Last week I tried to get the same five items off my "to do" list; I tried for five days straight. My son napped well for one of those days, during which time my baby girl napped for 20 minutes. In response to my nearly-in-tears recital of one day's events wherein I explain to my husband, "he didn't nap", he says, "uh-huh. okay." No, I'm sorry, but it is most certainly not "okay".
It took me a while to figure out what was happening in this situation to leave me on the brink of sobbing, while my husband stood there with a rational "so-what-would-you-like-me-to-do-about-it" look on his face. It's the promise of a nap that is so overwhelmingly disappointing when lost. It's the shattering of that back-of-your-mind-not-quite-on-your-consciousness thought that if you just make it to through to mid-afternoon you will have at least an hour, if not more, of mind-numbing quiet. An hour, if not more, of time to do WHATEVER: the laundry that needs folding; the laundry that needs doing; the dishes in the sink; the dishes in the dishwasher; the floor that's dirty; the bills stacked up; the mail stacked up; your email unopened; the phone calls to make; a quick shower; a brief nap; an uninterrupted trip to the bathroom; put away groceries; put away laundry; cook something; clean up after cooking something; put away the folded laundry; listen to YOUR music (even if it is with headphones); or just sit quietly and regroup. Sometimes it's hard to settle on what to do first, but when you lose that longed for time, all you can see before you and all you can hear in your head is what you are NOT getting done. And if you're exhausted, as we nearly all are, and you longed for your own little nap time, well now you're a little cranky too.
Last week I sent this text to several friends of mine:
"Naptime" today: I pull up at the house at 1:30pm, both kids are asleep. I bring the baby (and all the random STUFF) from the car. I bring my sleeping toddler inside. He wakes slightly, wants to know the exact location of his new digger truck. Seems to fall back to sleep. I'm about to sit down when the baby wakes screaming. I coax her back to sleep w/paci, rocking of carseat, and eventual backup assistance of "swing converter for car seat thingy". I go to the bathroom. My toddler wakes up. Needs the bathroom.
(Yaddayaddayadda), back in his bed for continued nap...oh no he needs the bathroom again (repeat yadda).
The baby wakes screaming. I take her to nurse on the sofa. My son wanders in "all done seep"; riiiiight. I take him back. The baby, left sitting in the living room, gets hysterical (the kind with the silence before the scream, where her mouth is open to cry and nothing is coming out). Now my son is gated in (more hysterics) and she's nursing...
My husband wonders why I can't get done A, B, or C "while THEY are sleeping".
I think my husband needs surveillance video to comprehend my days...
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Mommy Dearest...
Lately I seem to be having the same conversation over and again, except with different friends of mine. Everyone with a child between the ages of 2 and 4 seems to be on edge these days, especially those with an additional younger child (or more) in the household. Our conversations circle around the same issues and the stress and exhaustion and barely-hanging-on strain in our voices echo each other. The way we live in our society today, there is a solitude that comes with at-home parenting, a solitude for which I was not entirely prepared. Even if we make for ourselves a community of friends to fill in for out-of-town family, most are still a car ride away, and rarely do we get time to have a decent, uninterrupted phone conversation. Every at-home parent I know, most especially those with more than one child, races out of the house in the morning, panic at their backs lest they wind up in the house all day with no one and nothing but the children and the four walls.
But there are times, inevitably, when we are most definitely alone. Times when we are home and it's just us and the kids...and nothing seems to go right, and everything seems to push to the limit our tolerance for stress:
You're giving the baby a bath, in her infant tub that is sliding around within the larger tub. She's hysterical because she only slept 20 minutes all day, and her sudsy little body is so slippery that as she twists and turns and fights your every attempt to wash her (and stands up screaming...at 6 months!) you think any second she's going to smack her little head on something. Your toddler runs into the bathroom, slamming his truck against the back of your leg as you're crouched on the floor next to the tub, drenched at this point. He pokes the baby's eyes and, as she's screaming, turns around and slams shut the bathroom door, effectively locking himself in with you and the hysterical baby in the 3x3 bathroom, and begins to scream himself. Your head feels like it's going to explode and you snatch the soaking wet baby against yourself, open the door and toss your toddler on the other side, screaming "GET OUT" before you lock it shut against him. The baby's still screaming and covered in soap and you now have to kneel back down and fight her through the rest of her bath before you can dry her, nurse her, and hope to the heavens that she pass out with exhaustion. As you sit down to nurse her, your toddler comes angelically into the room with the baby's pacifier, sweetly explaining that he brought it for you. Your last response to him still rings in your ears and you feel horrible for losing yourself in the moment. "I love you," you say as you kiss him. "I love you," he says and wanders off. "I don't want to be THAT kind of mom", you think to yourself.
But if you're already worried about the kind of parent you are, chances are slim that you'll morph into some Joan Crawford nightmare-of-a-mother. I try to assess my reactions to situations and make an effort to apologize when I've over reacted. At the end of the day, parenthood is an evolving role; all one can do is learn daily and move on. Besides, if you want to see just how far you really are from "THAT" kind of parent, pick up a copy of PUSH by Sapphire, or rent the film version, "Precious", and reassess your "bad" day.
