavior got worse (shocking). Finally, he pulled his brother down to the ground by his hair then twisted his arm into a half nelson. After uncrossing my eyes and realizing that yelling isn't recommended in any of the parenting books I've read, I decided a change of scenery would do us all good, as well as save a certain 3 year olds' life. So off we went to the park.
I was able to speak in non harsh tones, we played in the sandbox, went on the swings, I even laughed without my face cracking. It was almost a Zen like experience until we got back into the car to go home. Charlie started whining incessantly about wanting water. I could feel that horrible, dark anger slowly creeping it's way out. Despite my better judgment, I decided to be nice and gave him his water bottle. He proceeded to dump the whole thing out on his seat, then flung the empty bottle (which was aluminum) at his brother's head.
Fair to say I reached my tipping point. When Charlie sends me over the edge, yelling is my first reaction - thanks, Dad - then once I get a splitting headache from yelling, I turn passive aggressive - thanks, Mom. The problem is that the cycle of passive aggressiveness is so ingrained in my genes, it's really hard to break. All throughout dinner Charlie kept asking, 'Why aren't you talking?' 'Mommy, are you less angry now?' 'Mommy, are you still mad at me?'
As awful as I felt, I couldn't let it go. Why should he get off easy by me telling him it's okay and that I wasn't mad at him. Isn't there some rule that his suffering should be equivalent to mine? Last count, I had racked up 3 hours in the torture chamber, plus a few extra gray hairs on my head, and minus a few years off my life. But being the adult here, I went the mature route and gave him the silent treatment for a few minutes. Only then did I answer with things like, 'I don't know Charlie, I don't feel like being nice to you.' or 'Well, that depends Charlie, are you going to start being nicer to your brother? or 'Maybe if you act like a nice boy, I'll stop being mad.'
After dinner, I put Gregory to bed. Charlie asked if I would play with him. I told him first I needed a few minutes to clean up from dinner. If only I could have scrubbed every dish in the kitchen and then cleaned the floor with a toothbrush. Exactly 20 seconds passed and Charlie started whining from the other room, "Mommy, come play with me. Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!!!" With my mood, I wanted to play with him like I wanted to have sex with Dick Cheney. But I finally succumbed and asked him what he wanted to play. He sighed and said, "Nothing. I wish Teri (our babysitter) was here." Well played grasshopper.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Dingo Ate My Baby
Mom's of multiple children always baby their baby. With your first child, you hover, you cannot wait to check off that next developmental milestone, and note with pride how exceptional every drool, poop (really any kind of movement), or sound is. But with the second, you blink and they are washing their strained carrots down with a cold one while yelling, "Maaa, we're outta beer."
You want that baby stage to last as long as possible, partially because of nostalgia, but mainly because you now possess the golden key of knowledge. The baby stage is EASY compared to the whiny, demanding, mobile, tantrum prone toddler stage.
I'm having a tough time with the transition from baby to toddler with Gregory. He is the last kid I will ever pop out and he's also been the easiest baby on the planet - always happy, sleeps a decent amount, never cries unless he's hungry, not even when his brother uses him as target practice with his blocks. He's also a heck of an errand boy; stays strapped into a cart for hours while Mommy gets her Target fix on, gets us free produce at the farmers market by flashing his baby blues at all the ladies, flirts with the bank teller while I frantically fill the deposit slip out at the counter. And never once does he complain.
Well, yesterday my baby officially lost his baby status. It kind of snuck up on me all at once and took me by surprise. Maybe I've been too busy with my own agenda (aka errands) to notice. But those last few jars of baby food in the closet now have a coating of dust on them, and the cute nonsensical babbling, that sounds like Hindu chanting at times, has turned into words like 'Mama' and 'Baba' (that's bottle for you non-moms and it is a real word).
