The Horrible Truth

You want to know a terrible secret?  At least once a day I have the mind numbing revelation that I should never have had children, and that there is now nothing I can do about it.  Having children is one decision you can't undo. They are permanent.

These moments don't always last long, for example, this morning's revelation happened when Thing 1 suddenly decided to bolt into a stranger's yard while on our walk, throw herself dramatically on her back and start rolling in circles.  I tried verbal parenting like all the good books recommend, but my child was staring blissfully at the sky and had apparently been temporarily struck deaf.  

I had Thing 2 strapped to my chest, but I managed to haul her limp sister  up with one hand, expecting the owners of the house to appear at any moment demanding what the ruckus was about and sending their pitbull after us.  

Thing 1, of course, screamed and thrashed as only a two year old can, kicked off both her boots and sent her hat flying into the bushes. I did an impressive squat with a shoeless toddler under one arm shrieking that I was "Squiiiiiiiishing" her, an infant trying to get away from the noise by arching backwards into my collar bone, and retrieved the scattered clothing with my free hand. 

Then I walked two blocks home with my child hanging upside down and her sister kicking me in the groin, grinning fiercely at any of my neighbors who were also up as early as I was. And there it was, the burning certainty that I had gotten myself in over my head. 

There is no time to dwell ofcourse, because there are clothes to put away and food to prepare and messes to tidy and babies to nurse. that time 

But I know it was there - That horrible, brutally honest moment when I imagine what my life would have been like if I was kid free. 

This doesn't mean I don't love my kids. It doesn't mean I wouldn't die to protect them. I think it just means that they are little and demanding and I am very, very tired.

I just hope that there are parallel worlds, and in one of them I slept in this morning, took a long shower, shaved my legs, read a book with coffee, paid all my bills in my awesome home-office, am now painting a picture before meeting up with some friends for dinner where we will discuss our love lives and then catch a late showing of the latest blockbuster.

Maybe that makes me a bad mom - but this blog is about telling the truth, even if it is horrible.

Mandatory Contact

Today we will discuss another malady affecting parents of young children everywhere.  It is called "Mandatory Contact", and it affects 10 out of 10 parents. Mandatory Contact  for mothers begins immediately after conception, and for fathers immediately after birth.  It involves being in constant physical contact with your child for 10 months while they reside inside of you (it is surprisingly hard to put down a fetus), and being constantly available for contact after that (you can put down a newborn....for a few minutes...but it is usually more peaceful not too.)

If there is lactating going on, contact is even more intense and paralyzing (See Lactation Paralysis entry). And if you have more than one child, the amount of minutes spent in Mandatory Contact with another person goes up exponentially.

It might not sound like a bad thing. In our suppressed society, physical contact is constantly craved. I remember being single and living on my own and really wanting someone around to cuddle with. Silly, silly me. I should have been sprawled out in my meticulously cleaned living room laughing at the amazing peaceful quiet. Little did I know.

I am one of those hippie descendants who grew up in a house where you could always crawl in with Mom and Dad when you had a bad dream, and I foolishly followed their example. Therefore, my daily dose of Mandatory Contact starts around 1:00 am when Thing 2 starts waking up to eat. I pull her into bed to feed her (I have become an expert at the nurse and doze.) 

About the time she is settling into a deep sleep, Thing 1 pops out of her bed with a spine chilling cry (have I mentioned that she has night terrors?), followed by the thump thump thump of tiny feet running to my side of the bed. I do an impressive scoop and roll so that Thing 2 is now on the other side of me and not getting crushed by her sister, who has crawled under my covers and jammed her head between my shoulder blades. Thing 2 is not a fan of these late night acrobatics, so back to nursing she goes, while Thing 1 attempts to dig a hole under my rib cage and wedge her head in it. I can't slide forward without shifting Thing 2, and I can't lean backward without suffocating Thing 1.  I call  this the mommy sandwich, and after 5 minutes of it my muscles start screaming while I stare at the ceiling in the dark.
 Once Thing 1 is finally asleep again, I try to move her back to her bed. Which always wakes Thing 2 up, and we start all over again. Eventually morning comes, involving Thing 1 sitting up and saying "Time to WAKE UP! JUICE TIME!", and my breaking Mandatory Contact with Thing 2, only to be claimed by Thing 1's little hands pulling me to the kitchen. We get juice. We change diapers (perhaps the most unpleasant of all Mandatory Contacts.) Then we sit on the couch with Thing 1 pressed against my side (perhaps the most pleasant of all Mandatory Contacts) while I read a book or two. 

