Mama Guilt

I am at the end of my rope. I get this way sometimes, usually about once a month (no, not THAT time of the month, people), where I just NEED A BREAK. I need to be on my schedule, not in charge of entertaining anyone, in a quiet place and to do something for me. I don’t want to sound like a martyr and I HATE when SAHMs act like one. Like the whole world would end if they didn’t do everything. The moms that list off all the things they do each day just to get sympathy/props for their miraculous work ethic. The ones that act like their husbands would probably starve the kids to death and dress them in garbage bags if left to their own devices.

You know the ones. You might be one. Think about it.

Anyway, I try really hard not to fall into that trap. Especially to Paul, because he not only works a job 40 hours a week, he does tons around here. I am admittedly quite lazy with housework, although I have gotten a tiny bit better. I try to cook most of the meals, but he does the dishes EVERY NIGHT and MORNING, he straightens up, he gives Declan a bath and puts him down every night, takes out the trash, etc. So I’m really not going to look at him and complain that I do SO MUCH around here and I just HAVE to have a break. Because when is his break??

Now granted, I do think, as lame as it sounds, that having a 25-minute commute to and from work each day counts as a little bit of a break. He would probably disagree, but I would give a lot of money to have 50 minutes alone in the car every day. I’d give a lot of money to have 50 minutes alone in the bathroom every day. Hell, 25 would do it. OK, I’d like to just pee alone every time I go. But I know that he and I value alone time, and we take it where we can get it. I just don’t get it very often.

It’s really the alone time I crave more than a “break.” Like, I don’t need a spa day once a month (I sure as hell wouldn’t complain about one, though) and I don’t need a big fancy date night or anything like that (we are pretty good about getting those, which is awesome). I just want time alone in the house to do whatever I want on my terms. Even if it’s cleaning. I want to clean NOT during nap time. Because I want to turn the music up loud and I can’t do that when Little Bit is sleeping!

I always know when it’s “time” for a break. I get edgy and irritable (well, more so than normal), my patience runs way short, and overall, I’m just a real joy to be around. So I’ll tell Paul that I’m going to be checking out, either mentally or physically, and I need him to take over and leave me alone. Which, luckily, he complies with. Today is one of those days. I knew yesterday that Break Time was imminent. He was more than happy to take the reins with Declan all morning, and now that Declan is down, I’m all dressed and ready to go to Barnes and Noble and a few other places ALONE. Heaven.

And of course, I feel guilty. I feel guilty for not doing something fun as a family today. I feel guilty that I’ve been sitting in the bedroom alone watching “Teen Mom” while my husband and son are snuggling on the couch. I feel guilty that Paul worked all week and has taken Declan all morning and will probably have him for a while this afternoon while I’m sipping coffee and thumbing through books. I feel guilty that I haven’t been very fun today. I feel guilty for not being able to be a good mom and wife all the time.

And this guilt takes away from some of this me time. So while I have the chance to be gone for hours, I know I’ll not be quite as leisurely as I could be. I know I won’t thumb through every book at B&N that piques my interest. I know when I go run my other errands, I’ll get in and out quickly, no dawdling. But I also know that once all that is over, I’ll come back fully charged and ready to be the best mom and wife I can be. And I don’t feel guilty about that.

One of those days

Today was one of those days. The kind of day where I texted my cousin at 10:30 to ask her if she was free for margaritas for dinner. The kind of day where you are where you don’t know who is going to have more breakdowns, the mom or the toddler.

It started out fine, Declan woke up normal and was happy. I don’t know if he got hungry or what, but soon after I had showered, the whining started. I LOATHE whining. I ABHOR whining. I can handle screaming, squealing, endless loops of Fisher Price songs, Elmo’s voice (but just barely), and even crying. But whining.. NO. I don’t do whining. So once the whining started, my day started going down hill. Declan was having one of those days where he wants something RIGHT NOW, but when I give it to him, he’s either offended by my delivery or wants me to move faster or something, because he continues whining, only louder. So I put said item away, and the whining goes up another level.. this continues until I say “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT, FIGURE IT OUT, I’M LEAVING THE ROOM” so I don’t snap.