But the real kicker happened in the afternoon. I took both of the boys to our local farmers market to pick up some stuff for dinner (and some free produce). As I was popping the rear gate of the car to get the stroller out, I looked to Gregory for our usual game of 'Peekaboo, I see you', only mine wasn't the face he was staring at. He was looking at Charlie with an expression I've never seen before. He was almost rolling his eyes, like, "Jesus, more errands. Can you believe this selfish bitch?" Then, Charlie said right to him, "I know Gregory, I know."
Oh God, the jig is up. I am officially out numbered by kids with wills and opinions of their own. Maybe I should have another baby?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Why Must I Repeat Myself?
Today was one of those days where if someone offered to take my kids in exchange for a bag of Halloween candy, I would have said, 'You have yourself deal'. Don't get me wrong, it would have to be good candy; no Necco Wafers or Charlston Chews, I'm talking Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers. I have standards you know.
I spent my entire day yelling the same things over and over again. "Stop choking your brother. Leave your brother alone. We do not hurt our brother. That's it, no TV tonight. Do you want to go to bed right now?"
I felt like President Bush with his constant threats to Kim Jong Il of North Korea. "Stop testing those nuclear weapons. Don't you dare produce anymore plutonium. We do not share nuclear secrets with other communist countries. Do you want your luxury goods sanctioned again?" Gosh that man must be tired, because I sure am.
I'm not proud of my behavior, I officially lost control. By 3:30 pm, Charlie put his brother in his 25th choke hold of the day and I didn't know what else to do. So I kept with the theme of the day and yelled. "WHY CAN YOU NOT LISTEN TO ME? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY?" He just stared at me, with his arm still around his brother's neck. I grabbed his arm and dragged him into his room, "STAY IN THERE AND DO NOT COME OUT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO."
Less than 30 seconds later I see this little smiling boy come flying by me, giggling, prancing, defiant. I'm so angry that I am blinded. I want to hurt him, I want to make him cry. While I would never do the former, I did the latter. "That's it, Gregory and I are going for a walk. You have made me so angry that I need a time out from you. You are going to stay here by yourself." Tears and screaming, 'NOOOOOOO, Mommy. Don't leave. DON'T GO!' Obviously I wouldn't leave him alone, but I knew the reaction I would get.
I wish I could say I felt bad, but I didn't. I was happy. Happy he was crying. Happy I was making him suffer like he had his brother. I'm sure I just gave Charlie another chapter in his future memoirs (think 21st century version of Mommy Dearest), but I don't care. Judge me as you like, but you have never felt such rage as when you watch one of your kids inflict harm upon the other.
Tonight as I sit here and type, as pissed as I am, I know I have to do better. I cannot subject my child to this level of anger. My blood pressure, sanity and conscience cannot handle it either. Ironically, today in a local mom's newsletter that I get, a marriage and family therapist gives advice to parents with a child with behavioral issues. She references a book, "How to Behave So Your Preschooler Will, Too" by Sal Severe. I laughed, loudly and heartily. I'm not sure where I stand on the coincidence versus fate argument, but I bought that damn book. But in this case, at this moment, the universe has spoken, maybe even yelled.
I spent my entire day yelling the same things over and over again. "Stop choking your brother. Leave your brother alone. We do not hurt our brother. That's it, no TV tonight. Do you want to go to bed right now?"
I felt like President Bush with his constant threats to Kim Jong Il of North Korea. "Stop testing those nuclear weapons. Don't you dare produce anymore plutonium. We do not share nuclear secrets with other communist countries. Do you want your luxury goods sanctioned again?" Gosh that man must be tired, because I sure am.
I'm not proud of my behavior, I officially lost control. By 3:30 pm, Charlie put his brother in his 25th choke hold of the day and I didn't know what else to do. So I kept with the theme of the day and yelled. "WHY CAN YOU NOT LISTEN TO ME? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY?" He just stared at me, with his arm still around his brother's neck. I grabbed his arm and dragged him into his room, "STAY IN THERE AND DO NOT COME OUT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO."