Then Thing 2 wakes up. Which involves a great deal of contact for the rest of the morning as we change diapers, burp, eat, wipe vomit off of chins, balance on hip, put down, tickle, pick up, burp, face out, face in, bounce, put down, wipe vomit off of chin, cook egg for Thing 1, put down, wrestle Thing 1 into chair, change diaper, catch Thing 1 and put back in chair, pick up, eat, wash applesauce off of Thing 1's ears, pick up, bounce, etc.

Thing 2 has decided that nursing should be a full contact sport, involving pinching, pulling, punching, kicking, triple lutz and headstands. While I find her physical feats impressive, I often feel slightly bruised afterwards.

This goes on all day. My body is no longer even remotely mine, except for those few precious minutes a day when I lock myself in the bathroom. Although, even then, there is a 7 out of 10 chance that one of the babies is in the room with me, and an 8 out of 10 chance that if they aren't, they are screaming right outside the door. 

Finally the day is done.The little sticky people have been bathed. And we all lay down on the bed and read a book. With one girl in each armpit. Glued to my side. I get one to sleep and gently peal her away, and carry the second out of the room to bounce her to sleep. Then I finally lay her down on the couch and collapse onto the other one, free for a moment. No TOUCHING. Thank God.

Good Day

Today I felt, perhaps for the first time since Thing 2's birth, that I managed to successfully parent both my children, showing them equal affection, and taking care of ALL their needs. Crazy, I know.  The weather was creepily balmy for March, so I strapped on the tiniest Tyrant, wrestled boots and coats onto the least tiny Tyrant, and marched down the street to the school playground.  Thing 2 cooed and drooled all over her bjorn, gasping and shuddering when wind hit her face, and was basically in a blissed out sea of over-stimulation.

(The sucky thing with having winter babies is that you are trapped inside for months on end, not only by the dark and cold, but by the desire not to expose your tiny new born to the elements. By the time spring comes even the baby has cabin fever, and she doesn't even know what she's missing!)















Thing 1 met a slightly older man (he had just "changed" four) who was hanging from a rope bridge and claimed to be Peter Pan (Thing 1 and I had our doubts), and somehow, miraculously, when it was time to leave there was no tantrum throwing.  I might have used ice cream as an incentive. Parenting a two year old is like running the mob.  It's all about bribery.
 On the way home  she asked me if she could go to school.

"When you are more grown up."
"Mia grow up too?"
"Yes, Mia and you will grow up together."
"Grow up to-ged-er.  Momma grow up too?"
"Sure, Momma grow up too."
"When you go to school will you learn how to read?"
"Yes. And learn 'bout da SATURN. And da VENUS. And da JUPITER. And da MAAARS! Yes. And da MOON. Yes. When I grow'd up I hold dem in my HAND."
"They are too big to hold in your hand. Do you know where planets lives?"
"On da wall?"
"No, they live in outer space."
"With Wall-E?"
"Yes. With Wall-E."
"And EEEeee-Vaaaa?"
"Yes. And Eva."
"Yes. Sometime we get a Wall-E?"
"Sure. When you are grown up."
"Yes. That will be good."

Yes, that will be good.

"Cheers"

One of the most rewarding things about being a parent of small children is that time around 10 months of life when you finally can get some payback for all the sleepless nights, the scream-numbed brain, the chewed on fingers, and the dark circles under your eyes.  It is that magical time when your child is finally old enough that you can start training them to do/say ridiculous/cute things for your own personally amusement.

It was around this time that we taught Thing 1 to use a big girl cup, and how to "cheers".  She would grip hers with two little hands, clink it againstmy cup, and declare with a delighted grin, "Cheews!" Freakin' adorable.