But there are times, inevitably, when we are most definitely alone. Times when we are home and it's just us and the kids...and nothing seems to go right, and everything seems to push to the limit our tolerance for stress:
You're giving the baby a bath, in her infant tub that is sliding around within the larger tub. She's hysterical because she only slept 20 minutes all day, and her sudsy little body is so slippery that as she twists and turns and fights your every attempt to wash her (and stands up screaming...at 6 months!) you think any second she's going to smack her little head on something. Your toddler runs into the bathroom, slamming his truck against the back of your leg as you're crouched on the floor next to the tub, drenched at this point. He pokes the baby's eyes and, as she's screaming, turns around and slams shut the bathroom door, effectively locking himself in with you and the hysterical baby in the 3x3 bathroom, and begins to scream himself. Your head feels like it's going to explode and you snatch the soaking wet baby against yourself, open the door and toss your toddler on the other side, screaming "GET OUT" before you lock it shut against him. The baby's still screaming and covered in soap and you now have to kneel back down and fight her through the rest of her bath before you can dry her, nurse her, and hope to the heavens that she pass out with exhaustion. As you sit down to nurse her, your toddler comes angelically into the room with the baby's pacifier, sweetly explaining that he brought it for you. Your last response to him still rings in your ears and you feel horrible for losing yourself in the moment. "I love you," you say as you kiss him. "I love you," he says and wanders off. "I don't want to be THAT kind of mom", you think to yourself.
But if you're already worried about the kind of parent you are, chances are slim that you'll morph into some Joan Crawford nightmare-of-a-mother. I try to assess my reactions to situations and make an effort to apologize when I've over reacted. At the end of the day, parenthood is an evolving role; all one can do is learn daily and move on. Besides, if you want to see just how far you really are from "THAT" kind of parent, pick up a copy of PUSH by Sapphire, or rent the film version, "Precious", and reassess your "bad" day.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Toddler Toilet Learning
This past week my son and I embarked on a new adventure together: toilet learning. For me it was a real lesson in letting go, for I would have no control over the situation. For him it was a lesson in paying attention to his body in a way he had NEVER taken the time to do before. Needless to say, I had NO idea how things would unfold.
Now, I'll be honest. This being my first time through a toilet learning experience, I really felt at a loss. I had no idea how to embark. I took a friend's advice and didn't leave the house for a few days (it was raining anyway). Tuesday, day one, was an accelerated learning experience: my son peed through four pairs of underpants in less than 90 minutes...but he learned to hold it after THAT :) Thursday was our first venture out...to the playground around the corner. He was doing great. Suddenly, from across the playground, standing in a dirt patch in the corner of the gated space, my son calls out to me, "PEEPEE! Pee pee in the toilet!!", as he literally held himself, knees locked. It was his first out-of-house bathroom moment. I tossed my six month old to my friend (yes, thankfully I had company) and ran to him, yanking down his pants and training underpants and directing him to the nearest bush. Nothing. Not a drop. False alarm, or so I thought. Then I realized what was about to happen and it was NOT urination. "The potty!!", I screamed to my friend, "the potty is under the stroller!" She ran to help me, the baby flopping and spitting up everywhere because of course she was nursing when I tossed her into new hands in the first place: but it was too late. My son had graced the little dirt patch with an offering to make proud any local pooch. "I MAKE IT!", my son gushed, beaming from ear to ear. "Wow", he sighed, still gazing down at his achievement, "that was hard". I almost cried from suppressed laughter (my friend had to walk away...her laughter was not suppressed). "I am SO PROUD of you", I managed with a straight face, "so PROUD". He puffed out his chest and went back to playing; I scooped the poop and found my mini hand sanitizer.
Since then we have had general success and I'm not sure who's enthusiasm is greater. I know it's different for every child and every family, but so far things have been great and I say just take the plunge and go for it. What's the worst that could happen? :)
Now, I'll be honest. This being my first time through a toilet learning experience, I really felt at a loss. I had no idea how to embark. I took a friend's advice and didn't leave the house for a few days (it was raining anyway). Tuesday, day one, was an accelerated learning experience: my son peed through four pairs of underpants in less than 90 minutes...but he learned to hold it after THAT :) Thursday was our first venture out...to the playground around the corner. He was doing great. Suddenly, from across the playground, standing in a dirt patch in the corner of the gated space, my son calls out to me, "PEEPEE! Pee pee in the toilet!!", as he literally held himself, knees locked. It was his first out-of-house bathroom moment. I tossed my six month old to my friend (yes, thankfully I had company) and ran to him, yanking down his pants and training underpants and directing him to the nearest bush. Nothing. Not a drop. False alarm, or so I thought. Then I realized what was about to happen and it was NOT urination. "The potty!!", I screamed to my friend, "the potty is under the stroller!" She ran to help me, the baby flopping and spitting up everywhere because of course she was nursing when I tossed her into new hands in the first place: but it was too late. My son had graced the little dirt patch with an offering to make proud any local pooch. "I MAKE IT!", my son gushed, beaming from ear to ear. "Wow", he sighed, still gazing down at his achievement, "that was hard". I almost cried from suppressed laughter (my friend had to walk away...her laughter was not suppressed). "I am SO PROUD of you", I managed with a straight face, "so PROUD". He puffed out his chest and went back to playing; I scooped the poop and found my mini hand sanitizer.