Less than 30 seconds later I see this little smiling boy come flying by me, giggling, prancing, defiant. I'm so angry that I am blinded. I want to hurt him, I want to make him cry. While I would never do the former, I did the latter. "That's it, Gregory and I are going for a walk. You have made me so angry that I need a time out from you. You are going to stay here by yourself." Tears and screaming, 'NOOOOOOO, Mommy. Don't leave. DON'T GO!' Obviously I wouldn't leave him alone, but I knew the reaction I would get.
I wish I could say I felt bad, but I didn't. I was happy. Happy he was crying. Happy I was making him suffer like he had his brother. I'm sure I just gave Charlie another chapter in his future memoirs (think 21st century version of Mommy Dearest), but I don't care. Judge me as you like, but you have never felt such rage as when you watch one of your kids inflict harm upon the other.
Tonight as I sit here and type, as pissed as I am, I know I have to do better. I cannot subject my child to this level of anger. My blood pressure, sanity and conscience cannot handle it either. Ironically, today in a local mom's newsletter that I get, a marriage and family therapist gives advice to parents with a child with behavioral issues. She references a book, "How to Behave So Your Preschooler Will, Too" by Sal Severe. I laughed, loudly and heartily. I'm not sure where I stand on the coincidence versus fate argument, but I bought that damn book. But in this case, at this moment, the universe has spoken, maybe even yelled.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Colors
3 years olds are all about figuring out how the world works, where they fit into it and then letting you know every little thing they learn while on this journey. Whether it's numbers, letters, changing your alarm clock settings, or learning to pick their nose, they're like little sponges with mouthes that spit back a continuous stream of discovery notes.
-Did you know I used to be a baby and I came from your belly?
-Rocks are big, but we don't throw them at people, just dogs and water.
-Safety is very important, that's why we wear goggles when we drill.
-I have a penis and you have a ginuv (vagina), my ginuv is in my butt.
-Candy is good for my body, it has protein.
For the most part I just nod, or say 'Oh, really?', and go along with whatever Charlie says. There are occasions where the information is just plain wrong and I try to correct him . I try to avoid this at all costs as it usually leads to a battle of "Yes it is vs No it's not". Most parents of preschoolers know for a fact that they will never win this battle. But sometimes, the shit gets personal and I can't help but declare all out war on Charlie's ass.
Charlie is really into his colors right now. He's always listing off the colors of objects around him. Not to brag, but he's way more advanced than the typical ROYGBIV spectrum. He's onto mint green, light blue, gray, silver and gold. He's quite accurate, but for some reason his Achilles heel is yellow and white. He always interchanges the 2, but once you point it out, he knows the difference.
On the way to school last week he and I were talking colors. We like to count the number of certain color cars on the highway. Or we'll pick a color and list all of the things we can think of that are that color. We were doing green; trees, grass, street lights, stems on pumpkins, etc. To which I did the obligatory nod or 'that's right'. Then Charlie said, "Let's do yellow." Okay. "School bus, dandelion, bumble bee, your teeth..." What did you say? "Your teeth. They're yellow." No honey, you mean white. "No, yellow." You mean white, like a snowman. "No, yellow like corn." I think you're confusing yellow and white. "NO, I'M NOT." Well, I think you are. "I AM NOT!" My silence signals my defeat.
I immediately made an appointment with my dentist for a cleaning and lengthy discussion on teeth whitening options. I told him the story. His first response, "Well, your teeth aren't white, most people's are not. But kids at that age aren't familiar with colors like creme or off white." For gosh sakes man, why don't you just kick me when I'm down?
I have always hated going to the dentist, now I have another reason to validate my anger; that and the $400 he wants to charge me to 'lighten' my teeth. He couldn't promise whiter, just lighter. Is the next shade lighter than corn, butter? And would that fall into the white or yellow family? I'll have to ask Charlie.
-Did you know I used to be a baby and I came from your belly?
-Rocks are big, but we don't throw them at people, just dogs and water.
