Legoland Adventure

I planned our trip to Legoland for spring break ages ago.  I coerced my mom into taking care of Freddie (and Tony) for a few days and I booked the flights, hotel, and park passes.



And then I sobbed when I dropped Freddie off the day we left.  It was my first time away from him and though I craved the sleep and the opportunity to sever our breastfeeding relationship (the chubby leech has been sucking until he exhausted the milk and started drawing blood every night for the last month), I was loathe to go without him for three nights.  Codependent much, Amelia?

Luckily for me, I had this bedmate while in California (even though he had his own perfectly good Lego pirate bunk):



Also, this guy watched over me while I slept, so I guess I was well-protected:



When we arrived, it was almost 8 PM, but the kids were wired.  We stayed up to watch the poolside movie with some hot chocolate (Lego Star Wars, of course).



The boys were up SO STINKING EARLY the next morning.





Too early, in fact, for the early-entrance to the park granted to those staying at the Legoland Hotel.  So they did a treasure hunt and built Legos to pass the time.



The weather was great, as you would imagine.











We spent the middle of both days at the water park, which meant that we missed the crowds for the rides.  It worked out pretty well.  Isn’t it great when you accidentally do something awesome?











I cannot say enough good things about Legoland.  The hotel staff was awesome.  The restaurants were perfect for kids.  The buffet was great.  There was an opportunity to embarrass my children every time we rode the elevator: when the elevator doors closed, the disco dance party started and they were mortified, even if no one else was in the elevator with us.  The park itself was perfectly sized and had a wide variety of activities besides just rides.  The water park was fun.  Two days spent there was just the right amount.







I had no personal agenda during this trip, other than to have fun with my boys.  We did the rides they wanted to do, we played what they wanted to play, we ate what they wanted to eat.  I (sort of) enforced bedtimes and teeth-brushing and that’s it.  I let them have control and there were no fights or tantrums.  It was wonderful.





The only shaky part was the trip home, and it was entirely my fault.  In a spectacular showing of idiocy, I did not so much look at the map from Legoland to the San Diego Airport (they’re about 40 miles apart) as glance at it.  We left a bit later than I intended, during rush hour (which moved surprisingly well on the freeway – certainly MUCH better than Seattle), and I took an incorrect exit when the freeway split into two freeways.  We went from a little behind schedule to a lot behind schedule.

We made it through customs and to our gate just before boarding, so I herded the boys over to the bathrooms and we took turns sitting with the luggage (all carry-on) while the others peed one last time before the airplane.  We left a bag at the bathroom, but I didn’t realize it until we were in that little tunnel, about to board the plane.

“Where’s the blue-and-white striped bag?  Oh, shoot!  We left it!  Boys, GET ON THE PLANE, I’m going back.” 

And then I left them to get on the plane.  Which was probably a stupid idea, but it all worked out, you’ll see.

I made my way, frantically, to the bathrooms and then back to security.  Luckily, we were in the small terminal at the airport – at the big terminal, I might have just said “to hell with the bag.”  The bag was at security and after a bit of panicked explanation that I was not trying to leave it behind, I was just absent-minded, I retrieved it.  I ran back to the plane and boarded just in time for takeoff.  The boys had their Legos and were playing, totally unconcerned.  The other parents on the plane assured me they had taken good care of them and that everything was okay, God bless them.

What a gift it was to have been able to do this for and with my big boys.  Next year, we’ll stick close to home, but I promised them we’d go back and do Legoland again when Freddie’s four.

Freddie, who only screamed at me for a whole day upon my return.  He wouldn’t let me put him down, but he screamed at me while I held him.  Pour chunk was so angry.  He’s over it now, and he hasn’t breastfed since.

Shoe Leather

I am unbelievably absent-minded when I am tired.  My house, desk, phone, and purse are littered with lists and appointments and Post-Its and notes to remind me to do things and sometimes they STILL don’t get done.  I’ve often wondered how Tony manages on so little sleep.  I also wonder why people insist on dropping off their tax information way into March when it’s pretty much guaranteed that their tax professional is living on coffee and a prayer.  Now, this is just speculation here, and I’m sure that Tony and his colleagues do a great job on tax returns no matter the day, but I think quality must be better the earlier you turn your stuff in.  You know, when the preparer is well-rested and less stressed.  They’re bound to appreciate you more, at the very least.