Since then we have had general success and I'm not sure who's enthusiasm is greater. I know it's different for every child and every family, but so far things have been great and I say just take the plunge and go for it. What's the worst that could happen? :)
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day...
Today was my third "Mother's Day" as a mother, but my first as a mother of more than one child. There were no gifts or cards exchanged, but we spent the day out as a family and now at the end of the day I feel a sense of contentment. As I think back over our day, searching for this source of peace, I realize there were no tantrums or screaming fits; no bruises or cuts; no arguments or yelling; no throwing; no throwing up; no spitting up; no throwing food; no peeing or pooing beyond the confines of one's diaper; no blatant disregard for parental authority; no spousal impatience; no public embarrassment; no lost toys; no lost shoes; no lost pacifiers; no lost "special" sippy cups; no coveting of toys; no television; no destroyed house; no destroyed clothes; no dirty dishes; no laundry; no cleaning; no bills; no cooking; no errands; no doctor's appointments; no wishing to be anywhere but here...
...not much to speak of, anyway.
...not much to speak of, anyway.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Great Expectations
Recently I've been witness to the results of expecting more from your children. When my son was less than two years old, maybe 18 months, my husband came home one day with a little tykes basketball hoop for him. But it wasn't the age-appropriate miniature one, it was the one for older children, the one that at its lowest height was still two feet above his head. "I don't understand", I said shaking my head, "why couldn't you just get him the one for his age. It's frustrating and discouraging to fail with toys too advanced for his age." My Israeli husband gave me one of his "you-crazy-uptight-overeducated-American-mother" looks and set up the basket. Over the next few months he showed ("coached", "trained") our son how to throw the ball into the hoop and, still to my disapproval, every time he showed signs of mastering the basket, my husband would raise it a notch. A few weeks ago, with our son only two and a half, my husband popped that basket up to the highest possible notch, leaving it standing a good ten feet off the ground. And I, much to my secret delight, watched as our son played shots with my husband making not all but most of his baskets.
About a month ago my husband insisted, with the forecast of the season's first beautiful weekend, that we go out and buy our son a real bicycle, albeit with training wheels, but none of this tricycle "nonsense", as he would call it.** For a week he barely touched the bicycle. He'd sit on it and want us to push him, and then every time we'd break our backs bending over he'd accidentally hit the breaks...over and over and over again. "The pedals go around and around," I'd keep telling him. "Look," as I pointed out all the cyclists by the river, "look how they push the pedals round and round." He got that part in his mind fairly quickly; the next time we took him to ride by the river he just stood next to the bike coaching on all the grownup cyclists whizzing by: "C'mon! Push! Push the pedals round, round an' round!" he'd say to them.
Then, like magic, one day he just got it; he just sat on that bicycle and started pushing his legs around and around and he was off. Today we took him to ride by the river and I watched my husband shake his head as he ran after our boy who was whizzing away from us so quickly we could barely keep up.
Now to teach him how to stop...
(**note: the story about how we drove 30 minutes at 10 o'clock at night with a 2 year old and a 5 month old to go GET the bicycle will be saved for another post)
About a month ago my husband insisted, with the forecast of the season's first beautiful weekend, that we go out and buy our son a real bicycle, albeit with training wheels, but none of this tricycle "nonsense", as he would call it.** For a week he barely touched the bicycle. He'd sit on it and want us to push him, and then every time we'd break our backs bending over he'd accidentally hit the breaks...over and over and over again. "The pedals go around and around," I'd keep telling him. "Look," as I pointed out all the cyclists by the river, "look how they push the pedals round and round." He got that part in his mind fairly quickly; the next time we took him to ride by the river he just stood next to the bike coaching on all the grownup cyclists whizzing by: "C'mon! Push! Push the pedals round, round an' round!" he'd say to them.
Then, like magic, one day he just got it; he just sat on that bicycle and started pushing his legs around and around and he was off. Today we took him to ride by the river and I watched my husband shake his head as he ran after our boy who was whizzing away from us so quickly we could barely keep up.
Now to teach him how to stop...
(**note: the story about how we drove 30 minutes at 10 o'clock at night with a 2 year old and a 5 month old to go GET the bicycle will be saved for another post)
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Toddler Request...and Repeat...
No one prepared me for this new phase in my son's development. Maybe it's in one of those "stages" books I have that now lies with a thin layer of dust settled across the paperback cover. Maybe my friend's kids went through it (or they will soon) but no one brought it up to me in conversation before it slapped me in the face. My son was watching his DVD of Disney's CARS (which, thank goodness, was the first time in quite a while after an obsessive initial run): his copy that is so badly scratched that it hiccups every 5 minutes. Now, it sticks and refuses to recover:
him: "I want the tractor."
me (with the baby hanging off my left breast, her feet kicking the air scrambling for a better latch): "I know, just a minute, let me try to fix it."
him: "I want the tractor."
me (the baby is now dangling between breast and one arm and starting to scream out of frustration): "I know, it's just not working right now, I need to fix it."
him: "I want the tractor."
me (with the baby hanging off my left breast, her feet kicking the air scrambling for a better latch): "I know, just a minute, let me try to fix it."
him: "I want the tractor."
me (the baby is now dangling between breast and one arm and starting to scream out of frustration): "I know, it's just not working right now, I need to fix it."
him: "I want the tractor."
me (silently cursing the remote...as it slips through the fingers of my right hand and crashes to the floor as my left hand dandles the flailing, crying baby): "I KNOW, it's not working right now..."
him: "I want the tractor."
me: "Do you want to drive me CRAZY?!"
him: "no."
me: "Listen, when you say something and someone answers you, that means they heard what you said and you do not need to repeat it, okay?!"
him: "I want the tractor."
me: "OH HOLY !@#$%^&*! What did I just say?"
him: "I want the tractor."
me: "Stop it."
him: "I want the tractor."
me: "Do not say that again."
him: "I want the tractor."
me (walking away because if I stay in the same room for one more second I'm going to burst into flames), muttering to myself: "It's like talking to a psychotic!"
him: "I want the tractor."
