| Life is Like a Box of Bumper Cars | | Date Created: Jan 04, 2007, 03:13 PM |
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I was not the only mother thrilled to be taking her children back to school yesterday. We even got there early for once. And when we walked in and it was dark, I refused to think anything other than how sharp of the church to be thrifty with the electricity. But when we got to the classroom the cruelty unfolded. For some reason the power was out--how irresponsible of the church not to pay its light bill--and school was cancelled. No tennis practice. No day to get back into routine. Just pile back in the car and go to the grocery store. It's so much more fun doing stuff like that with the boys than by myself. And the leisurely pace it demands with them in tow is just what I needed. Luckily I was saved tapping into the very last reserve tank of patience left by the holidays by Will's mom who was going to keep them later that day anyway. I picked up some extra bread and peanut butter and dropped it and the guys off at her house early. Thank you, Pen Pen!!!!
I'm so ready to get the guys out of the house and have it back to myself at least some of the time. It's still a complete dump from Christmas stuff. The poinsettias are gone but their dry leaves are crunched into the carpet. Presents I don't know where to put or even whom they belong to are scattered about every three feet in every room. Our bedroom is the laundry depository. Clean and dirty mingle in piles which get moved as people need to use the ironing board, get to the sink to brush teeth, or locate clean underwear. Yesterday I put a huge amount of the boys clean clothes away, but there is plenty more to replace it. I just can't keep up! This morning in the time it took for me to take a shower, Georgie had placed all his puzzle pieces in various boxes and James had dumped out every basket of plastic animals in George's room. Which is a lot. His animal obsession is out of control. Yesterday morning his first words were, "I don't like giraffes. I like zebras better." This morning it was, "I had a bad dream!" "What happened?" I asked. "The tiger. The tiger was lost!" Anyway, between his puzzle pieces and his ever-growing collection of animals, John's bats, balls, tennis racquets, and James' pirates, treasure chests, cannon balls, and harmonicas I am swamped. Stuff is everywhere and even if I find a place to put something it's quickly dumped out or thrown down the steps or played with and broken. I guess most toys aren't meant to be boy-handled by three three-year-olds. John's beloved fireman's axe broke last week. I tried to glue the head back on with gorilla glue but that didn't work. I finally remembered today to get some super glue to try. When I told John I'd finally gotten some glue that might work he said, "You are the best, Mom! You are so happy to me. You are peshul ('special')." Which is a different tune than I got this morning.
It was pouring down rain. But Will's mom had offered (again!) to keep the boys for a few hours, and I wasn't going to let rain keep me from super glue, dry cleaning, and a hot coffee to go. Not to mention a few moments in my car ALONE. But the trip from the front door into the carseats was almost more than we could all accomplish. George jumped in the puddle I told him to stay away from. James jerked and screamed in his car seat because the hood on his raincoat was bothering him. John screamed because I'd only buttoned his raincoat and not zipped it and he hates getting rained on. Once I finally got everyone buckled in and had resisted the urge to start screaming and cussing, having compromised with a scary angry deep voice and threats of spankings, I launched into a lecture I'm calling "What Separates the Big Boys from the Babies." One of the most frustrating parts of parenting for me is the fact that I truly have so little control over everything even though I am responsible for everything. I have a feeling one of the most frustrating parts of being parented for the guys is the fact that I cannot control everything. Which is what I bitched about today. I told them, I can't help that it's raining. I can't help that rain is wet and gets on them. I can't help that their raincoats are uncomfortable. I can't help that they have to be buckled into car seats. "You can cry and whine all day, guys, but I can't change any of it!" I said a little less than calmly. "You know what the difference between a baby and a big boy is? A baby cries and whines if it can't get what it wants. A big boy says, 'No biggie! I can handle it!' A big boy doesn't fuss and whine every time something's not the way he likes it." I was very proud of my pep talk to grow a pair until I was jerked back into reality by James' response and realized that I wasn't exactly talking to the Panther lockeroom on Friday Night Lights: "But it doesn't have handles!" he squealed from the back seat.
But really I am SO SICK of the whining and fighting. And it's not the war in Iraq or even who has the most toys they are discussing. At breakfast this morning George reported that there was a "summerform" (thunderstorm) outside. John agreed ("tummerform"). But James had a different opinion. "Rain!" he yelled. "Summerform!" "No, George, rain!" "Summerform!" "Rain!" Yesterday they fought over whether or not their little electric John Deere tractor was a tractor, jeep, or John Deere. Which is doubly weird because they usually call it their "Hummer."