Last Tuesday, a day of school, work, the housekeeper coming (so I have to scramble to pick up ahead of time so she can get to the floors to clean them), gymnastics class, and my Y workout class, I forgot to plug the crockpot in.  Well, first I forgot to put the corned beef in the crockpot, but I put it in at noon.  Jamie came to work with me because he was still getting over having a bad case of the barfs on Sunday night (why must these things always happen in the middle of the night?), so we went home for lunch and a nap at noon.  I put the corned beef in the crockpot then, turned it on high, and forgot to plug it in.  Turns out it doesn’t work so well when it’s not plugged in (when, oh when, will appliances run on my desires alone?)  Three hours later, I realized my mistake.  Then I forgot that I had such an appliance as a pressure cooker even though my mom was just talking about cooking corned beef in a pressure cooker the day before.  Instead, I tried to cook it on the stovetop, which is a legitimate way to cook a corned beef if you can cook it all day.  However, I refuse to leave the stove on when I’m not at home, so I cooked it for an hour, turned it off, went to gymnastics, cooked it for another half hour, and left for my Y class.

Needless to say, it was as tough as shoe leather when Tony served it for dinner.  That’s kind of the point of corned beef, you know?  It’s a cheap, tough cut of beef that turns edible after hours and hours of slow cooking.  Except now it’s a novelty food served for Saint Patrick’s Day, a holiday that means next to nothing in our family, so it’s not so cheap.  Tony tried to make the kids eat it, regardless of how tough it was, and he’s too nice to say anything like “mom surely screwed this one up, you don’t have to eat it, I’ll make nachos.”  Or maybe he was just too tired to remember how to make nachos.  I wasn’t there to admit to everyone that I made a horrible mistake and we should just have nachos instead, so everybody cried, and Tony sent a paniced text around 7 stating simply, “everyone’s crying and they hate me.”  Been there, my love.

I won’t say all’s well that ends well because it really didn’t that night.  Dinner is not currently an area of success in our house.

At any rate, even without a note to remind me, I’ll probably remember these lessons: turn on the crockpot; remember your pressure cooker; nachos have the power to fix things only if you recognize them as a viable alternative.

Beating Our Heads Against the Wall

Tony and Charles are the same person and it’s driving everyone nuts.  “Like father, like son” is cute and all, but right now this phenomenon has me careening wildly between exasperation and rage.

And Tony, bless his heart, doesn’t see it.  At all.

“He’s just like you,” I say.  “He gets absorbed in what he’s doing and he tunes everything else out.”

“He’s stubborn, and just like you, the more you push, the more he will entrench his position.”

“Tony, you have to cut him some slack, even if you would never cut yourself slack in this situation.  He’s seven years old.”

“Kind words, please, boys, KIND WORDS.”

Charles, for his part, has taken to saying, “Daddy’s just grumpy because he has to work all the time.”

Now there’s the understatement of the century.

Is clash of wills a short-term phenomenon or will we have to endure the two of them butting heads forever?  I don’t know, but I can tell you that I do not relish my role as mediator.  I sometimes feel like yelling, “Everybody CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”  Not sure how helpful that would be.

I get it, though.  I understand Tony’s extreme irritation.  I understand why he just wants to throw up his hands and walk away.  That child, our child, pushes us to the brink of insanity every damn day and I’ll tell you what: there’s no quicker way to feel like a failure as a parent than to go a round with Charles.

On Monday, Charles, my little nihilist, decided not to go to school (again).  Why should he, after all, when school is “boring and stupid” and he doesn’t like it?  No reason I give is good enough, that’s for damn sure.  I LOVED school, at least until I realized that I was “different” for loving learning and wanting to be the best.  I was naive and had poor social perception, much like Charles does, so I anticipate him not understanding why some kids don’t like him in a few years.  Then again, maybe it’s cool to be a nerd now.

Refusing to go to school is Charles’s new thing.  It was so bad a couple months ago that four administrators and I couldn’t coerce or even physically pull him from the car.  This time, instead of getting into the car when it was time to go, he hid.  He hid so well that I couldn’t find him for fifteen minutes and I started to panic.  Did he get on the bus (that goes to a different school)?  Did he start walking to school?  Did someone kidnap him from the front yard?  Did he fall off the roof and break his neck? 