Monday, April 19, 2010
When kids regress...
I thought I was past the point of bouncing her in the sling, dancing like I have to pee. I thought I was past the point of not being able to console her or know what's wrong; when she's dry, fed, and rested all should be well. Alas, this has not been the case with my five month old as of late. Seemingly random bursts of "high needs" attention have abounded lately, reminding me of the stress of holding her at 2 weeks with her screaming for no reason I could decipher.
This would all be minor enough if my son hadn't decided to "regress" with her. Suddenly whining has become his torture of choice for my ears (and patience). There's something about that "put-on" cry that throws a switch in my brain and steals away my compassion for little tears. My son's short staccato bursts of forced hysterics--timed perfectly with my daughter's unexplained screaming ringing in my ears--has made for several days of "psycho mommy" moments, moments where I hiss, "STOP IT, just STOP IT".
The other night my daughter screamed every ten minutes or so, every time I thought I had willed her to fall asleep for the night. And every time I coaxed her back to sleep, and just as I was laying her down again in silence, my son would scream from his room-not-ten-feet-away, "IMAAA, AAAHHH, WAAAH, COME HERE!!!!" reminding me that, he too, was not yet asleep even though I had shut the light over thirty minutes earlier. (side note: his door cannot shut all the way, it sticks...)
Back and forth I went between the two rooms, one screaming, then the other screaming, until I threw all in and joined the fray, shutting my son's door as best I could to block out his noise from the baby (only to make him more hysterical because he hates his door shut). My husband came home and, as I was nursing the baby in our room, I heard him go to our son. "No screamin", my two and half year old said to my husband. I started to cry. My husband said, "Ima was screaming?" "No," he answered. "Natan screamin". "Oh," my husband replied, "Well, that's right, no screaming. Now lie down and go to sleep". Silence indicated he complied. I managed to put the baby down without incident. I went into my son's room and sat down next to him at the edge of his bed. "When I'm putting the baby to sleep", I explained, "I need you to be quiet, okay?" He nodded. "I need you to be quiet so I can come to you more quickly, okay?" He nodded. "Every time you scream you wake the baby up and I can't come to you fast, okay?" He nodded. "You sit in chair?" he asked. "Sure", I said, feeling my shoulders relax as I realized I hadn't completely damaged my child. I turned to rise and head toward the rocking chair near his bed...and the baby woke up screaming.
This would all be minor enough if my son hadn't decided to "regress" with her. Suddenly whining has become his torture of choice for my ears (and patience). There's something about that "put-on" cry that throws a switch in my brain and steals away my compassion for little tears. My son's short staccato bursts of forced hysterics--timed perfectly with my daughter's unexplained screaming ringing in my ears--has made for several days of "psycho mommy" moments, moments where I hiss, "STOP IT, just STOP IT".
The other night my daughter screamed every ten minutes or so, every time I thought I had willed her to fall asleep for the night. And every time I coaxed her back to sleep, and just as I was laying her down again in silence, my son would scream from his room-not-ten-feet-away, "IMAAA, AAAHHH, WAAAH, COME HERE!!!!" reminding me that, he too, was not yet asleep even though I had shut the light over thirty minutes earlier. (side note: his door cannot shut all the way, it sticks...)
Back and forth I went between the two rooms, one screaming, then the other screaming, until I threw all in and joined the fray, shutting my son's door as best I could to block out his noise from the baby (only to make him more hysterical because he hates his door shut). My husband came home and, as I was nursing the baby in our room, I heard him go to our son. "No screamin", my two and half year old said to my husband. I started to cry. My husband said, "Ima was screaming?" "No," he answered. "Natan screamin". "Oh," my husband replied, "Well, that's right, no screaming. Now lie down and go to sleep". Silence indicated he complied. I managed to put the baby down without incident. I went into my son's room and sat down next to him at the edge of his bed. "When I'm putting the baby to sleep", I explained, "I need you to be quiet, okay?" He nodded. "I need you to be quiet so I can come to you more quickly, okay?" He nodded. "Every time you scream you wake the baby up and I can't come to you fast, okay?" He nodded. "You sit in chair?" he asked. "Sure", I said, feeling my shoulders relax as I realized I hadn't completely damaged my child. I turned to rise and head toward the rocking chair near his bed...and the baby woke up screaming.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
When toddlers get tired...
