About that circus I mentioned.
I woke up to two crying children this morning. It is NOT the loveliest way to wake up. No sunrise imitating lamp with birds chirping (a la Cinderella) can even set you up successfully for walking out of your room at 6:15am and seeing your daughters door ajar, light on, and hearing one child down the hall crying and whining to your wife and the other whimpering in the corner of her room.
As one must when they pay out tens of thousands of dollars to be a mom, I had no choice but to exit my room, even though every cell in my body was screaming HIDE.
Ellen, the child whimpering in the room, was playing with magnatiles (yes, at 6am... no idea what happens in my house in the mornings), and started crying as she told me about that time I knocked her castle down “lasterday” - which in this case meant over 2 months ago. I apologized (naturally), and told her she needed to get dressed.
For context, you see, we give ourselves a brisk and compact 30 minute window to go from asleep in bed (or playing with toys?! wtf, again) to out the door and on the way to nanny/school. It’s been this way for two and half years. If you have ever spent any time around toddlers you know we are inviting failure into our home with this, but we persist.
When I asked Ellen to pick out underwear she broke into sobs. “I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to Ya yas. I don’t want to get dressed!!!” (Mind you, this child loves school and on many days would rather stay with her nanny than come home with me.) She continued to build a tower while I continued to cajole her into picking out something. She at one point picked out some gold heart leggings (which I applauded) and wouldn’t budge beyond that, refusing to grasp the reality of the clock ticking.
Meanwhile, crying in kitchen dies down right up until Maggie makes it to the doorframe of her room and sees me sitting in there, interrupting her mission of delivering milk and “mins” (vitamins) to Ellie. She starts screaming bloody murder. The loudest possible scream one can make (although, turns out, it's not, as this story will illuminate soon). Mouth full open. The whole nine yards. “Mommy leave!!!!!!”
I ignore, obviously. Wifey comes behind her and asks the problem. Gets nowhere. Because, the screaming. Deafening screaming.
Ellen has briefly stopped her own llama drama but quickly began sobbing again because she gets worried and sad when her sister does this.
I began explaining, with absolutely no one able to hear me, that momma will be late for work, and she will get in trouble. No one cared. Or probably no one heard. Either way, there were still two irrationally upset children making obscene noise within 6 feet of my body that woke up from a peaceful slumber to birds chirping just 10 minutes prior.
It’s 6:25am. T minus 20 minutes.
After numerous rejections (signaled via - somehow - even louder screams) the wifey grabbed some clothes for Maggie (which were clearly not the “right” clothes) and walked out in hopes of getting her to get dressed not in bedroom where all her milk-delivering dreams went awry in the first place.
I started to put Ellen’s toys away without her consent which, I’m sure you can guess, resulted renewed sobs. She’s not much of a screamer. More of a sob-yeller. I stopped and again tried to explain the whole “mommy and momma have to work to have a roof over your head and these damn magnatiles in your bedroom” and the heartstring puller, “Momma has hundreds of kids counting on her that will be sad if she doesn’t show up to work.”
We do some “magic breathing” and counting (yes, I’m pushing mindfulness on my kids, insert eye rolls here). She yelled and protested a bit. But I closed my own eyes and did a bit of breathing work (it’s really an excuse for me to gain my sanity mid meltdown). Sloooowly, she began to calm (I may have also threatened to take all her toys away if she couldn’t stop playing with them...). She started putting them away, and before she was done and still in a bit of a post-crying haze, I got her picking out undies, pants, shirt, and socks - exaggeratedly celebrating every choice she made in attempt to give her some love and wins in her bucket for fuel for the next challenge.
Meanwhile, Maggie is still screaming. Top of her lungs. Starting to cough because, you know, screaming for twenty minutes straight takes a toll on your body.
I help Ellen get dressed and we discuss the error of her ways, she apologizes, says she won’t do it again, and we are living the good life in our wing of the house (which is not expansive nor has “wings,” in case that gave a false impression). We march out to put our shoes on and find where Maggie has chosen to bless with her presence, immediately next to the foyer cabinet where the shoes live. Ellen perseveres, focuses on her shoes, and we make a quick exit for the bathroom to brush our teeth while getting her coat on.