Then, my little newborn that I keep was fussy. Now, for him, fussy means crying for like 3 minutes. He’s the easiest baby ever. He’s the Anti-Birth Control. But he’s got me spoiled, so when he fusses at all, I’m not expecting it, so it throws me for a loop. Then the toddler I keep comes over. He’s being great, but Declan begins taking his whiny anger out on him, which leads to Declan having two time-outs and a leg swat (for kicking me in the face, no less) by 9:30. And I NEVER swat him, but I was already spent. And it wasn’t even 10 a.m.

Naps were short, crackers were spilled, walls were drawn on… the saga continued for HOURS. I called Paul and said that there was a good chance I’d bolt from the door the minute he got home, just so I could get a break. He knew it was bad.

The day leveled off some in the afternoon, but by then, my nerves were raw. Any loud noise or neediness was pushing me closer and closer to the edge of insanity. The boys I watch were picked up, and I was planning my escape in my head. I HAD to get away from kids!

So I sit down for a minute to check my email and let Declan watch some Tom and Jerry classic cartoons. It’s our afternoon thing. Anyway, he comes and crawls in my lap to look at the computer. I figure that I’m about to be pushed over the edge by him INSISTING that I put on the Thomas the Tank Engine web site so he can see “PERCY! PERCY!”, as he does daily — no, hourly — right now. But of course, as toddlers do, he surprised me.

Declan is OBSESSED with his letters right now, which of course makes me think he’s a super genius. So he sits on me and turns the computer toward him and points to the letters on the keyboard, saying “DOUBLE U” (he says it so cute) and “O” and “K” and all his faves. When he identified the letter correctly, he would clap and smile so big, his pride was astounding. Then, he turns to me after going through a few of them, and kisses me right on the lips.

SWOON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And Mommy was back in business.

Ups and Downs

I hate the second-guessing that comes with motherhood. As soon as you think you’ve got your kid figured out, they throw you for a loop and make you realize that you know NOTHING.

So as Declan approaches 2, I’ve been feeling pretty damn good about the job that Paul and I are doing. Sure, we have moments with Declan that make us A) want to put him up on Craig’s List and B) wonder how the hospital let us leave with him 22 months ago. But for the most part, things are pretty smooth. I’ve been actually kind of obnoxiously spouting off at the mouth lately about how much I enjoy this age, and that the “Terrible Twos” don’t scare me.

Ha.

Ha ha.

Never EVER say things like that about your kid. EVER.

We are apparently in some sort of teething/toddler hell right now. I don’t attribute a lot of behavioral problems with teething, normally. I see people post on Facebook or Babycenter.com, my two fave hang-outs online, about these problems they are having with their kids, and they blame so much of it on teething, and I just roll my eyes. Sure, the kids act a little fussy and drool some, but they don’t become little Satanic devils 20 different times in their short lives while every tooth comes in. If so, most people would only have one kid, or Baby Dentures would be a huge hit, kinda like Baby Toupees. But I also know that Declan is in the process of getting his four canines, and has been a total bipolar psycho for the past week. Nothing too major: refusing to nap, melting down for reasons that only exist in his head, acting horrible one minute and hilarious the next; but it’s still been the ultimate toddler roller coaster. And even though I know he’s fine, there’s nothing like a week-long meltdown to make you feel completely incompetent as a parent.

I hate not knowing what the problem is. I hate the times that I’ve assumed he was just “being difficult,” only to find out it was strep. Or the first time we tried to “Ferberize” him, and after only 15 minutes of crying, with us going in at intervals to check on him, he had vomited, pooped and scratched his face til it bled. We found out two days later he had a double ear infection. I cried for what seemed like a lot longer than 15 minutes when I found that out. And I was pissed at myself more than anything because I didn’t want to let him “cry it out,” even though he was sleeping awful. My gut screamed not to do it, but everyone I knew and trusted told me I had to. So I did, and I regret it to this day.

Luckily, after a few days, our routine is back and the devil seems to have subsided, for now. Maybe those teeth aren’t hurting as bad, maybe the endless supply of Motrin we’ve pumped in him has helped, or maybe all the Play-Doh we’ve played with this week has made him happy. My funny little guy is back to his loving self, back to napping (thank god for that) and seems back to normal, if there is such a thing as a normal toddler. And I’m reassured that even though sometimes I have no clue what in the hell is going on, following my gut and watching Declan’s cues are the best ways to get through this adventure known as parenthood. Kids don’t come with a handbook for a reason. But wouldn’t it be nice if they did?