He was curled up in a cupboard, as silent as a mouse.  I very nearly cried with relief.

Every day that kid insists that school has no purpose and every day I chirp in my best Pollyanna voice, “Guess what YOU get to do TODAY?!”  And then I extend the carrot that either convinces Charles that it’s worth bothering with school or distracts him from the fact that he must spend the best part of the day in school instead of playing LEGOs or reading or climbing trees.  I don’t give him a reward, but I do highlight the positives in a way that is unbearably cheerful (“Reptile Man is coming today for an assembly!” “Remember!  We’re going to ninja gymnastics tonight!”).  And if things really go south, I break out the chocolate because a jolt of sugar can sometimes bring his mood back to even when nothing else can.

He’s only seven and he’s bored.  From the time he was a baby, he has needed to be constantly engaged, constantly stimulated in order to be happy.  He’s not old enough to talk himself into doing the drudge work to get to the good stuff, so it falls to us to keep him occupied with frequent trips to the library, multiple activities, begging his teachers for more challenging math homework, and the occasional kick in the ass to “go outside and play already!”

There is no easy answer, but grace.  I try to keep my cool.  I’ve resolved to yell less and I’m slowly making strides in that direction.  I can usually identify the look on Charles’s face that tells me he’s about to freak out about school or homework and I try to head it off with chocolate and love and silliness and absurdly happy retellings of the good things to come.  I remind him that his daddy loves him, even though he gets frustrated.  I remind Tony that Charles loves him and looks up to him, even when he pushes back and stubbornly refuses to eat his dinner.

And when they all go to bed, I sip my tea and worry.  How did we make it through another day with such a strong-willed child?  How can I help him to deal with his emotions without crushing his spirit?  Am I neglecting his more easygoing brothers?  When will it get easier?

Big Kid Files

The other morning Charles said, “Mom, I’m the only one in our family who is thin.”  And I said, “What about me?” in mock horror.  He just looked at me like I was crazy.  The kid is, it turns out, old enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

*****

For Christmas, my in-laws gave me a lovely box of handmade chocolates.  They were so good and even though they were in a one-pound candy box, they were really stuffed in there.  There had to have been nearly two pounds of chocolates that tasted remarkably similar to See’s Milk Bordeaux.  I might have cried a little bit at their sheer beauty.

I limited myself to one or two chocolates a day for approximately two days.  No, eighteen hours.  Okay, maybe one or two throughout the day on the Saturday after Christmas (when I received the chocolates) and then another one or two in the evening after the kids were in bed, and then another one or two on Sunday.  There were still so many!  It was the never-ending box of chocolates!  Heaven!

On the Sunday after Christmas, Tony and Jamie went to a friend’s house to watch football while Freddie napped and Charles and I read stories and played with the new Christmas toys.  Then Freddie woke up, so I went upstairs to snuggle him for a bit.  After Freddie was good and awake (this was during about a month of crankiness due to the appearance of two molars, so it was a bit touch-and-go with waking up for awhile), I called to Charles to come upstairs and snuggle with us.  He arrived and gave Freddie a big, chocolaty kiss.

I think you know where this is headed.

I asked him if he’d had one of mommy’s chocolates and he nodded his head. 

“How many did you have, Charles?”

“One.  No, two.  I’m sorry.”

“Okay.  Those are mommy’s chocolates and you need to ask before you eat one.  I forgive you.”

Later, I discovered that he had consumed THE ENTIRE BOX.  At least a pound of delicious, delicious handmade truffles.

He wasn’t even sick to his stomach.

I have since decided to hide all chocolate from my children.