I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize, or why, once realized, I find it so hard to remember, that when toddlers get tired they don't simply rub their eyes and curl up like kittens to go to sleep...at least not mine. Their little bodies get revved up and falsely portray an overabundance of energy. Or, in the case of my two-and-a-half year old son, he turns into a crazed Jack-in-the-box, but wound up and released from his tin 4x4(x4) box. I have to remind myself: he's TIRED, when he starts running laps around the house like someone strapped a stick of dynamite to his butt. He's TIRED, when he starts throwing the newly folded laundry into the air and laughing maniacally at his own antics. He's TIRED, when he starts poking his baby sister in the face and jumping just out of reach every time I try to stop him. He's TIRED, when he throws himself on the playground floor when it's time to leave instead of walking angelically over to the car...or stroller. He's TIRED, when he flails his arms in a "you-can't-catch-me" kind of way as I try to put on his coat to leave a friend's house. He's TIRED, when he starts spitting his lunch at the ceiling. He's TIRED, when the minor bump against the table sends him wailing on the floor. He's TIRED, when he arches his back and refuses to sit in his carseat after a run of errands. He's TIRED, when he starts kicking and screaming during a routine diaper change. He's TIRED, when he cries from his bed for a snack...or milk...or water...or chicken and rice at 9 o'clock at night after eating three solidly round meals. He's tired...and as long as I remember that, I can keep myself from thinking my child has suddenly and surprisingly turned into a demon.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
When mom gets sick...
It was late in the afternoon after a very long day (are they ever NOT long days?), when suddenly I felt it hit me...fever and chills and overwhelming nausea. I called my husband. He didn't answer. I call again. He doesn't answer. The baby is slung across me in her sling, crying because she can't fall asleep. I'm gonna be sick I'm gonna be sick, I can't believe this, WHY ISN'T HE ANSWERING HIS PHONE? She's hysterical, and now my son wants Big Bird, no Barney, no juice, no milk...as he starts climbing up the sofa back to reach my bookshelves...
I call my husband again. He answers. I ask him to come home as soon as he can, I'm sick suddenly and need his help. "Are you home?" he asks. Are you kidding me? It's 4pm, it's raining outside, you have our only working car, and you want to know am I home?!! Yessss, I hiss into the phone, just please get here.
It took him 45 minutes to walk through the door, but as soon as he did I took the baby off me and ran for the bathroom. I hate getting sick. I was sick my entire last pregnancy. This took me right back there. It wasn't pretty.
I stumble out of the bathroom, feeling totally weak and drained and shivering from fever. My husband is holding the crying baby. "Why don't you get him ready for bed", he motions to our two year old. I take the baby: "Uhh, here's a thought," my face says, while my mouth says: "Why don't YOU get him ready for bed". I stumble to my bed with the baby and let her nurse until we both fall asleep, and I long for the days when being sick meant calling into an automated system and knowing that my substitute folders were soon to be placed on my desk...for someone else to use.
I call my husband again. He answers. I ask him to come home as soon as he can, I'm sick suddenly and need his help. "Are you home?" he asks. Are you kidding me? It's 4pm, it's raining outside, you have our only working car, and you want to know am I home?!! Yessss, I hiss into the phone, just please get here.
It took him 45 minutes to walk through the door, but as soon as he did I took the baby off me and ran for the bathroom. I hate getting sick. I was sick my entire last pregnancy. This took me right back there. It wasn't pretty.
I stumble out of the bathroom, feeling totally weak and drained and shivering from fever. My husband is holding the crying baby. "Why don't you get him ready for bed", he motions to our two year old. I take the baby: "Uhh, here's a thought," my face says, while my mouth says: "Why don't YOU get him ready for bed". I stumble to my bed with the baby and let her nurse until we both fall asleep, and I long for the days when being sick meant calling into an automated system and knowing that my substitute folders were soon to be placed on my desk...for someone else to use.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
House Cleaning
A while back when I was debating splurging on paying for house cleaning (after I gave birth to our second child) a friend of mine told me that once you have more than one child (she has six) paying for housework is not a splurge: it's a necessity. There's something in Jewish tradition called "shalom bayit", she told me: "peace in the home". She said for the sake of "shalom bayit", once you have more than one child, factor in paying for housecleaning like you would any other bill; it's essential to a happy home, she said.
I assented on the phone, less because I believed her and more because I felt like she'd given me permission for what I still considered a splurge.
Two days ago, my perspective changed. I had, for about three months, outside help to clean our home. It's not very big, just the first floor of a two family in New England. Wood floors, no carpet, easy right? We started at twice a month but as I took stock of our meagre finances, I soon whittled down both the frequency of the cleanings and the price for their infrequent occurrences.
No matter how infrequent their visits, I still looked forward to them, the date of their arrival flashing in my mind as I saw the Cheerios roll under the sofa, or the bed, or the bookcase. And then the day comes and I'm trying to contain my excitement while the mantra "in an hour and a half my house is going to be sparkling clean" plays in my head.
And then they don't show up. (It's not the first time, but when they clean so well and cost so little, you make allowances.)
I call to be told some lame excuse, AGAIN, and this time I'm done hearing it. It's fine, I tell myself, we need to save the money anyway. I'll just clean the floors myself. If two people can clean my house, floor to ceiling, in 90 minutes, then surely I can clean just the floors in an hour...
I put the baby in her crib with some playthings and gated my two year old in his room (he has plenty of toys in there, right?)