The big question

“So, when are you having another?”
“Are you ready for No. 2?”
“How many more do you think you’ll have?”
From the minute Declan turned one, that’s all I’ve heard. I know it’s only natural, and should probably take it as a compliment that people who have met me find it acceptable for Paul and I to reproduce again. You wouldn’t want to be the family that always hears “One really suits you!” But I was just getting the hang of Declan, why in the world would I want to screw that up with another kid???

As we made it past a year and into toddlerhood, I did not feel one urge to go through the baby phase again. I’m not a “baby person,” I guess, not that I tear their heads off or anything, but I just really like the walking, talking and hilarity that is a post-infant creature. Yea, there’s more tantrums and more messes, but there’s WAY more feedback and pay-off. I’ll take a screaming, thrashing 32 lb. beast over an immobile sack of flour any day of the week. Because after Declan thrashes and screams and pitches a fit, he may give me a hug or say “Sorry Mama” or even just throw something at me, but it’s funny. A baby can’t tell you what’s wrong, pukes on you if you move it too much (well, mine did anyway) and never sits down next to you and holds hands while watching Sesame Street.

Being an only child is part of it, too. I don’t have siblings, so I don’t “get” why you have to have them. I didn’t “miss out” on anything, which is a major concern apparently, since I’ve been told that having only one kid will cause them to “miss out” on some mystery experience that I obviously suffered through. Another argument I’ve heard in favor of multiple kids is that having more than one will help out when Paul and I die. Hmm. Well, I’m sure there is some truth to that, because hey, death can be a real PITA, but I’m not going to pop out a bunch of kids to make my funeral less stressful. My kid(s) better be damned stress… anyway, I don’t like the thought of giving Declan a sibling as “Parental Funeral Stress Assistant” or whatever. A sibling as an insurance policy just doesn’t fly with me.

So I kinda thought I’d made up my mind. We got one great kid that is perfect and healthy and happy, and I was fine with that. And while being around other babies sometimes makes my uterus hurt a little, I figure that’s just good old Biology doing its job. I’ve always been told that when you are done having kids, you just “know” somehow, and even though I wasn’t feeling the second-kid vibe, I didn’t have that iron-clad NO MORE KIDS feeling, either. So Paul and I tabled the decision til a later date.

Sometime after Christmas break, though, my mind started changing. Since I’ve been keeping kids in our home since May, Declan and I have gotten used to having company. But for a couple of weeks over the holiday, I didn’t have anybody to watch, and it was just us. I welcomed the break and the one-on-one time I got with my little man. But as soon as I got my kids back, I saw how happy Declan is when they are here. Even the newborn I keep. He talks about “Baby Sully” all day. And when Jacob, the toddler is here, they basically want me nowhere near them except when they are hungry. They play like crazy and have a blast the whole time. It suddenly hit me what it is people were talking about with siblings and what Declan would get out of having one. He’d have fun (most of the time), have a playmate (some of the time), but mainly he’d have another kid around, which seems to make him happy. And babysitting a newborn 5 days a week is pretty much the best way to figure out if you want another one or not. Being able to learn from my typical first-time-mom mistakes with Declan makes a newborn MUCH more tolerable, although I gotta say, the one I keep is damn near the easiest baby I’ve ever seen, so this whole thing may be a trick.. not sure.

So while we don’t have any plans yet, the tide is turning in my singleton brain. Adding to the mix may give our family the exact flavor it needs.

It’s time to bite the bullet

So I have been really sucky as a blogger. I have ideas all the time that I would love to flush out on here, but I either get too lazy or I’m too afraid I’ll offend someone. I don’t want to be divisive necessarily, but if I’m going to blog, I want to do it 100%. I want to lay it all out there, heart and soul, warts and all. And that’s been holding me back. Something will pop into my head or show up on my radar, and I’ll immediately process it as a potential blog topic, but then nothing will happen because I’m afraid of the reaction.

But it’s time to get over it. I really am feeling urges to write a lot, and I need to just do it. So I’m going to start. I’m not talking politics or religion or anything like that. I just want this blog to be a place where I can sort through my thoughts, get feedback from others and as my own personal therapy.

So I am hereby committing to blogging more frequently and more honestly. I encourage differing opinions and want to open debates on all sorts of topics. I’m not going to be all serious .. most of my posts will probably deal with poop, snot or trucks, just like most of my days. But if I have something eating me up, it’s going to show up here. I may come off as a bitch, I may come off as a know-it-all (who doesn’t), I may come off as a crazy person. But it’s time for me to bite the bullet and become the writer I want to be.