*****

You might think that since I have all boys, I have escaped the daily fashion crises that mothers of girls deal with.  I’ll admit, the problems are usually uncomplicated; Jamie has a hard time deciding which “footies” to wear (he got several new pairs of footie pajamas for Christmas, and he rotates through his collection every day of the week) and neither of the boys has more than one pair of shoes or boots.  However, Charles is DEEPLY concerned about which pants match which shirt and can I just tell you that his opinions on matching are DEAD WRONG?  For a while he would wear all one color (black pants and black shirt or dark jeans and dark blue shirt) and now he wears only pants that “go” with his favorite shirts.  I’ve tried to apply years of matching colors and styles to his daily dilemmas about clothing, but logic and experience mean nothing to Charles.  Jeans that look great with a certain shirt “don’t go” and cause prolonged weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I came up with a couple of solutions.  First, I bought Charles more pants.  Now that the variety is greater, he has less trouble “matching” or whatever.  Second, we made a deal that resulted in more more TV for the kids (that’s the kind of deal they jump at).  I figured out that the fashion problem was a symptom of a larger issue: too much time in the morning.  Time to complain about clothing choices, time to stall before brushing teeth or donning shoes, time to bounce off the walls.

I’m not big on screen time, but in order to restore some sanity to my mornings right before tax season, I instituted the following program for both Charles and Jamie:

1. Get dressed
2. Eat breakfast
3. Brush your teeth
4. Do two pages in your workbook
5. Watch a 22-minute episode of one of your shows on Netflix (Ninjago, Clone Wars, Rescue Bots)

The boys have to have the first four items done by 8 am in order to earn the show and they have to agree on the show.  Any arguing and the deal is off.

In the three weeks since we have adopted this morning routine, fighting, fashion crises, tantrums, and yelling on my part have diminished considerably.  Plus, they’re learning.  Sure, they’re watching TV, but they’re also working through their workbooks.  Compromise: it’s what I do.


It’s just possible that I won’t disown them before the end of tax season.

Detritus of My Brain

Here are a few odds and ends of late:

 

Tony’s birthday was yesterday, but despite his best effort to be enthusiastic about his gift (a T-shirt for him that says “Sleep Deprived” paired with a onesie for Freddie that says “Sleep Depriver”), it was an utter disaster and we’re staging a re-do tonight.  You see, my dear husband was sick yesterday.  Violently ill is not something anyone wants to be on their birthday, so we’re planning the steak dinner and candles in the chocolate chip cookies for tonight.  I think maybe he doesn’t much care about birthdays anyway, but the kids and I do.

 

***

 

Charles and Jamie have been working on their Christmas lists all year long.  Their most-desired items:

• A rocket launcher
• Night-vision goggles
• A jet pack
• A skateboard
• Rocket shoes

 

I’m thinking there’s going to be some disappointment on Christmas morning.

 

***

 

We were at dinner the other night, talking about robots (as one does).  Jamie had been on a big trip with Grandpa Roger to pick up a large toolbox at Harbor Freight Tools for my business.  He got to watch the forklift unload the toolbox and was super excited about all of the new tools and claimed that he was going to go to the office to build a robot with all of those new tools.  Charles was excited at this prospect, too, until Jamie exclaimed, “Yep, and my robot will pick you up and put you in the garbage!”  Best purpose for a robot ever.

 

***

 

We have an Elf on the Shelf named Cheese (curse you, Liz, for starting this time-intensive tradition).  Much like Toy Story, the damned elf comes “alive” every night and encourages lying to my children in the name of Christmas.  They love the fucking thing.  Most nights he just moves from place to place throughout the house, but since this is the first holiday season in a LOOOOONG time that hasn’t been plagued by illness, pregnancy, hospitalization, or a major business event, I’ve started to get a bit more creative.  Thankfully, I have boys, so if Cheese the Elf’s antics reflect my disdain for the added stress of creating elaborate scenes for an inanimate object, they think it’s hilarious.  Pretty soon, the Elf will devolve to drinking whiskey with a straw.  Cheese was already strung up in Spiderman’s web (dental floss) the other night; even our other toys are already tired of Cheese’s shit, and it’s only December 2nd.

 

***

 

I continue to amaze myself with the words that come out of my mouth.  A few recent gems:

 

“Don’t sit on your brother’s face!”

“Don’t lick your shoe!”

“No, you may not pour syrup on the dog!”