Meanwhile, Maggie is still screaming. Still. She is beyond the point of being a little girl, or even human (ie any sense of rationality). She is in another place, her own cycle of anxiety and inability to express herself. Yes, I have significant amounts of empathy for her. Yet, I still am annoyed af and wishing I was on a work trip.
We ask Maggie to use her words. No luck. We ask again. Nope. We start telling her she is going to get carried to the car in her pajamas. She, obviously, finds the amazing and glorious strength within her to scream louder (those lungs, people). So, against all of my better judgement and desires I give the wifey the “I know this is doomed but let me give this one last go” nod and her and Ellen mosey out of sight.
I calmly sit down (not too close, obviously) and give her as loving of look as I can manage (oh yes, you guessed it, more screams and a big “NO!”).
Then, somehow, by some miracle of the universe, the first short, leading, yes or no question I asked her (my go-to when all else has failed and she’s not willing, or in this case able, to use her words), got her immediately warped out of the blackhole she was in, and through tears I learned that yes, indeed, she most certainly was “mad that Ellie wrecked her tower... sob... tears wiped dramatically... and wouldn’t let her stack the squares to make a tower.”
Channeling all the patience I could (from that giant spare vat I’ve accumulated my whole life by being patient with NO ONE ELSE EVER, as my wife readily points out when this happens), I tell her how sorry I am and how frustrating that must have been, and offer her my finger to hold, inviting her down the hallway to “show me these stacking squares Ellen wouldn't let her have.” We get in her room, I dramatically get out the tiles she was referring to, promise we will build a tower together when she gets home (“but Ellen won’t let me!” ...I’m the mom. False.). I even had saved the two little building she had made when I put them away and showed her I loved them so much I saved them.
While she was eating out of my hand I shift attention to clothes - it’s minutes from 6:45am at this point. We quickly agree that the outfit momma picked out just was so not right for today, contemplated the right undies choice a hair too long, and were dressed in under two minutes. We race to the shoes, get them on, and teeth brushed (insisting on popping some bubbles in her bubble wrap in between), and are jacketed and heading out the door.
6:48am. How. On. Earth.
I am so grateful for those two peppers, and clearly would trade nothing for them, but no matter how worth it it is, momming them is hard and exhausting. The first 33 minutes of my day left me ready for happy hour, or bedtime, at 7am.
All that said, once I did some childfree meditation and resetting of my day, I spent the rest of the day getting to feel like I won momming for the day (or maybe week?).
As much as I hate those moments and feel so awful that my little spicy pepper has to venture through life with likely many of the same challenges as me, given the "gifts" we were given for this life, I get the opportunity to rewrite the narrative I hold for myself and my capacity to love, empathize, and be patient. I get to use the experiences of my own battles to help ease hers and make sure she is seen and understood as much as her complex little self can be. I get to uncover new strengths and applications for existing ones.
Better than anything, I got to spend the last 10 hours feeling high on myself. Strutting around my empty house like I won some kind of nonexistent mother strong willed and highly spirited children award.
I remember when we started doing all the infertility treatments, drugs, and injections and the wifey was terrified of what it would do to my already very high strung, emotional, and anxiety filled body. Injecting oodles of female hormones into one’s body leaves many women teetering on the edge. Miraculously, not me. It chilled me the fuck out. Almost as though that’s all I’d ever needed in life. While emotionally unstable and at times irrational, no doubt, especially at any sight of pregnant bellies, I was overall the chillest I had ever been in life (that time immediately following a failed cycle when Taylor came home to me sawing our toilet seats in half, excluded).
Two years later when we were about to bring not one, but two human lives into the world again, the wifey was unsure of how I would react and deal with all that comes with that. Specifics were not voiced at the time, but based on hindsight conversations, since, it’s clear I was predicted to be a total an overly-protective, germaphobic, obsessive about cleanliness, helicopter mom.