You’ve been warned.

A day in the life..

The original name I came up with for my blog was “Motherhood Madness,” but I felt like that was too limiting. I wanted to discuss my foray into domesticity, which moves beyond diapers and tonka trucks. Well, sometimes.

But lately, Motherhood Madness seems to fit my life much better. I am smack-dab in the middle of toddler mania, and every day, no, every hour is proving to be a new adventure. Not all bad, mind you, although as I mentioned in my last post, the climbing and discipline issues are mounting. So I kinda thought a breakdown of what my past couple of days have looked like would help not only show how exactly bi-polar my child has become and how totally looney tunes I’m becoming.

Tuesday was especially manic. We started the day fine, calmly enjoying some juice and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Breakfast was fine. Sometime after breakfast, Declan had Meltdown No. 1. Not real sure what happened. I think it had to do with me holding him but ONLY if I was standing. No sitting. Which is fun when you are holding a 30lb child. So he cries and screams and throws himself to the ground on his bottom, much like this child here. Eventually, Declan survives this trauma and moves on.

Next we move into our multiple personality phase. Declan would look right at me, smiling and cherubic, and then hit me in the face or on the leg. And then smile bigger. And then five minutes later, offer me kisses and hugs for no reason. I feel like I’m trapped in a cycle of abuse. I never know what to expect, so it’s best if I just behave and always smile so he doesn’t snap.

After a nap and lunch, just plain ole crazy takes over. First it’s running around the house, which is always fun. Then it’s opening the lazy susan and taking out all the tupperware. Normal, no biggie. Then it’s straight to the china cabinet, which is reserved for him on the bottom with his plastic plates, bowls and Cuisinearts, which are his fave things (blades removed, of course). Then it’s on to the buffet in the dining room and removing all the place mats. Then it’s straight to the now-dismantled excersauser. He likes to “sit” in it even though it’s resting on the floor. This whole process has lasted approximately 5 minutes, by the way. And in the meantime, the cat has moved into the lazy susan and then into the buffet table cabinet. I can only assume she was looking for shelter or a weapon, not sure.

Another meltdown ensues at some point over something serious like his sippy cup being in the wrong place, and when these meltdowns happen, he gets SO MAD and just flings everything near him around. He waves his little arms around, trying to clothesline his Little People Parking Garage and grunting with fury. I laugh to myself and just ignore him until the storm passes.

Then more climbing happens, but this time he’s putting himself and the boy I keep at risk by climbing in the sink of his Fisher Price Kitchen.

Notice that these kids are not standing in the sink.

So after telling him “NO” and moving him off of it twice, Declan experienced his first time out. It went as you would expect: I put him in the pack and play and he laughed his crazy butt off for the 3 minutes he was in there. He finally behaves long enough to eat dinner, get a bath and go to bed. Two hours later, I found all of his plates and bowls under the china cabinet. Cheeky booger.

Today was more of the same. More flinging himself and his toys around when angry. More climbing on things and laughing maniacally as I get him down. More random hitting/kissing episodes. He played with my hair at one point when I was sitting in the floor and I thought he might use the opportunity to strangle me. We had more time outs today that took place in a corner with me standing in front of him with my back turned. This at least elicited a response other than laughter, but don’t know how effective it was. By the time Paul got home, he was all smiles, carrying his blanky around the house and lying down on it to go “night-night.” Very cute. This was the same kid that hit me with a firetruck just hours before for no reason. And with a smile.

So the roller coaster ride of toddlerhood continues. I started the evening ready to write a blog all about my crazy day and my crazy son, but by the time I sat down to write this, all I remember is the hugs, the hair playing, the playing Peek-a-Boo under the blanket, watching him love on Tyson, our little buddy during the day. So you take the good with the bad, try to protect the cat and never trust a smiling toddler. Never.

I’m still here… barely

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m happy to report that several friends have actually requested that I blog again. Wow, I am surprised anyone noticed! Must be a slow news week.

Anyway, it has been, oh, 4 months since I’ve put fingers to keyboard (well, in the blogosphere. I’m on the computer more than any human not working in an office should be), so I guess it’s time to update.