Today I was a tad gloomy. My attempts at getting the house back in order largely ignored and even sabotaged. My attempt at taking a shower doomed by boys making big messes. My current attempt at writing interrupted by crying, fussing, dropped books, legs kicking footboards, and three instances of "I have a POOP!" I have also been interrupted by two requests to TT on the potty (which only come during quiet time or bedtime) and one escapee whose response was, "I'm sad, Momoe." And after a tuck-in I just had to walk away when I hadn't spread the blanket back over him just right. I didn't have it in me to locate the moist black thread from all the other pieces of fringe and the decoy piece that looks just like the favorite one but isn't it. "Find your own string," I said and walked out. So excuse me for being even less gelled than usual. One of the worst parts of not writing as often is that my skills get crappy if I don't use them regularly. Yet another reason to get back into the habit of writing more often. I don't know what's been wrong with me lately. Instead of being self-reflective and looking forward to baring all and laughing at myself, I have been retreating into the world of denial, chocolate cake, coffee, beer, wine, white-chocolate-and-peppermint Hershey's kisses, and TV. I told myself without committing to a New Year's Resolution that I wanted to be more healthy in the New Year, but so far I haven't even tried to eat better or exercise. I think I'm so overwhelmed right now I just don't have the energy to think about or plan anything. And maybe I've been a little pouty and childish lately. I need to take my own pep talk to heart. But sometimes I feel so all alone. Like NOBODY knows what it's like doing this. I don't think there are enough diamond rings or guitars in the world to make me really feel like what I do around here is truly validated. I hunger for validation like I hunger for a hot brownie with ice cream on top but I feel like I never get it. When Will gets home and he starts a load of laundry or wipes the kitchen counter I feel like what he's saying is, "Look what you DIDN"T do today and look how easy it is to do. I work and slave all day long and then I come home and take care of everything here, too." I know I know I know this is so far from what Will is thinking, but when you have a job that never really gets done, never has any sense of completion or accomplishment, never has a milestone or end date, you feel like you're a big failure. Every little project that does get finished, such as puzzle pieces back in the correct boxes, either gets undone or replaced. There is no finishing! It's all just an endless process. Not even a sense of moving forward. Just around and around and around. I am so jealous of my friends. They are doctors, lawyers, teachers, writers, fundraisers, copywriters, travelers, directors, designers. As they start deciding to start families I am of course thrilled for them, but the evil side of me is glad because maybe they will see how hard this is and how hard I have been working. What an insecure person I must be! My friends and family are so supportive and encourage me and always say things that show me they do recognize how hard this "job" is, but I can't get over feeling like I am pushing myself to the limits and nobody notices! My friend Jessica did a huge favor for me the other day. She came over and helped me take the boys to Target and feed them lunch. How much more fun it was having her company! But still I was a little on edge because I don't usually care if the boys are perfectly dressed or whether they are displaying any extraordinary talents, but I am obsessed with the people I care about thinking the boys are "good." So at Target I had to bribe them to be good with Curious George toys. I try not to do this too often because of course I don't want them to think they are entitled to anything every time we go somewhere, but I was so touched that Jessica had offered to go with us that I wanted desperately for the boys to be good. It's just like the cliches. I do feel like my children are a reflection of me. And if they misbehave, it must mean I'm not a good parent or not a good role model or even have bad qualities that I've irresponsibly passed on and let loose in the world. And yet no matter what I do, James is as likely as not to do something I would never do or condone. For example, this morning his blueberry muffin was hot and he demanded in a harsh tone, "Blow on it for me!" Yesterday he said, "Ladies don't play golf." First of all, I never use the word "ladies"--much to my mother's dismay, I'm sure. Secondly, I own a set of golf clubs and we have watched Annika Sorenstam play golf on TV several times and he knows her well enough to pick her out in a magazine ad. The other day he told me only "mans" are firemen. Over Christmas he only wanted to hear male vocalists sing his favorite Christmas carol, "The First Noel," and he'll only have his hair cut by a man. How can you be born a chauvinist? My point is, I am obsessed with my boys reflecting me in a positive light and yet in most ways their behavior and their opinions are truly out of my control. I can hound them and nag them about saying please and thank you. I can read them books with female doctors and pilots in them. I can ignore them until they speak to me in a nice voice. I can make them pick up toys before I give them a snack, but all of this is a full-time job in itself and so far doesn't seem to result in sweet dispositions or behavior.
Okay, I just had to get the guys up from their nap and it's time to start supper. Please forgive me for today's lack of humor and for the excessive whining and fussing and repetition of themes you've all heard here before. I promise to grow a pair this new year and get back to some sense of what works. Which is writing here at least three times a week. Keeping notes in between entries. And remembering these little animals entrusted to my care are just three-year-old boys. Do I really want to hang all of my hopes and personal success on people whose favorite past-time is knocking the bark off trees with a stick and who want to poop in their pants for the rest of their lives? I think I need to give them and me a break. And just get this house in shape, get my thoughts organized, and start this new year off like it really counts. I can do it!!! |
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