Author: hardtobeahuman

Human. Mother. Wife. Writer.

A Helluva Day

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crying kids
Meltdown City

It’s Monday night and I’m trying to write a post about how my kids have finally become friends (I will – I promise). But it’s been a helluva day and I’m in full recovery mode. Since the kids were so enjoyable last week, I got tricked into forgetting it goes in phases. My next post will be full of light and love and fluffy prose. Tonight all I have is the raw truth of being broken by motherhood.

By 7:00 am, I had ruined Addie’s life by adding yogurt to cool down her oatmeal, and Owen’s by not holding his 30 pound self while I juggled breakfast, lunches, water bottles, baby bottles, COFFEE. He bit me and smacked my face while Addie threw her rejected breakfast on the floor, shrieking when the dog then ate it. I took deep breaths and kept them moving through the morning routine.

At 8:00 am the kids were lined up by the door. The daily car issues began: one won’t let me open the garage until she’s seated and buckled, one wants to climb in himself but can’t. Addie’s car seat has been temperamental. I fixed it, she wailed on the floor of the garage “don’t have a car seat issue, Mama!” Owen fussed because she was.

After dropping Addie off at preschool, the morning passed: we picked up J-Baby, went to gymnastics, fed everyone. Owen is entering the terrible two’s and has unpredictable tantrums, but quick recoveries. The dog was feisty – barking outside and pestering inside. Minor annoyances. I saved my energy for what was coming next.

12:00 school pickup required a ten minute conversation with the teacher about Addie’s day: defiance, throwing sand, climbing on tables, running away and hiding. Meanwhile, my kids disappeared into a sea of preschoolers, many of them swarming me to grab the baby. Addie ran away again once we got outside, and didn’t earn her fruit snacks; the behavior at school meant she didn’t earn her quarter. The 6-minute drive home, filled with sobs over lost chances, felt endless. I wracked my brain for ways to salvage the day.

12:30 began the naptime rush. Owen and the baby went down easy-peasy; Addie did not. Bribery failed. Consequences failed. Lying down with her failed. The battle ended with destruction of property, kicking of doors and waking up of both boys. All three stared at me, their little faces red from exhaustion and crying. It was 2:00 pm.

My mind raced through hundreds of parenting tips to deescalate: whispering, granting fantasy wishes, asking them how to solve the problems. I gave them homemade calm bottles, to watch glitter float through colored water while they cooled off. They threw them at me. I tried empathetic limits, rewards, 1-2-3 or consequence. I tried humor: asking if they had lost their strong voices, if they needed their hug tanks refilled. I tried distraction with movies (they couldn’t agree), snacks (all unacceptable), toys (used to hit each other). Nothing worked. These kids were fully committed to mischief, mayhem, and meltdowns.

I tried to take deep breaths. I tried to choose love. But I’m an imperfect human with limits. I settled on staying as quiet as possible, for fear of yelling terrible things. The afternoon passed. No one recovered. J-Baby got picked up fussy and tired. My kids sobbed through peanut butter sandwiches and went to bed at 6:00 pm. Now here I am – beating myself up about all the things. Maybe Tuesday will be better; maybe the whole week will be a shitstorm. I’ll rally – moms are tough – but for now I’m too tired to do anything but wallow in defeat. This was a helluva day.

One Dozen Fantasies I Have

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Sometimes I pretend the mountain of sand my kids track in is a beach on a deserted island.

Sometimes I pretend we stick to 30 minutes of screen time daily.

I pretend I’m the one in charge here.

Sometimes I pretend if I close my eyes and can’t see them, then they can’t see me.

I pretend folding laundry is fulfilling.

I pretend I will always have babies.

Sometimes I pretend I’m developing a harmless and comfortable ailment that, nonetheless, will require an overnight vacation to the hospital.

I pretend I have it all under control, but really I’m 83% shambles and 17% nailing it.

Sometimes I pretend soaking my feet in my kids’ bath water is a relaxing spa treatment.

Sometimes I pretend I’m doing “work” on my phone, when I’m playing Candy Crush.

Sometimes I pretend I’m cherishing every moment, especially the one when my husband was out of town and my 2 year old, my 8 month old, and I all got the stomach flu.

Sometimes I pretend there’s no ache in my heart from raising happy humans, capable enough to leave me someday.

Oh Owen

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“Cute smile. How old is he?” asks the woman behind me in line at Target. “One” I say, because I can’t bear to say twenty-three months or, worse yet, almost two.