My domestic skills have waned some over the past months in some aspects and grown in others. My last blog was about gardening (which I totally didn’t even remember, I just happened to see it), which is now laughable. First of all, I do not enjoy playing in the dirt in the midst of a Tennessee summer. I do not enjoy being out of air conditioning in the midst of a Tennessee summer. So my precious little flowers that I slaved over during the lovely spring months have not quite survived. Some of them actually made it despite me until recently, but I gave up and let Declan pull them out of the dirt yesterday. It was just a pitiful reminder of my negligence. My shrubs are no longer nice and neat and some strange mushroom patches have grown up all over the yard that frighten me, so the yard is no longer fun for me.

I’m still cooking more than I used to, but Paul still cooks a lot and he tends to be the kitchen cleaner no matter who cooks. Whoops. That’s not very DG of me (domestic goddess, natch). But I am meal planning a lot and still making yummy food for Declan, so that has to count for something. Hell, some days it’s a good thing when the cat gets fed.

I mop and sweep tons more than I ever have in my life and am kinda obsessing over those Shark steamer mops? Yea, gotta have one. So things are definitely better on some fronts.

Do not buy this toy for my son.

My focus right now is, of course, our crazy son. I gotta say, since hitting a year old, I’m enjoying Declan more and more. Not that I didn’t enjoy him before, obviously. But I’m loving this hilarious toddler phase. He’s rambunctious, an entertainer, learning new words and skills daily and is basically just hilarious.

Most of the time.

We’ve entered a new phase recently that I’m sure is typical for all kids of this age, but it is seriously the most head-bangingly frustrating phase to date.

Laughing at discipline.

UGH. I. COULD. SCREAM.

Seriously, there is nothing – NOTHING – more infuriating than grabbing your monkey spawn/child off of the coffee table/entertainment center/kitchen chair/roof of the house (any day now, I’m sure) with the intention of putting the fear of God and all mothers everywhere in your child, only to have him double over in giggles and run right back to the death trap you just rescued him from. I spend my day trying to stay one step ahead of this fearless adventurer, trying find the one crack in the baby-proofing and dare-devil-proofing that Paul and I have tried to implement all over the house, only to walk into a room and find him inches away from a head injury. So what’s a mom to do? You try to scare the holy living crap out of them so they won’t do it again. And how do you scare a child that views a China cabinet as a jungle gym?

No clue.

I’ve tried a stern “NO!” I’ve tried a firm grab off of said piece of furniture. I’ve ignored the behavior (until my anxiety made me run over and grab him off of the ceiling fan or whatever apparatus he was attached to) and I’ve nicely asked him to “Please be a good boy and not stand on the coffee table, ok sweetie? Ok? Seriously? Ok?” I’ve distracted with toys and cartoons. I’ve tried a time out (and if anyone knows how to make a 16-month-old sit quietly on their own for more than, say, 3 seconds besides Dora, Diego or Elmo, let me know. Those methods don’t exactly say “punishment.”) and, sadly, I tried a pop on the leg (a light pop, I promise I don’t beat my child. Just trying to save his life.). I think the leg-pop made him laugh the hardest.

Sigh. So apparently Angry Mommy isn’t very scary. And neither are narrow ledges or heights. So I’m trying to enjoy this age despite the danger and defiance involved. I guess the good thing about defiance at 16 months old is that it involves smiles and laughter and not eye-rolling and smart comments. I’ll do my best to make sure Declan lives to that age, but I’m not sure what condition I’ll be in.

Going Green. And a little crazy.

I am expanding my domestic goddess repertoire to the great outdoors. Sorry, Mother Earth.

Now that we are in our house and have this precious little yard, I have been feeling the urge to plant something. Nothing major. Just some color to liven up the place. I picked up some pansies, transfered them from pot to ground. They lived. I was surprised. And energized. What else could I not kill?

I picked up a pack of seeds, zinnias, I think. Could I grow a plant from seeds? Too soon. Not yet.

So I picked up some dahlias and potted them. Not too hard. So far, so good. I branched out, and bought a spade (I think a spade. A kind of shovely thing, that’s short. I’m not sure). And some hedge trimmers. I trimmed the hedges. And did it really well, too!

I want to dig in the dirt and plant my seeds, but I’m still too nervous. Can I get them from tiny little speck of germinated plant matter to blossoming blooms of color? I’m still skeptical.

I spotted some beautiful orange and yellow marigolds at the grocery store, and decided they would make a great addition to my growing garden. I planted them kinda without thinking about it, and now I just have a random row of orange and yellow puff balls in front of my hedges. Hmm. Now I guess I understand the concept of landscaping. I guess I’ll need a lot more marigolds.