 

***

 

My life is so glamorous.  The other night, as the kids were winding down before bed, I curled up in the recliner with a book.  Charles climbed in with me to snuggle and read his own book.  Just as I was thinking, “Ahh, this is so nice, the two of us snuggling and reading together,” he farted on me.  Loud and STINKY, I had to abandon my perch quickly or risk passing out.  Charles laughed uproariously.  Tony lectured him that farting on people is rude (speaking of conversations that I didn’t think we’d ever have: that bit or politeness seemed self-evident), but just as I began to breathe normally again, Charles came over, apologized, then FARTED AGAIN and laughed like he was the funniest person on the planet.  I screamed and began to asphyxiate on the indescribable stench – I swear, that kid can compete with the stupid dog for a stinky flatulence award, and if you have a dog, then you know how bad dog farts can be.  Then I promptly sent him to bed so as to confine the reek to his room.  Poor Jamie.  His dreams were undoubtedly noxious that night.

Mr. Seven

Sometimes I look at Charles and I see how small he still is.  He still has a roundness to his cheeks, a softness to his skin, and the movements of a little guy: he throws his whole body into action, whether he is bouncing on the pogo stick or climbing a tree.  He has none of the physical reserve and caution of movement displayed by, say, a ten-year-old.  But then sometimes the juxtaposition of this 52-inch tall boy with his younger brothers hits me right in the heart and I see him for the big kid he is: reading chapter books with frenzy as if they were as important as breathing air (they are, my young bibliophile), building LEGOs for hours on end, talking seriously with me about math homework or foster care or Minecraft.

 

 

He’s seven years old now, and he’s not screwing around anymore.  He’s serious.  And God help the person who doesn’t take him seriously.

 

He actually said that to me.

 

Much like his parents, he prefers to be busy all the time.  He reads, builds LEGOs, plays outside, plays inside, or loudly complains of being bored, at which point I make him vacuum or unload the dishwasher (it’s working – he doesn’t complain of being bored much!).  He would rather that we always, ALWAYS go somewhere to do something, and that preference is rubbing off on Jamie, who asks me every night as I kiss him goodnight, “Mom, what are we doing fun tomorrow?”  Indoor bike park, outdoor skate park, Children’s Museum, Jungle Playland, outdoor park, swimming, costumes, LEGOs, train sets, Lincoln Logs… it’s downright exhausting being their mother.  For his birthday, he chose roller skating because it’s not much of a party if we’re not sweaty and running into each other.

 

 

 

Charles, of course, doesn’t run into anyone.  His best friend beat him in the race, and he humbly congratulated his buddy, but now he’s even more determined to practice.

 

   

 

He chose pie instead of cake.  My kids might not look much like me, but they are mine.  They choose pie for their birthdays and they love to read.  Blood will out, as they say.

 

 

I guess the best endorsement for our parenting is that Charles is wonderful kid.  He loves his brothers and works hard to make them laugh and take care of them, he has kind friends, and (other than in photos) he smiles a lot.  His occasional tantrums and frustrations serve to remind me that he is still a little boy and he still needs his mom and a gentle touch.

 

Sometimes.  Other times, he gives me a look and says, deadpan, “Mom, thank you cards are LAME.”  So there’s one fight I get to have this weekend.  Thank you cards for birthday gifts might be a bit late, friends.

 

*Thank you, Joe, for the lovely photos.

I could use some more coffee right now.

Before I had even turned on the car to take my littles to preschool this morning, I had screamed, and I mean screamed, at my kids twice, taken away Jamie’s toys for the rest of the day, soothed a devastated Charles after Jamie soaked his favorite shirt in an unauthorized (of course) water fight, mopped the bathroom after said water fight, and given Freddie his first taste of chocolate chips in an attempt to distract him from the horrifying contusion on his hand after Jamie shut it in the car console.  It was a shitty morning, made more so by an intense, although abbreviated due to child-minding, self-hatred session in front of my mirror.  All of my sweaters and leggings are still on my bed, the bedding from both bunks and the dog bed are strewn around the house, and the sink is piled high with dishes.

 

Jamie is just so four years old and I am running low on patience.  When Tony is there, we balance each other – I can see him getting stressed and impatient, so it keeps my own frustration in check.  Likewise, when I am at the end of my rope, Tony calms me and steps in to keep the kids on track.  Those days are few and far between; we are in the midst of the busy season of life, marked by long and stressful hours at work and multiple family demands.  Stress takes its toll, and more often than not, we have to captain this ship of fools alone.  I feel like I’m holding a bag of rabid, screeching, flapping bats closed and losing my grip.