Almost as soon as I mix the bucket full and start in on just the kitchen, my two year old is trying to climb over the gate in his doorway. He wants to help. I sigh. Fine. Here's a sponge. I use all natural cleaners so I figure it's fine for him to get his hands in it (see Shaklee link for the most amazing product of the Get Clean line, Basic H2).
Immediately he's scooping up suds and I'm sorry I caved so quickly: but I'm halfway through the kitchen and can't reverse that decision now.
The baby starts to fuss.
I do their room as quickly as I can...my son runs in with his sponge sopping wet...and casually stands with it over his bed. I start to get edgy. "Stop that, don't you see what you're doing, not in your bed." Oy, this was not what I wanted.
The baby starts to whimper.
I get to the playroom (what used to be our dining room) and start in as best I can. I look up and see my son up to his elbows in dirty floor water. "Don't do that, that's dirty water, here, here's the clean water", I show him the other half of the divided bucket and then return to the mop.
The baby is crying.
My son runs in...RUNS in and falls twice on his way on the wet floor so by the time he gets to me he's crying...and sopping wet...and still holding his sponge saturated with Basic H2 cleaner...dripping all over him and the area rug I had just moved out of my way.
The baby is hysterical.
"What are you doing running like that, I told you to stay in your room, it's all wet here...
The baby is screaming.
"Get out of here, get out!" I shout at him.
And in that moment it was over. In that one moment I told myself, I'm done. I looked around. The floors were half done, the kitchen still had sinks full of dishes, and I hadn't even started on cooking my son's lunch. "Shalom bayit", I heard my friend say, "peace in the home". I apologized to my son for my unnecessary outburst and got him into dry clothes. Only then could I pick up the screaming baby and sit down, utterly exhausted, to nurse her. In that moment, sweating and redfaced and pissed off and disappointed in myself, I decided I was going to find reliable, affordable, cleaners, because there are plenty of moments when I can't avoid becoming demon-mommy: cleaning the house doesn't have to be one of them.
I assented on the phone, less because I believed her and more because I felt like she'd given me permission for what I still considered a splurge.
Two days ago, my perspective changed. I had, for about three months, outside help to clean our home. It's not very big, just the first floor of a two family in New England. Wood floors, no carpet, easy right? We started at twice a month but as I took stock of our meagre finances, I soon whittled down both the frequency of the cleanings and the price for their infrequent occurrences.
No matter how infrequent their visits, I still looked forward to them, the date of their arrival flashing in my mind as I saw the Cheerios roll under the sofa, or the bed, or the bookcase. And then the day comes and I'm trying to contain my excitement while the mantra "in an hour and a half my house is going to be sparkling clean" plays in my head.
And then they don't show up. (It's not the first time, but when they clean so well and cost so little, you make allowances.)
I call to be told some lame excuse, AGAIN, and this time I'm done hearing it. It's fine, I tell myself, we need to save the money anyway. I'll just clean the floors myself. If two people can clean my house, floor to ceiling, in 90 minutes, then surely I can clean just the floors in an hour...
I put the baby in her crib with some playthings and gated my two year old in his room (he has plenty of toys in there, right?)
Almost as soon as I mix the bucket full and start in on just the kitchen, my two year old is trying to climb over the gate in his doorway. He wants to help. I sigh. Fine. Here's a sponge. I use all natural cleaners so I figure it's fine for him to get his hands in it (see Shaklee link for the most amazing product of the Get Clean line, Basic H2).
Immediately he's scooping up suds and I'm sorry I caved so quickly: but I'm halfway through the kitchen and can't reverse that decision now.
The baby starts to fuss.
I do their room as quickly as I can...my son runs in with his sponge sopping wet...and casually stands with it over his bed. I start to get edgy. "Stop that, don't you see what you're doing, not in your bed." Oy, this was not what I wanted.
The baby starts to whimper.
I get to the playroom (what used to be our dining room) and start in as best I can. I look up and see my son up to his elbows in dirty floor water. "Don't do that, that's dirty water, here, here's the clean water", I show him the other half of the divided bucket and then return to the mop.
The baby is crying.
My son runs in...RUNS in and falls twice on his way on the wet floor so by the time he gets to me he's crying...and sopping wet...and still holding his sponge saturated with Basic H2 cleaner...dripping all over him and the area rug I had just moved out of my way.
The baby is hysterical.
"What are you doing running like that, I told you to stay in your room, it's all wet here...
The baby is screaming.
"Get out of here, get out!" I shout at him.