After it got warm and rained a bunch, suddenly our grass is 2 feet tall. I decided that we need a mower that I can use (meaning, I can’t start a regular mower, the kind with the pull chord. Never could do it.), and since our yard is so small and flat, and since Earth Day was this week, Paul and I decided on a push reel mower. Those are the old-timey mowers that don’t require gas or electricity. So I went to Home Depot and bought the mower AND I assembled it. All by myself. Albeit, a couple little parts didn’t quite make it on, and I apparently didn’t put the washers (?) in the right place, but it was functional.

So today, I sat there, looking at MY mower. My own piece of machinery. I’ve never had any kind of machinery, outside of hair dryers and flat irons. Declan was asleep and it was 80 degrees and sunny. The mower was glistening in the light, a real beauty. So I did it. I mowed the yard. With MY mower. Well, I mowed the front yard, then Declan woke up. Then tonight, after Declan was asleep and while Paul was cooking, I went outside to put up Declan’s toys, and there it sat again. My little green machine. I knew I had a few minutes before dinner, so maybe I would just touch up a few patches that I missed. After all, this was my first time mowing; our yard didn’t exactly look like Southfork. I ran over a few rows, spruced up a few patches. It was so nice out, warm and breezy. The first summery-feeling night.

I headed to the backyard.

I haven’t spent much time in our backyard. No reason to. But once I was back there, I noticed a great smell. Honeysuckle! Tons of it, on one side of our shed. Tons of bumble bees, too, which I know are harmless, but I hate them. Then I saw big tall stems, at least 4 feet tall, growing out of some thick leaves that Paul and I had been curious about. Irises! We are going to have irises! On the other side of the shed from the irises is a full cascade of some sort of hanging flowers in blue and purple. I’m thinking it could be a wisteria tree, after googling a million different things, but I have no clue. So I started mowing back there, dodging the bumble bees and smelling the honey suckle. Paul called me to dinner before I was finished, and I really had to decide whether to go in or not without finishing. I hated to, but I got the stink eye from Paul, so I knew it was time to quit for the day.

I also bought more marigolds when I got my mower, and a starter kit thingy for my seeds (that’s the scientific name, BTW). I’m going to plant zinnias and aster. I want my yard to be bursting with color. I want to play in the dirt and watch something develop and grow every day, just the same as I do with Declan. There is something nurturing and natural about gardening that I think goes hand in hand with motherhood.

But even if our house doesn’t become the next Biltmore, my love for the outdoors as grown. I’ve discovered a new hobby that gets me off my butt and away from the TV and the computer and into the fresh air and sun. It’s surprisingly invigorating and mind-clearing, and kinda therapeutic.

I know this post wasn’t very funny or clever, but I am so surprised by this new turn of events, I had to write about it. I am sure that once the mercury hits 90 degrees, I won’t be quite so peachy about sweating my ass off in the grass, surrounded by bugs and and itching like crazy. I’ll only be outside long enough to walk into my mom’s pool or to get a new margarita. And I’ll be begging Paul to mow weekly. But for now, it’s easy being green.

How things change..

I realized today that it had been exactly a year since I decided to quit breastfeeding Declan. He was 11 days old, and I was MISERABLE. I was so stressed, so tired, in so much pain and so desperate for a break after trying to make nursing work. I had lost 31 pounds in 11 days because my anxiety level was so high, I couldn’t eat one bite of food. I had no milk supply at all and was convinced that Declan was starving to death. I was suffering from the typical new mom fears on top of all that mess. For those that have been there, you know what I mean. I was convinced that if he didn’t eat every 4 hours MAXIMUM, he would die. He would just waste away in his bassinet before my very eyes.

I was also convinced that if we held him while he slept, he’d be sleeping in our bed until he was 12. When I was desperate for sleep and decided to hold him anyway, I would sleep for two seconds and then jerk myself awake, convinced he was going to somehow leap off my chest, roll off the king-size bed and impale himself on some unknown sharp object on the floor. I remember one night, Paul had taken him out to the couch so I could sleep for a couple of hours. I woke up to use the bathroom, and while I was in there, I realized I had been asleep for several hours, like 5, and hadn’t heard a peep. So I started PANICKING on the toilet, convinced that Paul had either rolled on top of him on the couch (hardly possible) or dropped him on another one of those hidden spikes. This did not speed up my bathroom break, which therefore led to more panic. I needed to put my eyes on my child NOW. And finally, when my body cooperated, I ran out to the couch and there were my two men, snuggled on the couch, both breathing. I’m fairly sure I woke them up anyway.

