I write to you from my parent’s home in Baton Rouge. I know it seems weird that I am here with the kids while Husband is in Alabama, and I don’t want to seem like I don’t miss him because I DO.
But.
My sweet mother-in-law took ONE to see a movie this afternoon. The baby is asleep. And I literally just sat on the couch and ate an Almond Joy candy bar while watching Real Housewives of Orange County.
It. Was. Awesome. It kind of felt like I was living a life of leisure, just for a little while.
I wrote my last “Working Mommy” article for Birmingham Mommy this month. It’s bittersweet …
Read it HERE!
I would have posted this yesterday, but I couldn’t stop crying and therefore was unable to see the computer screen.
Last night I was soaking baby bottles in the kitchen sink. A series of events led to my phone landing in the soapy water. Lucky for me, I have experience with this kind of situation because only a few months ago I washed my iphone in the washing machine. So I knew that what I needed to do was get my phone in a bag of rice right away.
In my haste, I dumped the entire box of rice in the sink. If you look closely, you can see my phone in that half-empty Ziplock bag.
Unfortunately, more rice got outside of the bag than inside of it. You may be wondering how THAT happened. Well, I was crying. And the baby was crying. So it just happened.
After the white rice got everywhere except for where I needed it to be, I had to scrap that plan and move on to Plan B which was to freak out. And then start over with a smaller box of Publix Instant Brown Rice which I found in the cabinet.
Here is what I learned:
1. Digging rice out of a garbage disposal with your bare hand sucks.
2. It’s not necessary to dig rice out of a garbage disposal. If you just TURN IT ON, YOU IDIOT, the rice goes away on its own.
I have been in a deep hole this week. It’s what my friends and I refer to as The Pit.
Caring for a sick baby and a three-year-old by myself has sent me to a dark place. Husband isn’t at home in the evenings to help, and I’m just … drowning. I feel like a failure because I know I’m sinking lower and lower and I don’t have much farther to go before I either get in the car and drive away, or stop getting out of bed in the morning.
I called my mother today. I told her I need to come home, with the kids, and camp out for awhile. I felt like a big, fat, 32-year-old failure who can’t handle the life she built for herself. But when she said to COME, and I heard my dad echoing her words in the background, I felt such relief. I have somewhere to run to, and as much I don’t want to be away from Husband, my sanity is at stake here. And as he kindly pointed out, right now my sanity takes priority over everything else.
Admitting I need help makes me feel like something is wrong with me. And yes, I KNOW, nothing is wrong with asking for help, blah blah blah, I shouldn’t try to do it alone, blah blah blah, everyone has rough patches, blah blah blah. It doesn’t stop me from feeling like something is wrong with me or my children, because isn’t everyone else coping just fine?
I never, ever would have imagined myself getting to this place. It’s not that I didn’t think it would be difficult to stay at home with two kids. I just didn’t think it would be so difficult that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Of course I didn’t know that TWO would turn out to be such a CRAZY ASS baby (I feel really guilty for saying that), that Husband’s work schedule would be so grueling that I would feel like a single parent, (I feel guilty for saying that as well, because Husband works really hard so I can stay home), and I really didn’t have a clue how three-year-olds can be when you are with them all the time.
It’s hard to come to grips with these facts because I am transitioning from a professional career where I got paid good money to solve PROBLEMS.
It is humbling for me to admit that my current situation has broken me down completely. I mean broke. me. down. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling like I’m drowning in motherhood and I need someone to throw me a life jacket. I know I shouldn’t feel like a failure because I cried every day this week and only cooked things that came out of a box.
If someone else was telling me this story, I would assure her she was strong and capable and NOT a failure. But it’s not someone else … it’s me. I will always put pressure on myself to be better at whatever I happen to be doing. It’s what my therapist called “internal motivation.”
So here it is: I am internally motivated to go see my Mama. Maybe one day, when my boys are grown and I have recovered from the task of raising them, I can return the favor.
TWO is sick.
ONE seems to be catching it. I kind of wish he would get sick, so he would lie around the house quietly instead of chattering nonstop and running around screaming. Does that make me a bad mother?
This week I swore I would go to the gym every day, and I went exactly one day before TWO got this cold. So maybe next week I can go every day. All I want right now is to wash the snot and drool off of me.
A few things:
1. Toothpaste works better on a pimple than any acne product I have ever tried. I wish someone would have told me about this when I was in high school instead of when I was in my thirties. I’m passing it along as Very Helpful Information. You’re welcome.
2. Where do people with overly-curious little boys keep their knives? Because I definitely caught MY overly-curious little boy standing on a kitchen stool yesterday trying to smell all of the spices in the spice rack, which happens to be right next to our knife set.
3. Do people with small children even have knife sets? Or are we the only ones?
4. We probably are the only ones.
If you are flat-chested and bitter about it, stop reading here.
For the rest of you, I’d like to discuss boobs. Today during Bodyflow class at the Y, I am almost positive mine tried to smite me. I really do think it’s possible to be smothered to death by your own ladies.
If you are flat-chested and opted to continue reading this, and are thinking something along the lines of “I wish I had that problem,” YOU DO NOT WANT THAT PROBLEM. I have outlined the reasons why:
1. Although none of my bras fit properly, I am afraid to get professionally measured because I’m almost positive they don’t sell my size in normal stores and I’ll be forced to spend $80/bra at one of those stores for large-boobed women.
