June 29, 2016
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I lament my children growing older. Even my warrior queen, short of three-months is aging too rapidly. Only yesterday was she barely awake, now expresses preferences to be active, observing our household happenings. My son asserts his increasing desire for independence. It seems too soon he will no longer want me hovering, and perhaps that day is already upon me. But, my humble plea to both, please, don’t hurry your current youth…I’m much too tired for the next step that approaches.
Three-years-old is supposed to be the earliest time for boys to begin their expressed desire to use the toilet like the rest of us. Really? My son is barely over the two-year mark. It’s too soon for him to rip off his soiled diapers onto our carpet. It’s too soon for Little Man to indicate he left a duce in his all-in-one undies for me to clean. I am much to tired and ill prepared to begin the process of toilet training. It was bad enough my son started walking and insisting on feeding himself. The catastrophe left in his wake after those benchmarks will pale in comparison to trails of dung all over the house. My kid is a seriously prolific pooper; I feel blessed if I only change his substantial diaper chips three times a day.
To make matters worse, my daughter isn’t sleeping as much. Sure, her plentiful smiles are breathtaking, but they are sprinkled among strong stipulations to be cuddled. I don’t think I have the energy and general wherewithal to manage a potty training toddler in the midst of a sleep regression and an infant choosing to progress into consciousness in a timely manner. It’s heartbreaking; they just grow up much, much too fast…
June 24, 2016
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This just has to be documented for what I desperately hope isn’t the beginning of many more similar tales, but I suspect this will be old hat soon…sigh.
My husband is wonderful, entertaining our two-year-old little man for almost the entire day while I tended to the Warrior Queen, which amounted to feeding her and lounging on the sofa with a sprawled infant on my chest. I even managed to eat lunch vaguely within the lunch hour realm. Consequently, tonight I was in charge of Mr. Man’s bedtime routine.
My son was on my lap brushing his teeth before I took over when I noticed the entire front of his shorts were wet. Great sleuth I am assumed correctly it was urine. Well, that’s a puzzle. I check his diaper, and half of it is unattached. That is also a puzzle. Then I notice brown crust on his lower leg, yup, poop. That was the final puzzle prompting me to call downstairs to my husband asking why there was poop on our son’s leg. Our house hollering virtually overlapped with my husband indicating that our son had excavated poop out of his diaper and threw it on the floor in front of the family room book shelf. I was sitting all evening in that very room, so how craptastic at parenting am I that I was oblivious to my son engaging in a fecal drop ‘n’ roll in front of me? Perhaps some questions are best left unanswered.
June 21, 2016
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There was an incident today. I was wrong, completely. I’ll spare the details because I’m already struggling with a hefty dose of mom guilt over this, and I don’t want to risk further, albeit unlikely, battery in my comment section about the error of my judgment. To avoid, however, the annoyance of a post entirely too cryptic from the get-go, suffice it to say it involved a soiled diaper changing location that was not ideal. I felt uneasy about it at the time, but determined it was the best option in a series of problematic options. I was reported to personnel for a judgment call by an individual who, apparently, decided I was not up to her high standards of parenting.
I wasn’t intending on a post of this nature. I don’t want to come across as blaming and deflecting to detract from my impropriety. I don’t want to make excuses for my actions. I get it. I was wrong for my decision. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly won’t be the last. I would continue to feel bad even if an employee was not called to redirect my behavior. I was doing the best I could for my children, and that’s the point.
So, here is my rub that is prompting me to immortalize a memory I’d rather forget. I’m balancing between a two-month-old infant and a two-year-old who is impulsive and cranky. While I try to be good humored and natured about things, I’m clearly struggling. As a mother with a youngish child of her own at the same establishment, what prevented her from offering to help instead of taking the punitive route? On my end it would have been a valued offering, such gestures usually are. How do I know? I try to be that helpful parent. Maybe there isn’t something I can physically do, but at the very least I’m the one to crack a joke when I see another parent in public with his or her child who is in the throws of an impressive tantrum. Maybe I risk the joke falling flat, but in every instance of the many, I see relief wash over the parent’s face. In that moment I’ve communicated that I get it; the parent is doing the best he or she can.
I will end with that. While there are other pieces to this other mother’s behavior that are troubling, I hope this post inspires others to reach out to those visibly struggling. I don’t know if it would change the world, but that lowly individual would probably appreciate it.
June 11, 2016
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A smidge over two-years-old and my son finally started talking. At this point he is where he should have been at eighteen-months, but the tidal wave is washing over him in monumentally overflowing succession. The progress can be counted in a mere few weeks. Of course, with such delights comes the realization that I must begin to filter my commentary, not so much for individual inappropriate words, but I’m waiting for him to regurgitate some criticism in front of the very person I will be in the process of barely tolerable pleasantries.
Awkward conversational happenstance aside, to say I have a potty mouth is one of the greatest understatements of the year. I absolutely love using profanity…not quite as much as eating chocolate, but abstinence would make my heart heavy with grief and experience a general dissatisfaction with life. Sophisticated words are lovely and important, but colorful, creative words that could possibly make other people shudder with their icky descriptiveness are so much better. As is, my filter around my children isn’t too bad, but my story telling lacks a certain oomph these days…maybe I’m creating excuses. But, there is something delectably awesome about combining multisyllabic highbrow descriptors with dialogue read on a middle school bathroom stall…my mother would be so proud…
We’ll see the path my daughter follows, but for now many of the words my son utters have a distinct trucker quality to them that I try to avoid nurturing. Many instances in the past couple weeks required me to double take and assess, “No, he is asking for a fork,” or “I’m fairly certain he wants a different shirt.” Sometimes I’m not entirely sure what he’s saying, but I’ll tell myself it’s jargon, rather than the precursor to what will have him sent to the preschool Principal’s office. In the meantime, I will increase my censoring efforts around my sweet-faced cherubs, but I make no promises when I’m in the exclusive company of adults.