 

The negative self-talk doesn’t help, but it’s absurdly difficult to stop.  Sometimes, I feel decent-looking.  Yesterday, even though my skin is more awful than usual and trending toward the most awful skin time of the month, I felt pretty.  Today, when I looked in the mirror, I felt haggard and old, droopy and saggy.  I want to be fashionable, but my body type is not fashionable; ten years ago, my silhouette worked well with midi-hem skirts and boot-cut jeans, but in the modern era of skinny jeans and maxi- or mini- skirts, my pear-shaped form simply looks ridiculous.  Shopping for clothing that is both fashionable and not cringe-worthy on my form takes time and money that I don’t have.  I am getting old, and my skin, breasts, and belly show it.  I exercise all the time for minimal results, and I bear the consequences of each missed workout or run in the fit of my jeans the very next day.  If only I could reconcile the instant gratification of chocolate and alcohol with the self-deprivation truism, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

 

I wish I didn’t blow up so often, but it happens.  And then I apologize.  And then the kids apologize.  Then we talk about why I got frustrated and what we can all do better tomorrow.  Then I feel terrible, the pit in my stomach growing with each daily confirmation that I am a despicable parent.  I kiss and hug and reassure them of my love, berating myself in my internal monologue.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  I’m hopeful for a better day tomorrow, and the crazy thing is that somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul, I actually believe it could happen.  Like, one magical day, my clothes will all look good and my kids will do what they’re told and we’ll have a totally harmonious morning and I’ll think, “Ahhhh… this is the life!”  Dreams: they keep me going almost as much as caffeine.

Nurse Freddie Helps Out

My mom had hip surgery two weeks ago and I haven’t quite recovered.

 

She, on the other hand, is recovering quite nicely.

 

The surgery was September 30, and we decided to go ahead and do a big strategy retreat for our business a few days later.  The beginning of the month is always busy for me at work (bank reconciliations, sales tax returns, etc), but then we talked our way into a huge list of new tasks and undertakings at that meeting.  Additionally, Freddie has decided that he will never sleep again, so I face a raging sleep-deprivation-induced migraine every day while Tony steadily gets angrier and angrier.  We look like raccoons, so deep are the shadows under our eyes.

 

Mom came to stay with us a few days after her surgery, right after my in-laws came to stay for a day, which was right after the surgery and right after my dad was here for a few days while mom was in the hospital (that’s a lot of houseguests).  We kept mom in the basement, which sounds bad.  And maybe it was, but she had bathroom access and it was all one level, straight from the garage to the elevated couch (here’s a tip: if someone you know has a total hip replacement, raise your couch up several inches – six or seven – so they can easily get on and off of it).  Charles practiced piano for her, Buster guarded her during the day, and Jamie and Freddie were mostly out of her way.

 

Well, mostly.  Freddie liked to visit for a second at a time.

 

Leland had a hard time seeing our mom in the hospital and then in recovery at home.  I understand it – I mean, no one wants to see their mom as an invalid, in pain, unable to walk.  But after some self-examination (am I so hard-hearted that I was emotionally unaffected by mom’s state of health?), I realized that I was totally cool with this whole surgery thing because, more than anything else, it indicated that our mom was healthy and on her way to getting healthier.  Nursing a post-op patient is so much different than nursing a terminally sick one.  There were no big issues of life at stake here.  Rather, there is nothing but hope in her convalescence.  In a few months, mom will walk better than she has in years.

 

This is not to say that it was easy.  Caring for anyone is hard work.  After I safely delivered mom to dad (with the help of afternoon coffee on the long drive, something in which I don’t usually indulge), Freddie and I proceeded to clean house, grocery shop, and cook a dozen or so freezer meals for my parents.  Well, I did those things.  Freddie took care of grandma and practiced his cute.

 

 

So here it is mid-month and I’m still doing beginning-of-the-month stuff at work, Charles has early release all week so I go home early after not finishing my work at the office, I haven’t had time for a run in almost two weeks, and I am completely out of ideas for dinner.  No matter what I make, the children complain about it.  So, you know what?  I’m fucking done.  Breakfast for dinner and all the vegetables shoved into a smoothie.  I hope my mom gets better soon so she can come visit and take care of me.

Sleep Wanted

Before his haircut… clearly, it was time.

 

Every once in awhile, one of my friends talks about how their child didn’t sleep through the night until he or she was four months old and it nearly killed them.  Like, the parents in this situation nearly died because they were so tired.

