Diaper Duty

I have learned a few things in the course of this week:

K's diapers have cars on them.
M's diapers do not.
M would like to have cars on his diapers.
Marker does not soak into diapers.
When marker comes off on M's hands, he's more angry than he was in the first place.

Confession from the sickhouse

M started a runny nose today, which is least likely due to allergies or teething (although I cling desperately to the hope) and most likely due to the indoor playground we went to on Monday. Three other kids from our playgroup have come down with the same thing. I feel like finding the little snot who was running around infecting all our kids and squeezing the bejebees out of him, but who knows? It could have been mine.

This leads me to my confession: as much as I hate seeing my kids sick, the thing I dread most when I see that nose start a-running is that I will get sick as a result. Doesn't that make me the most selfish mother in the world? If I think I'm miserable when I'm sick, imagine what my poor kids feel like. Except that they are totally dependent on me to take care of them, and if I'm sick, I want to be totally dependent too. This causes a breakdown in the entire household. So really, it's for their own benefit that I stay healthy. Yeah, sure, as if that makes me feel any less horrible.

Ducks revisited

We're into Day 3 of whining, crying hysterics. Apparently M has developed a phobia of just about everything, including but not limited to butterflies, bank tellers, sippy cups, and naps. Yesterday we managed to salvage the afternoon with a trip to the duck pond, where I was pleased to find that we had not killed the ducks by feeding them cereal on our previous visit. I was not pleased to discover that Chex do not float. Neither was M, nor the ducks. There's another one for my list.

Who's the boss?

I'm a good mom. Really. For someone who was never very maternal, never babysit unless under serious pressure, and often questioned whether they wanted kids at all, I actually turned out okay. I'm usually patient, kind, creative, and educational. They don't eat too many sweets or watch too much TV, and tantrums are usually controlled with quiet conversations to identify true needs and feelings. Today, though... today I have failed. M had tantrum upon tantrum, and try as I did to stay level-headed and find a solution, I couldn't do it. I feel like I gave up on him, finally just putting him down for a nap even though he was still crying as I closed the door. And now I can't even get a fussy K to fall asleep on my chest, even though she'll sleep with anyone else. So what's a mom to do? I have no boss. I have no one to go to in desperate times who can do my job for me, a senior person who can lift me out of this mess of my own doing. I look around, honestly frightened, to find the house empty and me all on my own. Other moms must have these moments, I tell myself, hidden from my sight as mine are from them. Or maybe, I think with even greater fear, I'm just not the mom I thought I was. Is trying hard--really really gutwrenchingly hard with the most love you can possibly squeeze from your soul--enough? I know nobody's perfect, but I look at these amazing little people in my care, and I feel that they deserve perfect anyway. I'd hate for them to be as disappointed in me as I am in myself.

I was forwarned

My baby girl turns 3 months old tomorrow. Back when I was pregnant, my husband and I promised ourselves that we would do whatever it took to make it through that first three months. "It'll be hell," we told ourselves, "but we'll make it through somehow, and soon we'll be on to bigger and better things." Neither of us were baby-people to start with, and we both agree that our son is so much fun at his current age. It seemed harmless to focus on the future. Only last night I was nursing K and looked down to discover that she was holding onto my finger. Wait, she can't do that yet. Except she can. And she should. After all, she's 3 months old. Suddenly, I realized that the milestone we'd been yearning for was finally upon us, and our little girl had grown accordingly. The days of a tiny bundle of joy practically nestled in our hands, barely opening her eyes, crying and sleeping and eating her way through life had passed by. She's our last, ideally, and now that those three months are over, I desperately want them back. How could I have let them slip by so quickly? How could I not have realized that they really do grow up so fast, as everyone always says? I look back to see if I enjoyed them, relished them, and recorded them in all the tangible and intangible ways that I should have. The answer is no, of course. I did my best, loved every last day in fact, but in hindsight it still doesn't seem like enough, not now that it's over. So today I spent a good deal of time just lying on the floor with K and singing to her, memorizing the little cleft in her chin and her round baby face and promising myself that from now on I'm making a concerted effort to focus on the present. Harmless though it might seem, the future has it's place, and I'll get there soon enough.