-Safety is very important, that's why we wear goggles when we drill.
-I have a penis and you have a ginuv (vagina), my ginuv is in my butt.
-Candy is good for my body, it has protein.
For the most part I just nod, or say 'Oh, really?', and go along with whatever Charlie says. There are occasions where the information is just plain wrong and I try to correct him . I try to avoid this at all costs as it usually leads to a battle of "Yes it is vs No it's not". Most parents of preschoolers know for a fact that they will never win this battle. But sometimes, the shit gets personal and I can't help but declare all out war on Charlie's ass.
Charlie is really into his colors right now. He's always listing off the colors of objects around him. Not to brag, but he's way more advanced than the typical ROYGBIV spectrum. He's onto mint green, light blue, gray, silver and gold. He's quite accurate, but for some reason his Achilles heel is yellow and white. He always interchanges the 2, but once you point it out, he knows the difference.
On the way to school last week he and I were talking colors. We like to count the number of certain color cars on the highway. Or we'll pick a color and list all of the things we can think of that are that color. We were doing green; trees, grass, street lights, stems on pumpkins, etc. To which I did the obligatory nod or 'that's right'. Then Charlie said, "Let's do yellow." Okay. "School bus, dandelion, bumble bee, your teeth..." What did you say? "Your teeth. They're yellow." No honey, you mean white. "No, yellow." You mean white, like a snowman. "No, yellow like corn." I think you're confusing yellow and white. "NO, I'M NOT." Well, I think you are. "I AM NOT!" My silence signals my defeat.
I immediately made an appointment with my dentist for a cleaning and lengthy discussion on teeth whitening options. I told him the story. His first response, "Well, your teeth aren't white, most people's are not. But kids at that age aren't familiar with colors like creme or off white." For gosh sakes man, why don't you just kick me when I'm down?
I have always hated going to the dentist, now I have another reason to validate my anger; that and the $400 he wants to charge me to 'lighten' my teeth. He couldn't promise whiter, just lighter. Is the next shade lighter than corn, butter? And would that fall into the white or yellow family? I'll have to ask Charlie.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
You Know Nothin'
Do you remember having to give oral book reports in school? You think you have your act reasonably together. Read the book - check; if available, memorize the Cliff's Notes - check; rehearse in front of the mirror and make it sound like you didn't memorize the Cliff's Notes - check. All systems are a go as you stand in front of your teacher and classmates.
Then, 1 of 2 things happens. Your entire summation of the book takes exactly one minute, when the assignment is a 10 minute presentation. Or you yammer on for all 10 of those minutes about nothing. No sentences are formed, each word leaving your mouth has nothing to do with the one before. Everyone is left with the impression that you are an idiot and clearly did not read the book.
The latter, well that happens everyday in life with a preschooler. Their curiosity, wonder and literal interpretation of the world are truly something to behold. They ask questions that you think in your head are pretty basic. But try to verbalize an explanation and you are left in awe of your own incompetence as well as your memory loss (didn't I learn this in school).
Here is an example of my morning. Keep in mind this is at 5:30 am, before sunrise and a cup of coffee. Also note I have only included Charlie's half of the conversation because mine is just too embarrassing.
- How do lady bugs eat and drink? Is that lady bug a boy or a girl?
- Why is the sun rising? (I did mention something about the earth rotating on it's access - definite points for that) Where is the sun coming from? Why are there people living on the opposite end of the earth?
- Why do my feet smell? Where does smell come from?
- Why did you say this situation is sticky? Did it get sticky by eating candy? Can I have some candy?
- If the dark clouds are for making rain, what are the white clouds for?
And in the world of preschoolers, "I don't know" or "It's just an expression" are not acceptable answers. If you're lucky, you're near a computer. If not, the questions just continue, on and on and on. How many times can one child ask 'Why' in the course of a day? The answer, 968. My husband wonders why I always forget shit, like his dry cleaning, or showering. My friends with older kids say it will only get worse as they learn more, ask more complicated questions, and develop a pretty accurate bullshit radar.