But he clearly is: twenty-three months, almost two. His cheeks are getting less chubby. His size 2T pants no longer need to be rolled. He clears his own dishes, buckles himself into his booster and car seats. He chats in two and three word sentences. When I kiss him, he’s just as likely to say “no Mommy, stop it” and duck his head, as he is to kiss me back. When we read together, there’s a 50 percent chance he’ll insist on holding the book, saying “self”. And yet, he still pumps his hands in the air for Sesame Street or bubbles. When overwhelmed by big feelings, he still wants me to hold him and sing “Kookaburra”. He hovers on the line between independence and babyhood, grasping for both sides.

It happens gradually, unnoticed, and then in bursts. The mastering of skills: hitting the tee ball, building with Legos, dressing himself. The language bursts: questions (“Daddy is?), details (“right here”), and opinions (“no no haircut”). The lengthening and strengthening of limbs and muscles.

A few times a week, he gets his energy out at toddler gymnastics (“nastics”), an unstructured, mommy-and-me class in which 1-3 year olds race around the gym like wild heathen. A favorite activity for both of my kids, I barely remember a time when I didn’t trudge around the gym after them, yawning, pregnant or with another baby in the carrier. The moms and kids around me have changed, sometimes cycled back through with their next babies in tow, but I have been there, chasing kids, for a little over two years now.

A O parachute

Addie and Owen have always prioritized different activities. She went crazy for the bars and rings. She lived for “parachute time”, sitting engaged in a circle with her buddies, next to (or on the lap of) her favorite coach. She sang the songs and did the stretches – tucking her legs to her chest and then hammering her knees and toes straight. She still sometimes practices at home, as the coach of her stuffed animals.

A rings

Owen has never warmed up to the coaches. The rings and parachute don’t hold his interest. His primary activity is roaming across obstacle courses of mats and ramps. His face lights up as he jumps off of blocks or gets air on the big trampoline (Addie was never able to wait her turn for that, or jump with both feet). He also exhibits feats of strength, carrying the weighted balls (“heavy”) to the mini basketball hoop and pushing the ramps around.

This morning though, at twenty-three months, almost two, he was a new beast – a master of gymnastics. He took off his own shoes and socks to get ready (an exercise for which I rarely have time and patience – poor second kid) and put them in a cubby by the door. He bounced on his toes by the entrance with the other toddlers, nametags on, eagerly waiting to be unleashed. When the coach let the wild animals in, he raced to the front of the pack.

Instead of saying “hand”, demanding that I explore with him, he was halfway across the gym before he looked back and flashed me a grin of pure joy. He joined a group of boys, chucking beanbags and racing up the ramps to big blocks, leaping off, never fazed by the falls. He fearlessly swung across the (toddler sized) zipline. When the Disney radio pumping through the speakers stopped, and the bell rang for parachute time, he required no coaxing to participate. Today he leveled up in toddler gymnastics.

It all goes this way: too slowly and then suddenly too fast. Checking the calendar and checking him out in action, he is officially twenty-three months, almost two. But in his mama’s eyes, he is still ONE for another twenty-three days

O post

Little Arms

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Lately life is all milestones for Addie: preschool, bikes, nail polish and makeup. I tagged along on her first sleepover with her buddy Zoey (and little sister Abby), so I could hang with my mom best friend (MBFF). We arrived a little before dark, Addie with her sleeping bag and no idea what to expect. The girls played, ate waffles with cream cheese for dinner and strawberry ice cream for dessert. They changed into pajamas and brushed teeth together, trying out each other’s toothpaste. By the time we put them to bed (in separate rooms) they both sacked out immediately, exhausted from talking a mile a minute the whole time.

Around 8:30, we officially considered it a success – they were asleep. We were left with nothing to do but chill out, swap stories old and new, eat cake, dream and reminisce. With four kids between us, this is unprecedented. We didn’t even have to deal with the guilt of leaving our kids to spend time together. As glorious as it all was, we’re old and tired. We said long goodnights, appreciating the rejuvenating time between ‘soul sisters’ (a term we used to use ironically, but has now become the truth of our relationship).

I tiptoed into the spare room even though I knew Addie was sound asleep from her deep, long breaths. Her little body was sprawled in the middle of the pull-down bed, surrounded by comfort items from home: the grey and white blanket she’s had since birth, her bear (“Mop”), and the owl she tucks under her chin for comfort, less and less often these days.

Addie Sleeping

As usual, she was drenched in sleep sweat; I brushed her long blonde hair from her face, and lifted her head to turn her pillow over to the cool side. I looked for a spot to slip into bed without moving her but then shoved her, unceremoniously, to the left. As I lay down next to her she groaned and turned toward me. Her warm little arm brushed against mine and my whole body sighed, sagging into the bed, heavy with love.