That day I quit nursing, so many of those fears were alleviated. I could SEE how much Declan was eating. Paul could feed him while I slept, therefore cutting out a lot of my sleep-deprived delirium. I began to believe that he wasn’t this frail little creature on his way to death’s door. In other words, I began to relax and enjoy being a mother.

Fast-forward a year. Now, my fears are more abstract. Typical things: fear of kidnappers or car wrecks or falling down our scary basement stairs. But day-to-day life is much more sedated, to the point of comedy. I think most parents can relate to the kind of insanity that happens once you have a toddler, and how normal it becomes. For those not yet in the toddler world yet, I promise you that you, too, will not believe the things that you do, see and say that you swore would never happen, or would have mortified you just months before.

(If any parents of toddlers out there don’t have conversations like this, please don’t judge. Maybe I am alone in all this. I doubt it, though.)

Recent conversations include:

Me: “There’s something in Declan’s hair. [sniff, sniff] Ewww, I think it’s poop.”

Paul: “Has he pooped since his bath last night?”

Me: “No.Hmm. Must be the cat’s. I’ll give him a bath later.”

Or

Paul: “Where’s Declan’s paci/sippy cup/the remote control?”

Me: “Did you check the tub?”

Paul: “Oh, no. There it is.”

Most recently

Paul: “What’s he eating?” (This question occurs quite frequently, and never during a meal. I’m sure I’m not alone in this.)

Me: “Um, looks like macaroni.”

Paul: “When did he have macaroni?”

Me: “The other day.”

Very common

[thud/crash/bang]

Paul: “Ouch, buddy, you ok?”

Me: “He just hit his head, he’s fine.”

So despite being a poop-covered, trash-eating, bathtub-playing toddler covered in bruises, cuts and unknown substances, he’s survived. Thrived, actually. Despite not having years of breastmilk, despite chewing on toys at the children’s museum, despite eating grass and McDonald’s (GASP!), he’s a walking, talking, big ole 1-year-old whose only fallen off the bed during waking hours. If only I could tell this to that 11-day-old Mom, so that she could have relaxed sooner. Babies aren’t nearly as fragile as we think. It’s the moms with the frailty.

Nostalgia

The older Declan gets, the more fun I’m having. Seriously, the baby phase? LAME. This phase, on the other hand, this beginning of toddlerhood and boyhood, it rocks. Everything about it is great. Declan is walking, screaming (mostly out of joy), babbling, feeding himself, understanding more, becoming more independent, and, of course, sleeping. It’s great to see him discover a new trick, like clapping, and see his pride. I love playing with him now, and am already looking forward to the next few years, when we can color, draw, play ball and read together.

I was such a huge reader when I was little. It’s all I did. I have such vivid memories of my time spent in my room alone with a good book, even as early as 6 or 7. Luckily, my mom had the wherewithal to save a big chunk of my childhood books, and I get to hand them down to Declan. It amazes me, now that I’ve gone through them all recently, how many of them I remember. And I’m talking old stuff. Like the Complete Sesame Street Library, published in 1980. It has characters never to be seen again. Anyone recall The Amazing Mumford? Or Herry Monster? Or Sherlock Hemlock? There was no Elmo, no Abby Cadabby. Big Bird was more of the star than any of them, although Bert and Ernie were pretty major players. And Prairie Dawn. PD gets the shaft nowadays. She rocked the 80s, though.

I also have this great Christmas book that features the smells of Christmas. It’s Scratch-and-Sniff, which is so fabulous, and after all these years, the Gingerbread Man still smells like Gingerbread. The orange still smells like orange, and the candy cane is still all pepperminty. More importantly, it still smells the way it did when I was 7. The scents are far from accurate, it’s a scratch-and-sniff book, for pete’s sake. But the scents are so real in my mind, that just opening the book again whipped my brain back over 20 years in a split second. It was a sad and wonderful feeling.

I think one of the most unexpected joys of becoming a parent is getting to live as a child again. Having a child gives me the right to roll around in the grass and color and read books with more pictures than words. A year ago, I would never have looked forward to a new box of Crayolas. Now, I can’t wait.