I thought this feeling of incompetence just stemmed from not knowing what to do when my kid tries to stick Cheerios up his brother's nose, yells at a woman on a bike for not wearing a helmet, or refuses to poop on the potty. But it goes much deeper than that. Charlie's preschool gave me a handout stating that by age 4, children will learn up to 40% of what they will learn in their whole lifespan.
Here's a question; if I'm the person responsible for the majority of Charlie's education until he reaches kindergarten, what kind of a chance does this kid have? My guess is by age 4 he's going to know that his Mom clearly did not read the parenting 101 book. I just hope he doesn't think I'm an idiot. I guess we all have different definitions of success and they evolve as we do.
Then, 1 of 2 things happens. Your entire summation of the book takes exactly one minute, when the assignment is a 10 minute presentation. Or you yammer on for all 10 of those minutes about nothing. No sentences are formed, each word leaving your mouth has nothing to do with the one before. Everyone is left with the impression that you are an idiot and clearly did not read the book.
The latter, well that happens everyday in life with a preschooler. Their curiosity, wonder and literal interpretation of the world are truly something to behold. They ask questions that you think in your head are pretty basic. But try to verbalize an explanation and you are left in awe of your own incompetence as well as your memory loss (didn't I learn this in school).
Here is an example of my morning. Keep in mind this is at 5:30 am, before sunrise and a cup of coffee. Also note I have only included Charlie's half of the conversation because mine is just too embarrassing.
- How do lady bugs eat and drink? Is that lady bug a boy or a girl?
- Why is the sun rising? (I did mention something about the earth rotating on it's access - definite points for that) Where is the sun coming from? Why are there people living on the opposite end of the earth?
- Why do my feet smell? Where does smell come from?
- Why did you say this situation is sticky? Did it get sticky by eating candy? Can I have some candy?
- If the dark clouds are for making rain, what are the white clouds for?
And in the world of preschoolers, "I don't know" or "It's just an expression" are not acceptable answers. If you're lucky, you're near a computer. If not, the questions just continue, on and on and on. How many times can one child ask 'Why' in the course of a day? The answer, 968. My husband wonders why I always forget shit, like his dry cleaning, or showering. My friends with older kids say it will only get worse as they learn more, ask more complicated questions, and develop a pretty accurate bullshit radar.
I thought this feeling of incompetence just stemmed from not knowing what to do when my kid tries to stick Cheerios up his brother's nose, yells at a woman on a bike for not wearing a helmet, or refuses to poop on the potty. But it goes much deeper than that. Charlie's preschool gave me a handout stating that by age 4, children will learn up to 40% of what they will learn in their whole lifespan.
Here's a question; if I'm the person responsible for the majority of Charlie's education until he reaches kindergarten, what kind of a chance does this kid have? My guess is by age 4 he's going to know that his Mom clearly did not read the parenting 101 book. I just hope he doesn't think I'm an idiot. I guess we all have different definitions of success and they evolve as we do.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Like looking in the mirror
My in laws are visiting us from Florida for a couple of weeks. Before you roll your eyes and cringe imagining yourself in this situation, or dub me certifiable, know that I do find it tough having guests (whomever they may be) for this long a period. But the pluses far outweigh the minuses in this case. My mother in law does my laundry and she cleaned up diarrhea off of Charlie's floor yesterday, so get your eyeballs back into the forward facing position.
On extended stays like this, Nani and Papa become completely entrenched in the boys' daily routine as well as the rules by which they live - the rules of a dictator as we like to say. My father in law experienced the harsh reign of El Diablo (Charlie) the other night just after dinner.
Charlie wanted to play with his Magna Tiles and of course the first amendment in any good dictator's constitution states he is not allowed to play Magna Tiles alone. That's right before the one that bans adults from sitting at the dinner table for more than 5 minutes. And of course because we were also finishing up dinner, Charlie clearly felt his 1st and 2nd amendment rights were being violated. He decided to make his case to my father in law in his best whiny preschooler voice, 'Come play Magna Tiles, Papa. Coooommmmme playyyyyy.'
