Then. The kids wake up. My clean fresh slate begins to gather dust. And the way in which water torture was designed by evil geniuses to work, so begins my day.
Let's begin with my son:
My son is in a new, challenging stage of life. He is pretending to be almost anyone and anything he can think of. Even if he doesn't know the name of something or someone, he'll pretend to be it. Recently I overheard him tell my husband, "Dada, you know those fish on Mario that swim up and down and that you have to shoot or you'll lose? Yeah I want to be that fish." And so on. And so fourth. He frequently runs into the room to announce "Mama! I am Spiderman!" and runs out, only to return moments later, "Mama!! I AM SPIDERMAN!" and off he runs again.
Drip, drip, drip...
Adding to the complexity of the situation is that if I call him to come and get or to do something, even if it's something good, "Joshua! Your jumbo chocolate covered sugar candy ice cream cone is ready!" he'll chastise me with a quick reminder that "Mama! I am Spiderman. NOT Joshua. SPIDERMAN." This is especially frustrating when I am discipling him, making my blood boil. He will interrupt me when I am lecturing him on road safety to remind me of his new "name" letting me clearly know that after I spoke his name, and not his PRETEND name, he heard nothing, waiting for the opportune moment to interject with his correction.
Drip, drip, drip...
Lastly, and the real gipper, is when he adds layers to this make-believe world. One day he was pretending to be his cousin Isabella who was pretending to be Mario. WHO the heck has the time to remember that!? And god help you if you don't say "Isabella who is pretending to be Mario, come and get your dinner!" God help you indeed.
Drip, drip, drip...
Next up, my daughter.
Oh my darling little baby is beginning to flex her defiance and independence muscles in a big way. Turning into a pile of curly-headed mush if I try to move her or pick her up to direct her to do something that she doesn't want to do. She has started refusing to be picked up in parking lots, and will sometimes sit down unexpectedly if I am not moving at her snail's pace, tugging ever so gently on her arm.
Drip, drip, drip...
Even my greatest joy, dressing her each morning, is becoming more and more of a challenge. If I don't have her day's outfit all picked out on her dresser before I get her up, then it's game over, Mama. The second I roll out her drawers to choose a top and a bottom, I have a pudgy finger pointing and directing me like a New York City traffic cop. "No. Not that one! THAT one! The CAT one, Mama!" And, God help me, do you know that my 2 year old daughter has seven cat tee shirts? SEVEN! So each cat tee shirt must be held up and properly displayed so that my little Shirley Temple can make an informed decision on the BEST cat tee shirt for her particular mood.
Drip, drip, drip...
Five minutes later, said cat tee shirt is full of oatmeal. Not to mention her hair, her face, the tabletop, the table BOTTOM, the floor... And the redressing process must begin.
Drip, drip, drip...
Lastly she has begun to complain of being "Too too hungry!" when I am preparing supper. I loving prepare healthy* meals (* = good enough) and sometimes even drinks for my family. I stave off requests for cookies and gummy treats and try to keep my voice calm through the pseudo-tears and whiney tantrums that naturally follow as they starve to death in front of my eyes as I finish up my cooking. I use Mother-logic that says "The hungrier they are at supper, the greater the chances of them eating their meal!" Instead, my son needs a constant reminder to "EAT!!! Joshua EAT!" every last bloody mouthful, and my daughter twists her head impossibly to the side hiding her mouth from the outstretched spoon. Sooner or later she begins to cry, her bowl pushed dramatically to the side. Beautiful tears stream down her face. Hours of preparation, down the drain and scraped off of the floor and into the garbage can.
Drip, drip, drip...
What non-parents or even current parents sometimes forget is the cumulative effect that living day to day with these monsters, er, young children, can have on a person. No, it's not just a kid playing make believe. No it's not just the crayon on the new window blinds. No it's not just that she took her shoes off in the backseat of the car. Again. For the tenth time. This morning.
It's that all they do these things. All day long. Every day. And with zest! All the while you are trying to live with them, and love them, and teach them, and guide them, and encourage them, and discipline them, and fill their lives with richness. You are trying your damnest to do it all right, and at the same time use the bathroom alone once in a while, and have some clean socks in your drawer. And wash your hair and maybe even blow-dry it once a week or so.
Drip, drip, drip...
So, it was with this set of glasses on that I viewed the scene across the street the other day. A little girl and her younger brother were messing around in their front driveway. They were in and out of the garage, I just happened to notice them as I watered my garden* (* = weed patch). Suddenly out of the garage smoothly glides the little boy, on his belly, atop a shop vacuum, not unlike a seasoned skater upon the ice. "Weeee!" he sang as he glided across the driveway, his big sister running and giggling behind him, the hose bumping willy-nilly behind him along the pavement.
This scene, taken as a snapshot, was pretty funny and innocent. But from within the garage begins to spew a stream of obscenities. They have poked the bear. And he woke in a bad mood. The father grabs the boy from the shop vac and begins to sharply yell at him, kicking the appliace back into the general direction of the garage. Each shout from the dad brings on a new chorus of crying and pleading from the children. "Wow, " I think to myself, "that seems unnecessary. And harsh. Those POOR children!" Roughly they are shoved inside of the house to receive, I presumed, a further lashing from their mother.
And then I remember.
Drip, drip, drip...
And so we all must remember. And take into account.
Drip, drip, drip...
I like to think that none of us wake up in the morning, push back the bed sheet and think "Boy I can't wait to get to my breaking point today! I wonder how the kids will press my buttons today until I crack? I wonder how much of an ass I will make of myself as I yell loudly and sarcastically in my sweet babies faces in public?" No. I like to believe that most of us wake up and feel refreshed, with a feeling of 100% battery power, 110% patience levels, 150% willingness to parent at our best!
But, somewhere in between Cheerios and "Goodnight Moon", things sometimes begin to unravel. But you have to live it. Each day. Each hour. Each minute. To truly appreciate the mental erosion of the water torture effect.
Drip, drip, drip...
A few minutes pass and my weeds are thoroughly watered, and I turn off the hose. From the corner of my eye I see that the children have been released back to their play out on the driveway. They happily use a snow shovel to scrape noisily across the driveway, and I see the little boy has found the shop vac again.
I notice the sun is low in the sky. Soon time for baths and "Goodnight Moon" for my two. I have survived another day without unraveling. I did not lose control. I have won. They did not beat me. And I love them so.
But then, there's always tomorrow.
Drip, drip, drip...
-TDW
Oh yes! You get it. You totally get it. Water torture indeed!
ReplyDeleteIt took having two under the age of 5 for me to understand, but I'm finally there.
ReplyDelete