OH FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!

Most of the time, I feel like I have the most perfect kid in the universe: affectionate, funny, not a picky eater, sleeps like a brick, loves everybody. And then there's this afternoon.

This afternoon, I am the proud mother of a screaming, head-butting, slapping, fit-throwing T. Rex who apparently does not want me to make dinner. How do I know? Because every time I walk in the kitchen, he wedges himself in between me and whatever work surface I'm trying to use, and caterwauls until I pick him up. I have tried ignoring him -- I get hit with whatever toy is handy. If I pick him up, he immediately wiggles and squirms to be put down, then cries when I DO put him down (lather, rinse, repeat). I've tried a snack, I've tried a drink (for him, not me, although MAN does that sound good right about now), I've tried reading together, watching a show together, ad infinitum ad nauseum.

And now we've reached the point that I like to call "OH FOR THE LOVE OF PETE WOULD YOU PLEASE STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!" I don't yell this out loud, or even say it in a regular voice. But it blares in my brain at full volume -- almost like in The Shining, when Danny sends a telepathic message to Dick Hallorann that's so strong, Dick feels like he's going to pass out (or something like that):

"ZOMG I CAN'T LISTEN TO ANY MORE OF THIS FUCKING WHINING!"

This is the point where I have to carry the screaming, kicking T. Rex up the stairs, put him in his crib, shut the door, and walk away. Because seriously? Mommy needs a time out.

I'd never, never, NEVER do anything to hurt my son. Even at the worst of these moments, when I feel my blood boiling, and all I want to do is scream right back at him, it never enters my mind to hit him out of anger. But I also know that sometimes very scary things happen in the brains of tired, stressed, hungry mommies on the verge of their own little meltdown.

So I walk away, and I turn the volume down on the baby monitor (it's up just enough for me to hear if he's doing anything other than peevish whining), and I wait for the transformation -- his, not mine. I get my shit together, and then I go upstairs and get him. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Monkey Business

My friend Melissa and her husband joined us for Taco Night last night. They brought their adorable bebe, and I can't even put into words how much fun it was to watch him play with Austin. They're about six months apart in age, but Little T is way ahead of where Austin was (in terms of physical development) at that age. He can also say "Uh oh," which, O MY GOD THE CUTENESS!

Austin had a little trouble being gentle with T, but that's age-appropriate I guess. Plus, well, Austin plows into everything and anything that moves. T took it very well; he's a tough guy, just like his daddy (his mommy's pretty damn tough, too!).

I picked both the boys up at the same time, holding one on each hip. It felt really, really good. I've had doubts about having more children, but last night sealed the deal. I want more. I know I have to wait, both because of my surgery and because I need to lose a significant amount of weight, but I am so ready to do this all over again.


Me & My Little Man - 5.17.2008

He Saves My Life

Having worked with kids in the past, and babysat for what seemed like a million years, I know that one of the best parts of working with little kids is their hugs. They're sometimes sticky (or stinky, even), but so worth it. What I didn't know was how hugs and kisses from my OWN kid could save me from the worst days, the sad-sack days, the days when everything goes wrong. Or how your child can tell when something's bothering you, and gives you exactly what you need.

I've had kind of a crappy day. A lot of little things have gone wrong, nothing life-altering, but a little stressful just the same. When I went upstairs to get Austin from his afternoon nap, he looked up at me from his little blanket-nest in the crib and gave me a huge smile. "DA!" he said, and jumped to his feet. His little hands clutched the rail, and he flung his head into my chest -- his loving head-butt.

I carried him down the stairs. We reached the bottom, and instead of wiggling out of my arms, he shrieked when I tried to set him down and nuzzled his head into my neck. We walked around a little bit, me and my Bug, looking out the windows, talking to the dogs. I asked if he wanted to watch a show, and he nodded his head yes. Normally, he'll watch about five minutes of an episode of say, "Bob the Builder," and then ignore the TV and play. Today, when I sat down on the floor, he crawled into my lap and leaned back against me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed the top of his head, and he let out a big sigh. "Yeah, Buddy...tough day, huh?"

He nodded, "Da," and stroked my jeans. Tears welled up in my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of gratitude. Oh, why did no one ever tell me it could be like this?

Thank you, thank you, thank you, God or whoever, for this tiny person who heals my heart.

Sometimes

Sometimes I miss sleeping until noon. Sometimes. Lazily rolling over, maybe sitting up briefly to read the paper and schlurp some coffee. Nowhere to be, no deadlines, no timelines, just morning.

Mornings now: a burst of whirlwind energy - get up feed the kid let the dogs out feed the dogs clean up kid say goodbye to hubs let the dogs back in WHEW! Then hours of play - don't hit me with your truck, NOT NICE. After that, it's silence while the kid sleeps and I find ways to avoid what I really should be doing (housework writing cleaning organizing exercising). Try as I might, I usually end up flopped on the couch with a Diet Coke, watching movies on Netflix. As soon as he stirs upstairs, I realize what I've not done (dishes lunch prep exercise letters dogs need OUT!).

And so goes my day, most days. Some days I stay on the ball, hausfrau in overdrive, and Hubs comes home to order (clean house clothes folded dinner on the table). Not today. Today I want to be in the dark, with curtains drawn, under covers and alone.

The Rage

At breakneck speed, Austin's becoming a little man, not just a pink raisin who giggles and poops all day. There's good stuff -- he walks, he can carry his own toys, he hugs, he babbles -- but there's some not-so-good stuff, too. Like tantrums.

Apparently, 16 months is the new "two," meaning my once beautifully-behaved guy is an absolute nightmare at least once a day. He had a fantastic meltdown at Toys R Us last weekend, complete with flailing and screaming on the sidewalk. My reaction was not what I'd expected it to be: instead of feeling frustrated, or mad, or embarrassed, I wanted to laugh. Not laugh in a mean "ooh look at how pitiful you are" way, but in that, "Oh dear...that's just a hot mess of a toddler on the sidewalk" way. It was really surprising, and it made me feel like a good mom; I didn't lose my patience with him, I just picked him up and away we went. That's not to say that a mom who reacts differently is "bad," -- I can totally understand that feeling of "O MY GOSH WILL YOU PLEASE JUST STOP!"

Austin's tantrums are (fortunately) almost always predictable. Like me, he hates to be hot, he hates big noisy crowds, and God forbid you let the kid go more than three hours without eating something. I don't keep him away from everyone or everything just for the sake of preventing a scream-fest, though; I think he's got to adjust to being around big groups, and he has to learn that sometimes, getting hot and sticky and sweaty is inevitable. (I'm sure at some point he'll start saying really classy stuff like "It's so hot, my balls are stuck to my leg," a Charlie trademark phrase.) I don't want him to turn into one of these kids that's so isolated from everything that they never learn how to function in the real world. Isn't that the goal? Make him a well-adjusted kid who doesn't end up skinning the neighbor's cat?