Then, one day, there we were on our way to Florida and Ellen and Maggie were eating grapes and crackers off the floor of the airplane, with my blessing.
Motherhood zen achieved. Thank you pricy little humans for teaching me so many new things in life. You're exhaustingly fantastic.
I woke up to two crying children this morning. It is NOT the loveliest way to wake up. No sunrise imitating lamp with birds chirping (a la Cinderella) can even set you up successfully for walking out of your room at 6:15am and seeing your daughters door ajar, light on, and hearing one child down the hall crying and whining to your wife and the other whimpering in the corner of her room.
As one must when they pay out tens of thousands of dollars to be a mom, I had no choice but to exit my room, even though every cell in my body was screaming HIDE.
Ellen, the child whimpering in the room, was playing with magnatiles (yes, at 6am... no idea what happens in my house in the mornings), and started crying as she told me about that time I knocked her castle down “lasterday” - which in this case meant over 2 months ago. I apologized (naturally), and told her she needed to get dressed.
For context, you see, we give ourselves a brisk and compact 30 minute window to go from asleep in bed (or playing with toys?! wtf, again) to out the door and on the way to nanny/school. It’s been this way for two and half years. If you have ever spent any time around toddlers you know we are inviting failure into our home with this, but we persist.
When I asked Ellen to pick out underwear she broke into sobs. “I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to Ya yas. I don’t want to get dressed!!!” (Mind you, this child loves school and on many days would rather stay with her nanny than come home with me.) She continued to build a tower while I continued to cajole her into picking out something. She at one point picked out some gold heart leggings (which I applauded) and wouldn’t budge beyond that, refusing to grasp the reality of the clock ticking.
Meanwhile, crying in kitchen dies down right up until Maggie makes it to the doorframe of her room and sees me sitting in there, interrupting her mission of delivering milk and “mins” (vitamins) to Ellie. She starts screaming bloody murder. The loudest possible scream one can make (although, turns out, it's not, as this story will illuminate soon). Mouth full open. The whole nine yards. “Mommy leave!!!!!!”
I ignore, obviously. Wifey comes behind her and asks the problem. Gets nowhere. Because, the screaming. Deafening screaming.
Ellen has briefly stopped her own llama drama but quickly began sobbing again because she gets worried and sad when her sister does this.
I began explaining, with absolutely no one able to hear me, that momma will be late for work, and she will get in trouble. No one cared. Or probably no one heard. Either way, there were still two irrationally upset children making obscene noise within 6 feet of my body that woke up from a peaceful slumber to birds chirping just 10 minutes prior.
It’s 6:25am. T minus 20 minutes.
After numerous rejections (signaled via - somehow - even louder screams) the wifey grabbed some clothes for Maggie (which were clearly not the “right” clothes) and walked out in hopes of getting her to get dressed not in bedroom where all her milk-delivering dreams went awry in the first place.
I started to put Ellen’s toys away without her consent which, I’m sure you can guess, resulted renewed sobs. She’s not much of a screamer. More of a sob-yeller. I stopped and again tried to explain the whole “mommy and momma have to work to have a roof over your head and these damn magnatiles in your bedroom” and the heartstring puller, “Momma has hundreds of kids counting on her that will be sad if she doesn’t show up to work.”
We do some “magic breathing” and counting (yes, I’m pushing mindfulness on my kids, insert eye rolls here). She yelled and protested a bit. But I closed my own eyes and did a bit of breathing work (it’s really an excuse for me to gain my sanity mid meltdown). Sloooowly, she began to calm (I may have also threatened to take all her toys away if she couldn’t stop playing with them...). She started putting them away, and before she was done and still in a bit of a post-crying haze, I got her picking out undies, pants, shirt, and socks - exaggeratedly celebrating every choice she made in attempt to give her some love and wins in her bucket for fuel for the next challenge.
Meanwhile, Maggie is still screaming. Top of her lungs. Starting to cough because, you know, screaming for twenty minutes straight takes a toll on your body.