 

I am so jealous of them.  When I think of the things I could do if only I could get enough sleep…

 

 Riding at Grandma’s

 

A couple of weeks ago, after YEARS of sustained sleep deprivation, I texted Tony at about 5:15 PM, begging him to come home from work so I could take a nap.  I did, then I got up around 7 and ate dinner, then went back to bed around 9 and slept until 9 the next morning, except for the three times I had to get up in the middle of the night to nurse Freddie.

 

Sure, HE gets plenty of naps.

 

Yes, he’s still nursing.  All night long.

 

 

You know, most people get over the “baby brain” thing when their children start sleeping through the night.  It’s no wonder I’m such a scatterbrain all the time; I’ve had “pregnancy brain” or “baby brain” for over 7 straight years.

 

 

It’s a damn good thing that my children are so cute and lovable because mine are trying to fucking BREAK me.  A day in the hospital?  A tantrum about wanting to eat “two halves” of a banana instead of a whole banana?  Climbing onto the chair and rocking until it falls over every time I turn around?  We’ve got it all in this madhouse.

 

 

Especially the climbing, both on and in things.  Climbing everywhere.

 

 

I shouldn’t complain.  I mean, just look at these cute boys:

 

 

But I sure would like a little more time to read, maybe even relaxingly enjoy some free time, instead of falling onto the couch in an end-of-day stupor, unable to focus on, well, anything.

 

 

I try to imagine my life in a few years, when Freddie is finally sleeping through the night and I have all three children in school.  I can’t, though, because other than on a few isolated vacations, I haven’t had a full-night’s sleep in so long that I can’t accurately predict what that will feel like.  I could be a totally different person!  Maybe, underneath these under-eye circles, I’m the type of person who does the NYT crossword every day!  Or someone who learns to play the piano in her 40s!  Or someone who has time to do volunteer work at the humane society!  Or someone who learns a third language!  Or someone who gardens seriously!

 

In all likelihood, behind the sleep deprivation is a mom whose voice is a little less shrill, whose patience is a little more consistent, and whose car is a little less dirty inside.  Only time will tell, but I have to live that long, first.

He Walks

Freddie started walking this weekend, which is much cuter than I ever imagined it would be.

 

 

Isn’t that always the way: lack of sleep shades my expectations until I’m so sure that everything will either suck or at least be just another boring, exhausting life complication.

 

 

I’m reasonably certain that Freddie could have walked a month ago, he just chose not to.  He’s already a pro at it, but he takes these big, wide turns to change direction that are just so funny in their inefficiency.  And he’s delighted by the whole darn thing.  Walking?  Turns out we’ve been doing it all wrong for all these years.  You’re supposed to laugh and smile about your very ability to do it at all.

 

   

This summer is dragging on into one of the most difficult years I’ve ever experienced.  It has to do with a lack of hope for the future and a lot of drudgery right now that I’m not sure will ever pay off (see: lack of hope).  I’m wrung out stressed out and out of ways to fool myself into thinking that everything is wonderful.  But then the baby smiles like the goober he is, or Jamie sings songs throughout dinner, or Charles runs up to me at the fair and gives me a giant hug, only to zip off with his camp counselor, out of sight in a flash, and suddenly fooling myself isn’t so important.

 

 

This life I lead is difficult and unglamorous, but it’s filled with many blessings among the hardships.

 

 

This is what makes life worth living, not the deadlines, cash flow problems, mistakes, dirty dishes, nor sacrifice after sacrifice after sacrifice.  All that other shit sucks balls, but it doesn’t really matter.

 

 

I have hope for their future, and in resigning myself to the Sisyphean tasks inherent in giving them a future, I should try to remember that they will bring me joy as they grow.  I don’t have to seek it elsewhere and though I might never learn to love the sacrifices I have to make, I do love the results those sacrifices produce.

 

 

I don’t know if the balance of good and bad will change in my life anytime soon; frankly, I don’t think it will.  We’re not getting enough sleep, Tony will finish his insane studying schedule just in time for tax season to start in January, and my business is growing in a stressful way right now.  But I get to have stinky boys cuddle me all the time, and that keeps me going.

 

 

Who would have ever thought I’d get so lucky?