2. Big boobs may be attractive to some, but only if they are fake or holstered by a sturdy undergarment. Otherwise, they’re gross. Pure and simple. Gross, sad, and depressing.
3. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you visit this website (NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK): www.theshapeofamother.com.
4. I noticed the other day that my cleavage is creeping up to my neck. This means that pretty soon, I’ll have cleavage up to my neck.
Since I am only 32 years old, I have decided to make do with my current situation. I will work out, lose weight, have more babies (maybe), work out, lose weight, schedule Husband’s vasectomy, and then schedule myself a boob job and possibly skin removal for my lower abdomen. Yoga and pilates seem to be doing wonders for my core, but there ain’t nothing that can be done about all of that skin.
Now, if you’ll excuse me … ONE is outside covered in mud and poop. I lead a very glamorous life.
Six years ago, I couldn’t stomach the act of touching raw meat. My carnivore of a husband was sooooo screwed.
Look at me now! I made meatballs at 9 a.m. this morning. That’s RAW COW you’re looking at.
ONE just came in from outside.
He smells like gasoline.
Fail.
Naptime is my nemesis. OH, HOW I HATE NAPTIME.
I have blogged about this problem over and over, but basically my three-year-old has refused to nap for half of his life. We finally gave up the battle about a year ago because it was just too ridiculous. He fought it tooth and nail. At daycare, he would remove articles of clothing and throw them at the other kids to wake them up. We got complaints every day because of “disruption during naptime.” He has always slept 12 hours a night so we never pressed the issue.
Fast-forward to four months ago when the baby was born and I NEEDED him to nap. I tried letting him watch a movie on my bed, which worked for like a week. Then he was over it and would come looking for me.
Some of my friends were aghast to learn that my older child doesn’t have a naptime or a “rest time” and I concluded that I might be a better mother if I tried to force it. So I did. On Monday he pooped about 15 minutes into “naptime.” I was trying to relax and just when I got settled I heard his little mouth against his bedroom door telling me that he pooped. So I changed him and laid down again and right about that time, the baby woke up. And so on and so forth.
This is why I have an addiction to coffee.
Today, we tried once more. He pooped, AGAIN (it took everything in me not to sling a cuss fit, I mean WTF is wrong with my kid?!), destroyed his room, and piled clothes against the door so I couldn’t come in.
He is currently locked in our backyard with a snack and some rubber boots. Maybe I’ll give up on the nap and just enforce outside time instead.
Yesterday, a terrible thing happened.
Let me preface this by saying that I am struggling to adjust to summer break. Struggling. Like … it’s good? But also horrible? Can something be good and horrible all at once? Because I’m pretty sure that is exactly what parenthood is.
Making the transition from having all three kids in school for 6+ hours per day (and working during those hours), to having them home all the time and trying to get my work done in addition to mothering in a loving fashion, is not going great. As I have already established in multiple blog posts from previous years, summer is effing relentless.
Pepper is obsessed with two things: outlets and babies. Here she is showing her baby doll the outlet in her bedroom. #multitasking
Thankfully, this year is somewhat easier than previous years simply because my children are getting older and more independent. Pepper will be 3 next week, so I think we’re finally on the upswing after a very dark time in the Valley of Motherhood.
Yesterday afternoon, we got home from playing at the park. The boys jumped out of the van, heard some kids next door playing, and asked if they could go over to play. I granted them permission and took Pepper inside. Her clothes were filthy — covered in layers of peanut butter and dirt — so I stripped her down to a diaper.
I ran to the bathroom with her trailing behind me, always my little shadow. And then, my mom called. She’s not feeling well and I can barely hear her on the phone. I was straining to understand what she was saying — did she just say she needed to go to the hospital?! — and naturally, my toddler got really loud at exactly that moment. As her shouting drowned out my mother, my stress level started to rise.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. My daughter cried from the hall, and when she stopped, I was thankful. When I emerged only a few minutes later, the house was quiet. A panicky feeling started to rise in my chest, and then it felt like my heart stopped.
Just.
Stopped.
Beating.
Our back door was standing wide open.
Screaming her name, I ran outside. She was gone. Or hiding. Or missing.
I heard a woman’s voice — our across the street neighbor — yelling at me that she just saw a little girl cut through the fences in the backyard.
“She went that way, sweetheart! I was standing here watching her!”
I was barefoot and it did not matter. I ran. I ran until I found her. I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t feel my body. All I could hear was my own voice screaming her name, and my heartbeat deafening my ears. That is what blind panic feels like.
My 2-year-old was wandering one street over from ours, wearing nothing but her diaper. She was holding a toy pet carrier with a little stuffed dog inside. I will never forget the way her face looked when she saw the horror on mine.
“NEVER AGAIN,” I said to her.
“Not with my dog?” she said.
“NEVER, EVER. Do not ever leave this house without a grown up,” I said, as I wiped away my tears.
I’m sharing this story to demonstrate how quickly children can disappear. How many times have I heard stories of toddlers wandering the streets and thought to myself, WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?
That mother is me. I was right there. It happened anyway.
I’m a damn good mom. I am capable. I am aware. I am not negligent. But children are fast. And sometimes quiet. And things happen. So today I’m hugging my babies tight, grateful for their safety, knowing that sometimes other mamas aren’t so lucky.
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Modern Mommy Madness 