Papa being a man of a certain age, needs to digest his dinner or things tend to repeat on him which is bad for all involved. You get to know a lot about house guests after 2 + weeks. So he told Charlie he'd be there in a few minutes. A few minutes for a 3 year old is like a morning with no coffee to you and me, slow and thankless. The whining and begging for Papa to come play continued endlessly.
He finally wore him down and my father in law went to play Magna Tiles. Well, apparently he wasn't playing the right way, or with enough enthusiasm, probably violating yet another amendment. Next we hear a raised voice that said, "Papa, you have 2 choices, you can either play with me or you can go to your bed." We then hear some adult chuckling which prompted another threat, "Did you hear me Papa, your options are play with me or go to your bed."
Brian and I were doubled over. It was like listening to a recording of ourselves. We're big into giving choices and find it diffuses potential situations where arguments could ensue, like bedtime. "Charlie, do you want to go to bed with stories or without stories?" Easy. Sometimes though, I do get a little extreme when I'm super frustrated, "You have 2 options, do you want to go to the grocery store or do you want to stay home locked in your closet? It's your choice." Hey, I got the desired end result, regardless of the path I had to take to get there. Remember Dr. Sears, this is a judgment free zone.
Clearly Charlie was taking his cue from my more extreme examples. Bedtime to him is like being locked in a closet. I can't wait to see El Diablo's interpretation of "This is not a restaurant so you'll eat the (insert any food item) I just made for you."
On extended stays like this, Nani and Papa become completely entrenched in the boys' daily routine as well as the rules by which they live - the rules of a dictator as we like to say. My father in law experienced the harsh reign of El Diablo (Charlie) the other night just after dinner.
Charlie wanted to play with his Magna Tiles and of course the first amendment in any good dictator's constitution states he is not allowed to play Magna Tiles alone. That's right before the one that bans adults from sitting at the dinner table for more than 5 minutes. And of course because we were also finishing up dinner, Charlie clearly felt his 1st and 2nd amendment rights were being violated. He decided to make his case to my father in law in his best whiny preschooler voice, 'Come play Magna Tiles, Papa. Coooommmmme playyyyyy.'
Papa being a man of a certain age, needs to digest his dinner or things tend to repeat on him which is bad for all involved. You get to know a lot about house guests after 2 + weeks. So he told Charlie he'd be there in a few minutes. A few minutes for a 3 year old is like a morning with no coffee to you and me, slow and thankless. The whining and begging for Papa to come play continued endlessly.
He finally wore him down and my father in law went to play Magna Tiles. Well, apparently he wasn't playing the right way, or with enough enthusiasm, probably violating yet another amendment. Next we hear a raised voice that said, "Papa, you have 2 choices, you can either play with me or you can go to your bed." We then hear some adult chuckling which prompted another threat, "Did you hear me Papa, your options are play with me or go to your bed."
Brian and I were doubled over. It was like listening to a recording of ourselves. We're big into giving choices and find it diffuses potential situations where arguments could ensue, like bedtime. "Charlie, do you want to go to bed with stories or without stories?" Easy. Sometimes though, I do get a little extreme when I'm super frustrated, "You have 2 options, do you want to go to the grocery store or do you want to stay home locked in your closet? It's your choice." Hey, I got the desired end result, regardless of the path I had to take to get there. Remember Dr. Sears, this is a judgment free zone.
Clearly Charlie was taking his cue from my more extreme examples. Bedtime to him is like being locked in a closet. I can't wait to see El Diablo's interpretation of "This is not a restaurant so you'll eat the (insert any food item) I just made for you."
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Karma's Ass Biting
Back from 4 1/2 glorious days of a girl's weekend in VT and the ole IGC (intrauterine guilt chip - see Men vs. Women post) was in high gear.