Why people should come with care labels

I recently switched to mineral makeup, which is supposed to be for super-sensitive skin. Very natural, very healthy, etc. A few days later, I noticed that my few cheek scars (too much picking, but that's a whole other post in itself) were very pronounced. WTH? Then I actually looked very closely in the mirror, something that usually doesn't happen in the 30 seconds I have to get ready in the morning. I could see my scars because my skin was unusually clear. So it turns out that I must have had said super-sensitive skin all along, skin that was crying out for natural make-up via the tiny pimples all over my chin and nose. See, but I didn't know this. My skin doesn't get red, wasn't flaky, didn't seem particularly anything. It was skin. It seemed normal to me. How would I know any different?

So I would like to propose that people be born with little care labels tattooed on their backside (printed in reverse, perhaps, so that we could read them in the mirror) because I'm left wondering what else I don't know about my body. Is my skin yellow-toned or red-toned? I burn, but I also look better in warm colors. What about my hair? It seems thick but sometimes flat on top. Am I really a pear-shape, or curvy? Am I the only person in the world who wonders why all these designations seem so confusing? Well, at least my skin looks good. Now, if I could just figure out whether it's oily or normal or dry or combination...

Holding my own (and hating it)

Today my son threw a fabulous temper tantrum (FTT). It all started when I collected the laundry. I came back in to find that M had pulled a selection of shirts from his dresser and put them in his previously empty laundry basket. I told him that the shirts needed to go back in his dresser, and since he had gotten them out, he needed to put them away.

"No!"

M, a late talker, has just perfected the "N" sound, and is adamant in its use. I, on the other hand, have just perfected (yeah, sure) positive discipline and was eager to diligently apply its principles: logical consequences, positive time outs, etc. I took M and his laundry basket to his room and told him that he could take a positive time out in his room until he was ready to put his clothes away, but that he couldn't come out until he'd finished. This is when the FTT shifted into high. M began to scream and sob uncontrollably. Every once in a while he opened his door to peek out, but he never did leave his room. Nor did he put the clothes away. After periodic checks for a half hour, every time using my calm but firm voice to remind him that he could continue his time out until he was ready to comply, I finally broke down. This was just not working, and his violent insistence against putting his clothes back made me uncomfortable. I knew toddlers could be defiant and that I needed to hold my ground, but this seemed ridiculous. I bent down, gave him a big mama hug, and finally thought to ask why he didn't want to put his clothes away. Turned out he was under the undeniable impression that his clothes needed a washdown (This is a train term. We talk train in our house. It's effective, and I like effective).

Okay, so in all my parenting glory, I'd completely ignored the needs of my little man. We settled on the floor and commenced an imaginary washdown. Once we finish, I folded up the laundry and asked him, again, to put it away. And thus began FTT part II. This time I waited only 15 minutes before trying something different, this time reinforcing the positive in the positive time out by reading books together while periodically asking him to put the clothes back. Yes, you guessed it: crying stopped while reading, crying recommenced as soon as I mentioned said clothes. For the love of all things good...

Over an hour into this tantrum, I finally sat down in his room holding K, who was thankfully snoozing through this whole shindig. I can only handle so much. The crying intensified. I maintained my cool insistence. This is what parenting a toddler is about. I've read the books. I know I have to stand my ground. Eventually he will learn. Eventually he will give in. Eventually I will win. Except I don't want to win. I want my precious little boy to stop screaming like I've taken his heart and juiced it for my own personal gain. I want to do anything else with him other than sit in his room and hold my own.

I get down again. I hug him. I ask what's wrong, finally, explaining again that we've already washed the clothes and gotten them ready to put away. He points to his dresser and gestures and suddenly I hit the nail on the head:

"Is the drawer too tall for you to put the clothes back in?"
"Yeah..." he moans pitifully.

What a mom. What a self-absorbed, book-loving, instinct-ignorant mom. We find an empty cabinet that's easy to access and he happily hops to putting all the clothes in. One hour and fifteen minutes, and we're back to playing as if nothing has happened.

Only something has happened. I stood my ground only to discover it was quicksand, and while he was fine only minutes later, I am still brooding over my actions. You'd think a mom who loved her kids as I do, worked so hard to be respectful and fair, wouldn't fail quite so miserably on such a simple issue. Such is the downfall of parenting. I may not be able to be fired from my job, but sometimes I think I should be all the same.

All is well

This afternoon's naptime has been a frenzy of activity: nursing, cleaning off the desk, colling playdoh shards, folding laundry, reshelving toys and books, baking wheat muffins, cutting up watermelon and cooking Mexican rice for dinner, and doing dishes (twice). All this while the temperature in the house climbs and the sweat beads on my face. Of course, I failed to mention the best part. Somewhere in between, I managed to weasel the first real laugh out of my daughter. Not just the little heh-heh chuckle we'd been getting, but an actual head-knocked-back laugh, complete with hiccups. All is well...