My first-born’s soft skin sent an electric current of emotions through my body. A love so hard that it pulsed through my veins, making my blood move faster, somehow warmer. My chest tightened with a bittersweet rush of love for this human I created. It stings, just a little, this love, with an almost unbearable awe. I snuggled her close and a wave of contentment washed over me.

Outside the bedroom door was quiet calm. Above me was soft light from a beautiful fixture resembling a circle cut from a redwood tree. My MBFF has impeccable taste. I felt the pull of Friday night exhaustion in my body and mind. My soul was grateful for the gift lying next to me (though I hoped she slept for many hours). I let myself lean into the love, and closed my eyes.

Presidents’ Day Hike

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Penny
Puppy Penny – 6 years ago at Schollenberger Park

Three-day weekends mean a day off to sleep late. A bonus day to get things done, have some fun, and get some chill time. An extra day with my main squeeze, an extra night to stay up late. Right?

HA. HA. HA. I have kids.

Holidays now mean Kevin is home from teaching, Addie is home from preschool, and I don’t babysit my part-time third child. They do not mean my kids sleep past 6 am, or refrain from climbing in our bed and complaining, or torturing the dog before sunrise. Monday holidays mean the third day in a row of this, and their pent up energy leaves us no option but to get out of the damn house.

Presidents’ Day was no exception. The morning snuggles were nice, but didn’t last. We bitched and moaned over coffee about needing to get out, but it was so windy and freezing (40 degrees, 55 within the hour). Northern CA winters are rough. Indoor activities would be too crowded for adult anxiety and toddler wildness. With no better options, and the kids trashing the house room by room, we decided to brave a hike at Schollenberger Park. A wetlands area close to us, with stroller-friendly paths, and nice views, it was a free activity: low risk if it failed.

I tricked Addie (3 ½) into getting ready by asking her to pick a ridiculous outfit, and she rose to the challenge: flowered leggings, neon striped shorts, pink tutu, purple rainbow shirt. Owen (almost 2) announced he would be riding his scooter. Kevin and I shared a panicked glance when we heard “DOO RIE!” (scooter ride). The scooter (which he only pushes backwards) means meltdowns over going in the street or heading home, and constant screams of “SELF! SELF! O-OH DO IT!” With an empathetic “sorry sweetie, today will be a hike and stroller ride”, we responded to every cry of “DOO RIE!” with “mm hmm, hike”. He was not comforted, but did get in the car, after a quick 90 minutes of getting ready. Poor Penny Dog ran in anxious circles, begging not to be left behind.

We all had vastly different ideas of how this hike should go. Kevin wanted to run, like we did in our pre-child days. I did not. Penny was delusional about getting ALL the birds. Owen never got over the scooter; he jumped in and out of the stroller, fussing about walking off the path (strictly forbidden). My genetically predisposed klutz, Addie, ran while looking behind her, holding sticks and fruit snacks, until her coughing fits confined her to the stroller. We strapped them both in and walked together in peace, looking at the water, noticing the new SmartTrain in the distance. For 12 seconds.

Halfway around the 2-mile loop, we were in divide and conquer mode. The cold wind in my ears failed to drown out demands for snacks, complaints of kicking, and WHYWHYWHY’s. My shoulders ached from pushing the 70 pounds of double beast stroller over gravel. I wondered WHYWHYWHY we thought this was a good idea. Kevin and Penny were stopped ahead, off the path (I saw passersby frown). I jogged toward my handsome husband, recently clean-shaven after his winter break beard. Fresh air and love lifted me a little. My pretty Penny, my first baby with flopped ears, wagged her curled up tail. Kev waved and assessed the scene, glanced at approaching dogs and clutched the leash tighter. He was waiting to check in, see if I wanted to switch off, or relieve me of a whiny kid.The way he oversees our family is his own brand of romance; he is the glue that holds us together.

Flashing back to those pre-kid days, I imagined K and P had sprinted ahead as I caught up for a second lap. I pictured the leisurely lunch we might have after. Maybe we would go downtown for a beer. Or lounge on the living room floor; I would devour a novel for fun and he would strum the guitar. We would make a little dinner, watch non-Disney-channel TV. We would sleep ALL NIGHT. A wistful pang stopped me.

Then I heard pure joy:

“LOOK THERE’S DADDY AND PENNY!”

“DA-DDY! BE-BBY!”

I pulled back the stroller canopies to see their faces: Addie’s spunky smile and wild eyes, watery from the wind. Owen’s toothy grin and shaggy hair. I looked again at my main squeeze. I saw his heart shine through his whole face. Those old days are gone, but they got us to this perfectly imperfect one.