And in that moment it was over. In that one moment I told myself, I'm done. I looked around. The floors were half done, the kitchen still had sinks full of dishes, and I hadn't even started on cooking my son's lunch. "Shalom bayit", I heard my friend say, "peace in the home". I apologized to my son for my unnecessary outburst and got him into dry clothes. Only then could I pick up the screaming baby and sit down, utterly exhausted, to nurse her. In that moment, sweating and redfaced and pissed off and disappointed in myself, I decided I was going to find reliable, affordable, cleaners, because there are plenty of moments when I can't avoid becoming demon-mommy: cleaning the house doesn't have to be one of them.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Finding Peace with the Term "High Needs" Baby
I always grab one of those "parenting" or "childhood" magazines they have stacked at the pediatrician's office; I figure it's free and bound to have some piece of valuable advice in there somewhere. I picked one up last week when I was there with two sick kids...I just remembered about it and got around to flipping through. I came across an article on the "high needs" baby; I quickly scanned and then I actually turned back to the first page and read word for word. Here was a pediatrician writing about how his fourth child, their first girl, was a completely different baby from his previous laid back, easy-to-please boys. She needed to nurse constantly and needed to be held just as often; she was happy in a carrier/sling but miserable when put down. I felt like I was reading a description of my own new baby. Except now here was a doctor describing his own parenting experience and how he and his wife (after stressing out over what they were doing "wrong") threw out all the rules and the "shoulds" of the parenting books to accommodate her needs; they decided to call her a "high needs" baby instead of a "fussy baby". I reread my recent post of my own "fussy baby" and it turns out he was right: when I think of her as "high need" instead of "fussy" and stop focusing on how much she is "difficult", I feel myself relax...just enough to let my shoulders drop. So as I sit here with my baby asleep in her sling and my left shoulder slightly strained from the weight of her, I just tell myself, "she's a 'high needs' baby", and I'm giving her exactly what she needs.
An Outing...
Many mothers of only children have commented to me something along the lines of amazement at the fact that I leave the house at all with a toddler and a newborn. I too asked this of mothers when I had only my first child; the thought of two was unbelievable. Now I'm closer to the truth: that the fear of spending the whole day in the house with the two children trumps the fear of going out. And so we new moms-of-more-than-one venture out, almost as if our lives depend on it, to {insert here wherever you might go because anywhere is better than your living room} and we shrug off the admiration of others while inside we're cheering because, YES, we DID make it out.
Mornings have been the hardest transition for me since becoming a mother of two. With a baby who invariably nurses 2-3 hours all through the night (note to those unaware: feedings count from start to start so a two hour feeding span actually has an hour or so of down time, and less if you change a diaper in between), I tend to wake feeling slightly hungover, or like someone is sitting on my head. Most mornings (now that we're a few months into the experience) my husband is good enough to deal with my son: diaper change, brush teeth, breakfast...inevitably with that purple dinosaur I can't stand. I know I should wake after the 6ish a.m. feed but I just can't bring myself to get up when I'm so tired and she's finally asleep. So eight o'clock rolls around and I groggily roll out of bed (literally, roll knees, feet out, and propel upright), do a quick wash (thank you, facial wipes), prepare a morning protein shake (in shaker cup...no time for ice and blender), and before you know it the baby wants another feed. Except I'm trying to get the two year old dressed (and he's trying to race his cars), which can take ten minutes on a good day, so the poor baby is screaming her head off like she's been abandoned in a ditch somewhere...and your mind is so apt to wander, you actually let your guilty self believe she feels that horrible and it's you who's gone and done that to her. Maybe you even start crying yourself a little or you snap at the two year old who thinks it's HILARIOUS to pull out his left leg from his pants just as you're getting the right one in, and just as you get the left one back out pops the right.
Mornings gain a sense of urgency when you factor in a toddler schedule. I work backwards: if he naps around 1:30pm and eats lunch around 12:30pm, I need to be out of the house by around 9:30am...anything after 10am is fruitless and the day is a disaster if attempted at all.
Today I sensed that if I didn't get my son out of the house to play with some friends I was going to turn into a demonic version of myself, one where I'd be hoarse by the end of the day and feel horribly depressed at the job I'm doing. Every thing he did from the moment I left my bedroom seemed to be intended for chaos, or at least to press on my last nerve: pulling this wire then that one, driving cars across the stove, squeezing underneath the sofa to reach for a toy until he himself became lodged there, upending his sister's carseat from the sofa (she was not inside).
I started to try to get out of the house around 10am. The baby became hysterical and needed to nurse. Every time I tried to get her into the car seat she'd turn half purple with choking (she's getting over her brother's cold). I called my friend to say I didn't think I would make it, but I heard myself telling her that I knew I wouldn't make it through the day in the house with him. She suggested I drive over for his naptime and he'd fall asleep in the car. Miraculously, I managed to cook him lunch while the baby slept (in her swing, instead of her usual station slung around my neck in her sling) and he "helped"/played.
Lunch finished around 1pm...we left 2:15.
The forty minute drive was good; they both slept and I had my second protein shake of the day. The afternoon disappeared like magic as the boys played (hers are fifteen months apart, roughly seven months each side of my son) and the baby invariably nursed and slept in her sling. Dinner was uneventful (except I had to stand and sway slightly because the baby would cry every time I sat down) and after they all got into pjs and I prepared for the ride home.
It should have been a quiet ride. Everyone was fed, it was dark, and it was bedtime for all.
The baby cried the entire forty minute drive home.
Even when I sang. Even when I put on music and sang. Even when I drove on the highway with only my left hand so my right hand could reach around back to the carseat to hold the side of her head and her flailing hands while my son whined for the car he had dropped under my seat. Even when we were off the highway and the drive down side streets that should take ten minutes took twenty because EVERY single *&^%$#@ traffic light turned red just as the law abiding car in front of me pulled up to it.
I felt like screaming. "@#$%^&*" was echoing in my head. It was all I could do to get home. I rushed her in the house (my husband thankfully was home and got our son and my bags) and took her sweaty little hysterical self out of the car seat; she nursed like a monkey and promptly fell asleep...
