[Y'all know I love my kids right?]
Today feels like one of those days where my whole life revolves around my children’s sleep. We are either tiring them out so that they will sleep, waiting for them to f-ing fall asleep or dealing with getting them back to sleep! I am sure there is more to life that this, but since sleep has gone kind of pear shaped of late, I am too tired to notice. As people without kids rightfully say, though not without sympathy, we did ask for it. No one claims kids are easy, especially not babies and two year olds, nor both at once! A friend of mine and I were hanging out at the library swapping war stories about it all and she has three under 4! Another friend at the park said her boys (aged .75 and 3) both woke up last night at 3am and her husband was away. It’s a shit-show. And the righteous all lay claim to what we are doing wrong, including ourselves. It would be so nice to be able to focus on all the things we are doing correctly but right now I need to go upstairs and tell a toddler that he needs to stop farting around and SLEEP. He screamed for 2 hours last night (in 10 minute intervals) and was then up for an hour in the night. If any kid needs to nap it’s him. Why doesn’t reason work on these mini-humans? Are they in fact cave men? Ooga-booga, beddy by! ARGH! I want to think about something else for a change! And I bet you want to read about something else!
NB: As a point of historical accuracy: my recent visit to Ben’s room during the interminable nap-falling-asleep-period produced a fervent odor upon opening the door, and a very needed, beet-induced diaper change. Fair enough little buddy, fair enough.
Well it begs the question, who and how am I? Luckily I am pumped full of delicious, habit-forming oxytocin from all the breast-feeding. Oh sweet Mama, that shit is good. I am also currently child-free as both boys nap and I type, listening to the sweet voice of Coeur de Pirate (her music represents calm and freedom to me). I have made a sister-pledge with above mom of three to join a yoga class starting in two weeks. I seriously need to stretch something other than my capacity to make supper out of discordantly weird ingredients (kohlrabi, peanut butter and apricots anyone?) while navigating a gloriously messy construction site of dry pasta, bowls and plastic diggers on the counter and a bouncy, decibel-defying pterodactyl in the neglect-a-saucer! My body is healing along, ready to leap ahead to? Well trampolines are still out (ladies: wink wink). But who am I beyond being a parent? I feel locked into a kind of soft servitude, duty my new prerogative, paid in delicious baby smiley and precious boy hugs (heaven knows it doesn’t pay the bills…). Sometimes the agony of it all leaks out into me weeping my way to another daycare pick up with a sad baby in the back. Other days I have just a teensy glimpse of perspective, a notion of the fierce, creative woman I am, of the Me beyond little Yous. Of the outside world. Of… well, whatever is beyond the pre-sucked on, cat-hairy pasta pieces in each earthly crevice within my realm. Feel free to let me know (while you hold my baby and cook me dinner and)…