A daily dose of the realities of having kids

Hello everyone.  I’m sorry that I’ve been gone for so long.  Things got crazy and then I got distracted and then, well, then I just started doing other things.

A quick update…  I’m still a happily married stay at home mom, I still have 3 crazy kids, and the pet count is still at roughly 2 dogs, 1 cat, and a pond full of fish.  (For a short while we had 4 ducklings and then at another point we fostered 3 labrador puppies.  The pond inhabitants were being picked off by a resident predator of some sort but they procreated before they died so that overall number has stayed pretty much the same.)  Now, for the things that have changed…I’ve renewed my passion for gardening, I’m scheduled to have pelvic reconstruction surgery this fall/winter, and my middle child has been diagnosed with Celiac disease.  (We’re still waiting for lab results on the other two and John and I probably need to get tested too.)  I guess it’s a good thing that I like gardening and cooking because from this point forward, we’re gluten free!

I’m not going to write a whole lot about any of this right now because I still need to organize my thoughts and get back into a “writing” frame of mind, but I promise that in the near future I will regale you with stories about all of the things that are going on around here.  Thanks for being patient.  Talk to you soon!

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I’m a stay at home mom.  I work hard, but I don’t actually make any money.  (This isn’t that bizarre a concept to me as I was a teacher before I was a mom and I made only marginally more then.)  I’m actually quite secure in my position.  Things would fall to pieces around here if it weren’t for me – even when I’m only half assing my job.  I’m lucky because my husband actually agrees nearly whole heartedly.

Unfortunately (or, if you write a humorous blog then quite fortunately,) this security and mutual respect doesn’t always come across – especially if you are under the age of 6 and haven’t quite mastered the arts of irony and sarcasm.

You’ve all read about the night I was putting the kids to bed late when my daughter (age 3 at the time) asked me if I was going to be across the hall working with Daddy… feeling tired and punchy (and really not expecting my 3 and 4 year olds to understand what I was saying) I responded, “No honey.  Mommy doesn’t work.  Mommy married well.”

Gasp!  Feminists the world over felt a stabbing pain.  Men cried out, “I knew it!!!” and then, my 4 year old son (who was in the top bunk) responded, “but Daddy didn’t.”

Sigh.  No, I suppose not.

Well, here’s the sequel.

I was out with my youngest and we decided to stop  for lunch.  She wanted to invite Daddy but I reminded her that Daddy couldn’t join us because he was working.  ”Daddy has to work, Madge.  That’s how we get the money so that we can buy groceries and go out for lunch.”

“He doesn’t have to work for that,” she told me emphatically.

“Really?  Why do you think Daddy works?”

“Because you are a succubus.”

Sigh.  (I almost died laughing.)

The moral of the story?  Even if they don’t understand it they do in fact hear it and, more likely than not, they’re going to repeat it.  Hopefully, as their mastery of nuance improves, they’ll understand that Mommy and Daddy don’t mean most of the stuff they say.  Until then, it’s good fodder for the blog.  Maybe I’m really back to stay for a while this time.

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I’m in my 4th week of being a single parent… well, kind of.  John’s been traveling for work and has only been home for the weekends.  It’s weird because this is exactly the kind of thing that I didn’t think I was cut out for years ago when I was looking for a husband.  As it turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it.

Don’t get me wrong, I miss my husband terribly and there are times that things get really harried here, but overall when John is gone, the kids and I fall into a kind of rhythm.  We’re more efficient, I yell less, and the house stays cleaner.

This used to alarm me, but over time, I’ve realized that it’s actually a testament to how much I rely on and need my husband.

See, I’m good in a crisis.  I always have been.  I’m calmer and more focused and when everything else is going to hell, I can get things done.  During times of calm and tranquility?  Not so much.  I look about for crises that need me to intervene and when I fail to find one, I introduce chaos into the system.  (How do you think we ended up with 3 kids and 2 dogs?)  I like taming entropy.  When I’m finally convinced that no crisis is lurking in the shadows, I kick back and relax.

John is my best friend in the whole world and he’s the most amazing support that anyone could ever ask for.  He’s dependable and determined and unwaveringly rock steady.  On top of all of that, he’s completely accepting of all of my flaws and short comings.  Laundry isn’t folded?  No problem.  The house is a mess?  That’s ok.  Dishes from last night’s dinner are still in the sink?  I’ll empty the dishwasher.  He’s amazing.  The problem is, that if he doesn’t care, then I don’t either – well, I do, but not enough to attack the mess.  I’d rather hang out with him.

When he’s gone, I have to step it up a notch.  I move into crisis mode.  Laundry gets folded, dishes get washed, clutter gets picked up, the house gets cleaned, and me?  Well, I need to do something to fill the void that is left by my best friend’s absence.

I suppose that to a casual observer, things run more smoothly when my husband is gone and I probably seem much more productive.  While that’s true in the short term, it would be a mistake to think that I do better without him.  It’s only because of him that I can make it through these short bursts at all and only because I miss him that I’m spending the time on all of this housework.

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When it comes to relationships, there are 2 distinct categories:  Friends and Family.

Family is great.  They know all of your embarrassing secrets, they can push all of your buttons, and (except in very rare instances) you are stuck with them until either you or they die.  Don’t misunderstand me.  I love my family members tremendously.  They might embarrass me or ridicule me or drive me absolutely bat shit crazy, but in the end there are very few people in this world who I know I can count on in any situation to back me up and every single member of my family holds a spot on that list.