I help Ellen get dressed and we discuss the error of her ways, she apologizes, says she won’t do it again, and we are living the good life in our wing of the house (which is not expansive nor has “wings,” in case that gave a false impression). We march out to put our shoes on and find where Maggie has chosen to bless with her presence, immediately next to the foyer cabinet where the shoes live. Ellen perseveres, focuses on her shoes, and we make a quick exit for the bathroom to brush our teeth while getting her coat on.
Meanwhile, Maggie is still screaming. Still. She is beyond the point of being a little girl, or even human (ie any sense of rationality). She is in another place, her own cycle of anxiety and inability to express herself. Yes, I have significant amounts of empathy for her. Yet, I still am annoyed af and wishing I was on a work trip.
We ask Maggie to use her words. No luck. We ask again. Nope. We start telling her she is going to get carried to the car in her pajamas. She, obviously, finds the amazing and glorious strength within her to scream louder (those lungs, people). So, against all of my better judgement and desires I give the wifey the “I know this is doomed but let me give this one last go” nod and her and Ellen mosey out of sight.
I calmly sit down (not too close, obviously) and give her as loving of look as I can manage (oh yes, you guessed it, more screams and a big “NO!”).
Then, somehow, by some miracle of the universe, the first short, leading, yes or no question I asked her (my go-to when all else has failed and she’s not willing, or in this case able, to use her words), got her immediately warped out of the blackhole she was in, and through tears I learned that yes, indeed, she most certainly was “mad that Ellie wrecked her tower... sob... tears wiped dramatically... and wouldn’t let her stack the squares to make a tower.”
Channeling all the patience I could (from that giant spare vat I’ve accumulated my whole life by being patient with NO ONE ELSE EVER, as my wife readily points out when this happens), I tell her how sorry I am and how frustrating that must have been, and offer her my finger to hold, inviting her down the hallway to “show me these stacking squares Ellen wouldn't let her have.” We get in her room, I dramatically get out the tiles she was referring to, promise we will build a tower together when she gets home (“but Ellen won’t let me!” ...I’m the mom. False.). I even had saved the two little building she had made when I put them away and showed her I loved them so much I saved them.
While she was eating out of my hand I shift attention to clothes - it’s minutes from 6:45am at this point. We quickly agree that the outfit momma picked out just was so not right for today, contemplated the right undies choice a hair too long, and were dressed in under two minutes. We race to the shoes, get them on, and teeth brushed (insisting on popping some bubbles in her bubble wrap in between), and are jacketed and heading out the door.
6:48am. How. On. Earth.
I am so grateful for those two peppers, and clearly would trade nothing for them, but no matter how worth it it is, momming them is hard and exhausting. The first 33 minutes of my day left me ready for happy hour, or bedtime, at 7am.
All that said, once I did some childfree meditation and resetting of my day, I spent the rest of the day getting to feel like I won momming for the day (or maybe week?).
Better than anything, I got to spend the last 10 hours feeling high on myself. Strutting around my empty house like I won some kind of nonexistent mother strong willed and highly spirited children award.
I remember when we started doing all the infertility treatments, drugs, and injections and the wifey was terrified of what it would do to my already very high strung, emotional, and anxiety filled body. Injecting oodles of female hormones into one’s body leaves many women teetering on the edge. Miraculously, not me. It chilled me the fuck out. Almost as though that’s all I’d ever needed in life. While emotionally unstable and at times irrational, no doubt, especially at any sight of pregnant bellies, I was overall the chillest I had ever been in life (that time immediately following a failed cycle when Taylor came home to me sawing our toilet seats in half, excluded).
Two years later when we were about to bring not one, but two human lives into the world again, the wifey was unsure of how I would react and deal with all that comes with that. Specifics were not voiced at the time, but based on hindsight conversations, since, it’s clear I was predicted to be a total an overly-protective, germaphobic, obsessive about cleanliness, helicopter mom.
Then, one day, there we were on our way to Florida and Ellen and Maggie were eating grapes and crackers off the floor of the airplane, with my blessing.
Motherhood zen achieved. Thank you pricy little humans for teaching me so many new things in life. You're exhaustingly fantastic.