...but I'd forgotten to swaddle her. I can't move her once she's asleep unless she's swaddled. So I rush to my room, grab a swaddle (and my trusty sling), rush to swaddle her and get her back to sleep (because of course she woke again hysterical) and again I do my little dance like when you need to pee because if I sit or stop moving she'll cry.
But it's 11pm now and she's been asleep quietly in her sling for about 45 minutes. I am thankful for my two healthy (and sleeping) children, and now I'll turn in for some sleep...until she wakes to nurse in about two hours...
(P.S.: She woke up to nurse before I could even post this...I went to bed around 1am :)
Mornings have been the hardest transition for me since becoming a mother of two. With a baby who invariably nurses 2-3 hours all through the night (note to those unaware: feedings count from start to start so a two hour feeding span actually has an hour or so of down time, and less if you change a diaper in between), I tend to wake feeling slightly hungover, or like someone is sitting on my head. Most mornings (now that we're a few months into the experience) my husband is good enough to deal with my son: diaper change, brush teeth, breakfast...inevitably with that purple dinosaur I can't stand. I know I should wake after the 6ish a.m. feed but I just can't bring myself to get up when I'm so tired and she's finally asleep. So eight o'clock rolls around and I groggily roll out of bed (literally, roll knees, feet out, and propel upright), do a quick wash (thank you, facial wipes), prepare a morning protein shake (in shaker cup...no time for ice and blender), and before you know it the baby wants another feed. Except I'm trying to get the two year old dressed (and he's trying to race his cars), which can take ten minutes on a good day, so the poor baby is screaming her head off like she's been abandoned in a ditch somewhere...and your mind is so apt to wander, you actually let your guilty self believe she feels that horrible and it's you who's gone and done that to her. Maybe you even start crying yourself a little or you snap at the two year old who thinks it's HILARIOUS to pull out his left leg from his pants just as you're getting the right one in, and just as you get the left one back out pops the right.
Mornings gain a sense of urgency when you factor in a toddler schedule. I work backwards: if he naps around 1:30pm and eats lunch around 12:30pm, I need to be out of the house by around 9:30am...anything after 10am is fruitless and the day is a disaster if attempted at all.
Today I sensed that if I didn't get my son out of the house to play with some friends I was going to turn into a demonic version of myself, one where I'd be hoarse by the end of the day and feel horribly depressed at the job I'm doing. Every thing he did from the moment I left my bedroom seemed to be intended for chaos, or at least to press on my last nerve: pulling this wire then that one, driving cars across the stove, squeezing underneath the sofa to reach for a toy until he himself became lodged there, upending his sister's carseat from the sofa (she was not inside).
I started to try to get out of the house around 10am. The baby became hysterical and needed to nurse. Every time I tried to get her into the car seat she'd turn half purple with choking (she's getting over her brother's cold). I called my friend to say I didn't think I would make it, but I heard myself telling her that I knew I wouldn't make it through the day in the house with him. She suggested I drive over for his naptime and he'd fall asleep in the car. Miraculously, I managed to cook him lunch while the baby slept (in her swing, instead of her usual station slung around my neck in her sling) and he "helped"/played.
Lunch finished around 1pm...we left 2:15.
The forty minute drive was good; they both slept and I had my second protein shake of the day. The afternoon disappeared like magic as the boys played (hers are fifteen months apart, roughly seven months each side of my son) and the baby invariably nursed and slept in her sling. Dinner was uneventful (except I had to stand and sway slightly because the baby would cry every time I sat down) and after they all got into pjs and I prepared for the ride home.
It should have been a quiet ride. Everyone was fed, it was dark, and it was bedtime for all.
The baby cried the entire forty minute drive home.
Even when I sang. Even when I put on music and sang. Even when I drove on the highway with only my left hand so my right hand could reach around back to the carseat to hold the side of her head and her flailing hands while my son whined for the car he had dropped under my seat. Even when we were off the highway and the drive down side streets that should take ten minutes took twenty because EVERY single *&^%$#@ traffic light turned red just as the law abiding car in front of me pulled up to it.
I felt like screaming. "@#$%^&*" was echoing in my head. It was all I could do to get home. I rushed her in the house (my husband thankfully was home and got our son and my bags) and took her sweaty little hysterical self out of the car seat; she nursed like a monkey and promptly fell asleep...
...but I'd forgotten to swaddle her. I can't move her once she's asleep unless she's swaddled. So I rush to my room, grab a swaddle (and my trusty sling), rush to swaddle her and get her back to sleep (because of course she woke again hysterical) and again I do my little dance like when you need to pee because if I sit or stop moving she'll cry.
But it's 11pm now and she's been asleep quietly in her sling for about 45 minutes. I am thankful for my two healthy (and sleeping) children, and now I'll turn in for some sleep...until she wakes to nurse in about two hours...
(P.S.: She woke up to nurse before I could even post this...I went to bed around 1am :)
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Fussy Baby
I'm new to this world of blogging and the set up of this page has taken longer than it should. Why? I'm standing over my laptop doing a "dance" like when you need to pee; my three month old is not awake but is still crying in her sling, hanging from nearly around my neck at this point. Every time I sit down she begins to cry, and every time I stand she stops...like a switch on/off...sit/on...stand/off...repeat for an hour and a half. It's nearly 7pm. I think it's time for a glass of wine...
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