Friendships are different.  These aren’t the people you’re associated with by chance.  These are the people you choose.  They make you laugh and they lift your spirits.  They lighten your burdens and they share your pain.  They might irritate you now and then but they’re not going to push your buttons the way your family will.  Why?  Because friendships are relationships of choice and that means that you can always choose to leave them behind.

It’s true, that there are friendships that bridge the gap and become relationships that are so secure that they feel familial, but these friendships are few and far between.  Even the best of friends have breaking points.  For me, this breaking point is frequently children.  Discipline styles, parenting choices, behavior issues… there is nothing that can kill a relationship like a kid.

Really it shouldn’t come as any great surprise.  I mean no matter how laid back you are, nothing is more important to you than your own kids and anything that threatens them or calls into question the job you are doing of raising them is sure to cause problems.

You don’t believe me?  Try this out.  Here’s a list of things that I have actually witnessed.  Could your best friendships withstand them?

• A 2 year old who was an aggressive biter
• A 5 year old who refused to use the toilet and pooped on your floor (and then repeatedly walked through it grinding it into your carpet)
• A 4 year old who colored on the walls with permanent marker – several times
• A 6 year old who showed his jewels to your 3 year old
• A 7 year old who kicked your son in his privates
• A 6 year old who forced your 4 year old to eat dried leaves in order to be his friend
• A 5 year old who consistently leaves poop on the seat of the toilet and poopy finger prints all over the walls/sink of your bathroom.

See?  And you thought I was being ridiculous!

My advice – make a pact with your best friends to never ever introduce your children to one another.  Your relationship has a much better chance of surviving parenthood.

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The 2 older kids got on the bus Tuesday morning and the youngest starts preschool next week.  We’re settling into our new routines and establishing new rhythms and all in all, things seem good.

I would have thought that I’d be ecstatic to have all of the kids back in school but I’m not.  Instead, I’m feeling the faint scratchings of empty nest syndrome which is crazy because my nest isn’t empty.  I mean, as I write this today, my 4yo is laying with her head on my lap watching Spirit.  (Yes, we’re still watching Spirit).  It’s not like I’m alone.  I’m not and I’m not going to be for another year or two.  The truth is, I don’t think that this bout of empty nest syndrome is being brought on by her at all.

My 6yo started first grade this year and that is what’s messing with me.

It wasn’t so bad when my oldest started.  In fact, that was a bit of a relief.  I had 3 kids aged 6, 4, and 2 and  I needed respite.  My girls would play all morning then, in the afternoon while Josie had preschool, Maddie would nap and I’d do housework.  The fact that the girls could play together so nicely gave me free time for the first time since I had given birth to my son.  It was great and I needed the time.  I needed it for me.

That’s not the case anymore.

With the second one gone all day I’m spending my day being the mother of a single child again, and I’m loving it.  Maddie and I are hanging out together.  We’re playing and laughing, reading and talking, snuggling and cuddling – all in addition to running errands and doing housework.  It is absolutely blissful – which in the world of being a mom means that I’m a horrible mother.

Sigh.  (This is where I’ve lost the men entirely and the women are nodding in sympathetic understanding.)  See, it’s like this.  When I had one child, I loved being a parent.  Loved it! Then I had my second child.  She was very clingy and tended towards crabbiness.  It was draining and my enjoyment of parenting dropped precariously low.  It wasn’t that she was a bad kid or that my son was even a better one.  It was just that being a mother to multiple children is draining.  I was running on empty all of the time with no reserves to draw upon when things got hairy.  When one was happy, the other was crying.  Frequently, they were both crying.  And me?  I was left to deal with the unhappiness without being able to enjoy much of the happiness at all.

Still, as they got older, we started to think about having more kids.

Surprisingly, I found 3 kids more enjoyable than 2.  Maybe it was that I let go of my guilt over not being able to devote as much one on one attention to my girls as I did to my son.  Maybe it was that the older ones were able to play together by the time the 3rd came along and so there really were fewer demands on my attention.  Whatever it was, I was grateful.  My oldest became my go-to man and life became a blur of tasks and chores against the backdrop of the noises of playing children.

Until now.

Now?  There is no background noise.  There’s just Maddie and me and I’m enjoying parenting the way that I used to all those years ago and that enjoyment is making me feel guilty.  My middle child is so getting screwed!  She’s never had (nor will she ever have) that one on one time.  The one time that she could have (when Ian was in preschool and she was home alone with me) I was pregnant and tired  and then?  Well, when the baby was sleeping and Ian was at Kindergarten, I was exhausted.

Time flies by way too fast.  The moments that are lost are lost forever and those lost moments accumulate faster than the total at a gas pump.  I understand the reasons the moments were lost and I can’t even say that it would be any different if I could do it over again.  You can only do as much as you can do and you have to hope that it’s good enough.  Still, she’s only 6, and she’s already gone all day long, never to return again.  Me?  Well, I lost those years.  I did my best, but they’re gone.  Now the challenge is going to be allowing myself to give that time to my youngest without feeling guilty about not giving it to my middle child.  What is fair?  What is equal?  I guess as long as they’re all getting the best I can offer, then it’ll all work out in the end.  Right?

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