But she didn't stop there, oh no. She decided that if you can cheers two cups, you should be able to cheers any two items that are similiar. Like forks. Which results in tiny fork sword-salutes during meals. Or crackers. Which results in extra crumbs on my floor.  It is also possible to cheers blocks, shoes, washclothes, crayons, and teddy bears.  

Who knew? I will be sitting at my desk writing something with a pen when suddenly a small hand clutching another pen will appear in front of my face, "CHEEWS Mommy! Cheews the pens!"  clink! It has became an excuse to have a tiny celebration about even the most mundane things. As if all her joy in discovering life is contained in that little moment when two objects connect.

Yesterday I was bouncing Thing 2 to sleep on Serenity, the Yoga Ball. To offer moral support, Thing 1 decided to get her beach ball out, and bounce her doll to sleep as well, crooning, "Hush-a baby. Ooooo, it OK baby. Husha bye." (also freakin' adorable) 

When Thing 2 finally stopped screaming bloody murder and  passed out, Thing 1 stood up, walked over to her, and ever so gently clunked her baby doll's head against her sister tiny sleeping noggin. Then, she grinned at me and whispered, "Cheews!"

Cheers, indeed.

Rage Against the Remote

I have irrational anger issues towards inanimate objects.  Trying to put more than two brooms into a closet sends my blood pressure through the roof.  All those handles come to life and pounce, taking turns springing out of the closet and aiming for my head.  They keep falling at different rates and angles until I hyperventilate and slam the door, kick it a couple of times, and leave them coiled inside ready to attack the next person to open it.  And don't even get me started on tangled coat hangers. *shudder*

Recently, I have noticed this panicky rage sets in when attempting to navigate know-it-all dvd menus - especially if I am trying to hold a sleeping baby - which is how today started.

I had just gotten Thing 2 to sleep (after she screamed bloody murder for 50 minutes and Thing 1 ran in circles chanting: "Hush a baby! LOUD SIREN BABY! Siren Baby! Baby Mia LOUD!!"),  when Thing 1 realized she hadn't watched a show all morning. Oh, the humanity!

So I stood up, did an impressive balancing act with the limp 12 pound infant on one arm, and got the DVD out with my other hand and my teeth.  I opened the player while balancing the DVD on one finger, put it in, and almost lost my grip on a twitching Thing 2.  Not wanting to jostle her more, I turned the TV on with my toes, and made Thing 1 get the DVD player's remote out from under the couch;

 "Sweetie, can you hand Mommy the remote?  Under the couch, honey. No.  Not under the table.  Under the COUCH.  Are you listening to me? Can you look at Mommy?  See where I'm pointing? ....Honey? LOOK! THERE'S A MONKEY UNDER THE COUCH!  Oh, and can you get the remote?  Awesome, thanks."

 Finally I pushed play, dropped the remote on the table, and sat down as slowly as possible.  Crap, forgot about the commercials.  I leaned forward and snagged the remote with my pinky, hit skip and settled back. Damn it, no I don't want your stupid FAST PLAY that isn't remotely fast.  Got remote out from under my arm and tried to hit main menu, but missed and hit eject.  At this point Thing 1 was escalating in volume and frequency, Thing 2 was starting to twitch, and I was starting to get tense.  I frantically pushed buttons until I got us back to main menu, and selected play all.

This is when that condescending menu decided to just MAKE SURE that I really, really wanted to play ALL the episodes.  Are you sure you don't want to play them individually? or non-stop? 'Cause those are other options if you want to arrow down and select those menus!

The Mr. Hyde in me wanted to grab the DVD player and shake it uncontrollably and then perhaps throw it off of a tall building and watch it smash in a parking lot. But I am a grown up now.  I have children.  That is simply not what we do.   And I live on the ground floor.  The smash would be really unsatisfying.  Totally not worth it.

 So I took a deep breath, pushed the  freakin' button ONE MORE TIME, and got the show started.

And then, when Thing 1's back was turned,  I hurled the remote across the room.  Oops.

It's the little things that keep us sane.

Poison Control to Thing 1

This morning Thing 1 was quitely playing on the floor, so I let myself blissfully snuggle back up with Thing 2 in the bed. I was half drifting back to sleep, when I heard a little voice say,
"Meh Meh? Peas?" (Meh Meh is her word for Medicine. She can say "phalanges"now, but will she say "medicine"? Hell no.) 