Labels, etc.

I'm going to have to get into labels, because I'm starting a list of things things that moms should know before giving birth. Today's query? What do ducks eat? I certainly hope Kix and Chex both fall on that list, because that's what I had in the car and so that's what the ducks ate, but I'm sort of worried that we'll go back next week and find them all dead, and then I'll have to explain duck-death to a traumatized toddler who will continue to sign "Ducks Eat" long after I'm finished.

For the record, the title issue reared its ugly head again last night and I've decided to give myself a one month probation before I can consider another change. I know, how can a miscellaneous title cause me grief? Oh, maybe it's too long, or a cop-out, or too quick a solution. The whole thing prompted me to look up "neurotic" just to make sure I wasn't using it inappropriately: "a person suffering from a relatively mild personality disorder typified by excessive anxiety or indecision and a degree of social or interpersonal maladjustment" (dictionary.reference.com). Sounds appropriate to me.

Title change already? Yikes...

Yes, I'm changing the title. You have to understand, this is very important to my continued sanity. The whole pressure of choosing a title was what kept me from starting a blog in the first place. Was it witty? Was it too witty? Too dark, maybe, or too artistic? Did it properly identify what I was trying to do? Do I even know what I'm trying to do? Then last night, as I was lying awake after the night's first nursing, I realized that neurotically insecure overthinkers like me should not try to make such agonizing decisions. But what to do? I've already started the blog, feel oddly attached to it, and don't want it to go the way of my unfinished afghan or the half-drunk cups of coffee littering the house. So no title. None. Okay, not none, but very vague. I feel free!

On a side note, I also spent part of my 2.5 hours awake thinking about my promise to actually touch a button. You don't know how much better I felt when I realized that I didn't say which finger I would use. Middle, or even ring, should suffice.

Anal is as Anal Does

Okay, so I'm reading my son his bedtime story last night. It's a book about dinosaurs that I know by heart, but we get to the page with featuring dinosaurs in an elevator, something stops him in his tracks. He won't let me turn the page until he can push the little buttons for the elevator. Now before you zone out thinking that this is another cute kid story, let me finish: he pushes the buttons with his knuckle. Yes, he curled his little boy fingers so that he could use the knuckle of his index finger to push the button. This is how mommy pushes elevator buttons, because her mommy taught her to push them that way. It keeps the germies on the outside of your hands as opposed to the insides. As my husband points out, the two inch difference is relatively meaningless, but it's the principle that counts, at least to me. Only now that I'm thinking about it, what principle is that? That elevator buttons have germies on them? Germies from other people? Germies that we desperately need to avoid? Yeah, so anyone who's been up at night with a sick kid knows that they wouldn't wish that slow, sleep-deprived torture on anyone, but still, am I turning my child against the world one germy elevator button at a time?

I will commit now to touching the next elevator button with the pad of my finger, firmly and deliberately. Sure, I'll wash my hands the minute I get back to the car, but it's a start.

Hello hello...

So this is my first attempt at a blog. I feel like such a virgin. Anyway, I'm not quite sure what I'm doing this for except maybe to find something useful for myself out of the whole mess of each day (or days, since I'm sure I won't be on here as often as I intend). See, I realized I was spending a significant amount of time at night sorting through my thoughts, and, frankly, it's driving me crazy. I'm a writer by nature and since my two kids leave me without any time to actually write, I'm constantly doing so in my head. All the time. About everything. Trying to formulate it and script it and cajole it into something coherent. And I ask myself a lot of questions, too, and when you're only talking to yourself, there are no answers. The biggest question then becomes, am I the only one out there doing this? And could it serve any purpose OTHER than making me batty? So here I am.

Oh, yes, here I am but who am I? I'm a mom, duh, as the two kids might have suggested. I'm young-ish, younger than most of my friends and probably one of the only people I've met who actually look forward to hitting thirty so they don't feel so out of place. I'm married to a man that makes other men look bad. I have self-esteem issues coupled with a serious case of shyness. And I recently dreamed that I told someone I make anal people look relaxed, which isn't too far from the truth. Doesn't that sound like a charming combination? But I also try to be good to others, my kids, the environment, and me as best as I can. Not perfectly, of course, but who manages that? I write, I eat, I would love to make a living doing both, but only after I have the mom-thing down pat. How's that for a statement of purpose?

Now I'm likely to walk away and think about this very post. Is this just making things worse? Hmm...