I've never taken so much pleasure in doing nothing. What is that cliche you never really miss something until it's gone? Well, no truer words have been spoken/written as I haven't seen free time like this since Rebecca Romijn still had hyphen Stamos attached to her name. Sitting around till 11 am in my jammies, drinking gallons of coffee, reading my book or the closest trashy magazine, chatting with my girlfriends. And the best part, no one interrupting any of these very important activities with endless whining questions about Play-doh, juice boxes or Eric Carle books.
It was heaven, until I got home. You know when you eat too much candy how bad you feel? Well, I think the universe (as well as my IGC) was trying to tell me I had had my fill of sweets. It shouted, telling me I had taken too many days for myself, away from my kids. Most girl's weekends are just that, a weekend, not 5 days (technically 4 if you count travel).
I returned home to 1 teething baby with diarrhea along with a diaper rash that looks like 3rd degree burns; a 3 year old with an ear infection and ruptured ear drum with puss-goo-stuff oozing out his ear. In addition he has started saying 'Hey, Mommy' before every word he utters. This may sound trivial, but seriously, try saying that each time you start a sentence, 12 hours a day, every day, it's sure to annoy you as well as any conversation companion you have, including your mother.
'Hey Mommy, can I have some juice. Hey Mommy, can we play blocks. Hey Mommy, I'm going to flush my socks down the toilet. Hey Mommy, I'm going to bonk Gregory in the head then feed him to the birds. Hey Mommy, if I light that dog on fire, what will happen?'
I know I shouldn't complain, most of my friends are down right green with envy. But next time, I'll make sure not to tempt fate and keep my weekend to a weekend. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sorry, that was my IGC talking. Scratch that. Next time I will make it a full week and not give a shit about the repercussions when I return home. My girl's "weekend" and the memory of it are something I will cherish and will get me through many a tough day with my kids. To all mommies everywhere, take some time for yourself to rest and regenerate, you'll love yourself and your kids more for it.
I've never taken so much pleasure in doing nothing. What is that cliche you never really miss something until it's gone? Well, no truer words have been spoken/written as I haven't seen free time like this since Rebecca Romijn still had hyphen Stamos attached to her name. Sitting around till 11 am in my jammies, drinking gallons of coffee, reading my book or the closest trashy magazine, chatting with my girlfriends. And the best part, no one interrupting any of these very important activities with endless whining questions about Play-doh, juice boxes or Eric Carle books.
It was heaven, until I got home. You know when you eat too much candy how bad you feel? Well, I think the universe (as well as my IGC) was trying to tell me I had had my fill of sweets. It shouted, telling me I had taken too many days for myself, away from my kids. Most girl's weekends are just that, a weekend, not 5 days (technically 4 if you count travel).
I returned home to 1 teething baby with diarrhea along with a diaper rash that looks like 3rd degree burns; a 3 year old with an ear infection and ruptured ear drum with puss-goo-stuff oozing out his ear. In addition he has started saying 'Hey, Mommy' before every word he utters. This may sound trivial, but seriously, try saying that each time you start a sentence, 12 hours a day, every day, it's sure to annoy you as well as any conversation companion you have, including your mother.
'Hey Mommy, can I have some juice. Hey Mommy, can we play blocks. Hey Mommy, I'm going to flush my socks down the toilet. Hey Mommy, I'm going to bonk Gregory in the head then feed him to the birds. Hey Mommy, if I light that dog on fire, what will happen?'
I know I shouldn't complain, most of my friends are down right green with envy. But next time, I'll make sure not to tempt fate and keep my weekend to a weekend. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sorry, that was my IGC talking. Scratch that. Next time I will make it a full week and not give a shit about the repercussions when I return home. My girl's "weekend" and the memory of it are something I will cherish and will get me through many a tough day with my kids. To all mommies everywhere, take some time for yourself to rest and regenerate, you'll love yourself and your kids more for it.
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