I cracked one eye open enough to see Thing 1 hovering near the edge of the bed  rubbing her gums. Ah, teething.  "In a minute", I murmured. I heard her scurry around the room, and settle into her favorite hiding place under Thing 2's bassinet.  Assuming she was safe for the time being, I allowed myself to shut my eyes again for a few more seconds. 

A short time later (long enough for a dream about chasing my children through Star Wars, only to realize that the baby in my arms had turned into a puppy, which I decided was ok since I wouldn't have to teach it how to talk), I heard that delightful little voice declare, "Mmmmmmm Meh Meh all gone! I LIKE it! MmmmmHmmmmm I do!  Find'a da Meh Meh, I drink it ALL GONE!"

I jerked my head of the pillow and saw through blurry eyes a tiny fist holding a very empty container of children's tylenol in front of my face.  Oh. My. God. I just allowed my child to poison herself so I could dream about Star Wars and puppies. I flew out of bed sputtering incoherently. 

Thing 2 was blinking slowly wondering why I was being SO LOUD,  Thing 1 was standing on her head with her eyes shut in a vain attempt to become invisible, and I was googling poison control.  I told the woman what happened and she said,
"Yep. She'll be fine. Just don't give her any more."

It felt rather anti-climatic for the amount of adrenaline in my system. No emergency room?  No vomit inducing?  No leaping tall buildings? Umm...fine then...I guess I'll get dressed or something.

I put the medicine even higher up (child proof my ass, they obviously never met my child), and had an intervention with Thing 1 about how much she has to live for.

Now I am keeping a wary eye on Thing 1 (half expecting her to pass out or get the munchies or SOMETHING),  and removing the blanket Thing 2 has managed to wrap around her head. No suffocating today, kid.  If my children would stop trying to kill themselves, I would like to finish my coffee.

Hairless Wonder

It's that time again. That moment in postpartum when my scalp has an identity crisis and looks around going, "Why on earth do we have so much HAIR? We don't need hair! Get rid of it! Get rid of it!! Shed Shed SHED the HAIR!" Yup. Having a baby makes my body decide that it should look like Patrick Stewart (not a bad look, if you are a mature classically trained British male actor).

One minute I have long thick pregnancy hair, the next I am standing in the shower staring at a fistful of recently shed locks wondering if I should just shave my head now to save on clogged drains in the future.

I am normally "blessed" with an abundance of volume in the hair department, so honestly it isn't that noticeable to an outsider, but when my hair line starts receding it does something to me psychologically. I freak out. I feel like Samson (which I guess makes Thing 2 my tiny Delilah...), without all my hair I am just not as kick-ass.

With Thing 1, I chopped it all off in a vain attempt to be in control of my body again. Pregnancy had made me feel a little like I had been invaded by aliens. I had NO CONTROL.  My brain loved coffee. My body said, "Nope! You HATE coffee! You are going to throw up now!"  After all those changes (most of which I have already started blocking out) I was so excited to have the baby OUT of me.  Time for this body to be MINE. 

Or not.

Why had no one told me making milk could be painful?? Like, stick a knife in your nipple painful? Or about boob stretch marks that looked like a rabid raccoon had attacked them? Nope, no one mentioned those (although they do fade, so there is some hope).  And the weird moles/skin tags/hairs/etc that sprout when your body says, "TOO MANY HORMONES I am going to explode of I don't grow something RIGHT NOW!!!!" BAM! skin tag.  Awesome. 

 I was ok with the fact that I had more curves, but then I realized my RIBS had grown. WHAT?? Yup. Your ribcage can expand with prenancy and NEVER GO BACK.  Why isn't that highlighted in the Mayo Clinic's Guide to Pregnancy? 

And then....my hair fell out.

It was like the final insult.  I had even heard about this one, but that didn't prepare me for suddenly being able to see so much skin when I pulled my hair back. Hormone fueled panic plus scissors equaled pixie cut. Not my best look, but atleast the showers were shorter and the shedding less noticeable.

This time around I am trying to resist the urge to chop it all off, just to show my body that I am now above such trivial (whimper) things. 

Hair. Who needs it?