C 's eye's light up as I lay him in his crib; his little sideways grin spreads across his face and his legs begin to kick in anticipation. "Okay, buddy, here they go. Mommy is going to make the Tigies dance." I crank the crib mobile and the tigers twirl to the Auburn fight song. His kicks grow even more excited, and I feel my eyes well with tears as I admire how sweet he is and think about how blessed I am.
"I love you very much, Mommy." A says sweetly.
"I love you very much, too, Sweetheart."
"You're the best!" A shouts as she races downstairs to play with Thomas. I continue folding laundry and think about how amazing she is.
I needed that this morning because in just a few hours my day seemed to quickly unravel. My goals for the day, simple, workout and bake a cheesecake for tonight's church dinner. Of course, they included playing with the kids and taking Toot to the library, but that's a given every day, at least the playing part.
Today, though, I haven't worked out, and it's almost five. I haven't even bathed. Children have refused to take naps and absolutely wouldn't hear of actually napping at the same time. My part-time employer called to say he wouldn't need me to tutor this weekend, after all, despite us needing the money. Meltdown after meltdown, tantrum after tantrum, frustration after frustration ensue until I am sitting in my car crying, after removing A from a spitting episode during storytime. She and C are both wailing in the backseat, and I wonder how I have failed so miserably at parenting. Surely unhappy children mean that I have somehow let them down.
A 's not even three and already I second-guess every parenting decision I make. It's like the future of her well-being hinges on every second's interaction. And, am I giving C enough time? I feel like that sweet little man gets put in a bouncer everytime his big sister so much as sneezes.
I love my children more than breath, but right now I need to know that it is okay to not love every minute of parenting. That there will be some days where it seems tiresome and mundane.....I feel like a wretch for even thinking it. I need to know it's okay to snap, "Just go to sleep already," and A 's self-esteem won't be damaged. I need to know it's okay to ignore her sometimes, and it's okay to want to just sit and hold C while she watches television. I need to know it's okay to want to scream and jump up and down like a two-year-old, not actually do it but just want to. I need to know that I am a good mother because I love my children more than life and am willing to sacrifice career, comfort, sometimes, sanity and so much more for them. I need to know that it's okay to not know what to do when your child spits at the librarian. I need to know that everyone else knows how wonderful, delightful, beautiful, amazing A and C are. I need God to reach down and wrap His arms around me, dry my eyes, and let me know that I'm on the right path, that I'm doing what I need to right now, that He is the only perfect parent.
A walks downstairs from her nap that she finally agreed to take, her hair askew, eyes still sleepy. "Hi Pumpkin."
"Hi, mommy," she mumbles. C is napping, too, finally. I pick A up and cuddle her close. "You want to snuggle bunny."
"Mmm-hmm, but me want a snack first, two M and M's and a piece of chocolate." She hugs tighter. I bet you do, I think. I smile. My affirmation. She loves me. C loves me. Despite millions of faults. They know, too, that they are loved no matter what. And I love that moment of parenting just like I love the frustrating moments for what they do to me, as a person and as a parent. Those are the moments that refine me, and the more I allow God to help me react the way He wants me to the more it helps me grow. He knows that's what I need more than anything.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Look
"No! That's my princess Spaghetti-Os!" A wails, reaching dramatically for the cashier, as one might reach for a prized possession being ripped from grasp.
The cashier avoids eye contact and continues scanning groceries. Good move, considering that any engagment at this point might prove explosive. "Mine!" A 's cries escalate. C is nestled soundly in the front carrier. How he is sleeping throught this current spectacle, I have no idea.
"A , stop it." I search my mind desperately for some parental wisdom on grocery store meltdowns. Didn't I read what to do on a bumper sticker in traffic? Ahhh....bringing your undernapped, hungry toddler to the grocery store at five p.m. always results in the same outcome no matter how many times you try for a different result. Yup, that was it.
As I berate myself and try to talk A down, I see it. Slight at first, but growing in intensity at the same pace as A's escalating tantrum. THE LOOK. The disapproving, why can't you control your child, eyebrow raising, lips-pursing look, cast your way several times, so you get the message loud and clear that because your 2-year-old is screaming in the grocery store, that you have somehow failed as a parent. That look, cast authoritatively by a bystander who has all the parenting answers, apparently!
Red-faced, I turn away, apologize to the cashier, and start to hightail it to the car. The bagboy, God bless him, offers to help us to the car. I agree, and as he pushes the cart outside, A screams, "No, my mommy push. My mommy."
"He's helping, Pumpkin. Let's tell him thank you."
The brave, or perhaps crazy, young man unloads the cart and begins to leave when A reaches out, "No, green buggy, come back."
"That is not your green buggy. It belongs to the store. Let's go home and eat Princess noodles."
"Princess noodles?" She calms down. I wearily climb into the car, where A a's behavior has suddenly become as good as gold, which is the way it is 95% of the time. On the way home, I begin to contemplate the look. What good does it do? I wonder. If the purpose is to utterly humiliate and encourage me to feel like a parenting failure then mission accomplished. If it is designed to stop the tantrum, then it does not work, and don't you think I'd be doing that if I could. My goal is simply to purchase the items on my list and leave, not ruin anyone's shopping experience.
And why....why would you want to make someone feel that way? If you've had children, it's shameless. Are you so far removed from toddlerhood that you've forgotten how hungry, tired 2-year-olds behave? Dont' get me wrong? I'll quickly remove that file from my brain, as well, but never so far that I resort to humiliating frazzled moms with my glare of disapproval. If you have yet to have children, how about a little sympathy? Wouldn't an I've-been-there-look with a reassuring smile do so much more. For crying out loud, I have a 9-week-old strapped to my chest, a two-year-old screaming melodramatically in the cart, and did I also mention that I had not had a bath in 2 days? Seriously?!!! Not the time to judge my mommying.
I arrive home, unload children and groceries, and heat up princess O's for A . I recall my prayer earlier for a more humble heart. I guess few things teach humility like my grocery store drama, unless it is falling in Target. I smile, slowly feeling my sense of humor return and say a prayer for parental guidance. Why don't I ever think to pray in the heat of battle? It's always after and usually for forgiveness. How do I expect my kids to learn when God has to teach me the same lesson a thousand times?
Replaying the meltdown in my mind, I wonder how I should have reacted. I meekly scurried by, head down. What I really wanted to do was glare back and stick out my tongue, but I am almost certain that would have sent to wrong message to A and C. I think about how overwhelming it all is-discipline, parenting. The love part is easy! but the rest.....whoa. If I'm going to let a look get me down, perhaps I'm going to need a heavier dose of perspective. I realize it's not really even about the look; it's about my own fears and feelings of inadequacy, how I don't have all the answers or strategies, especially when it seems that everyone else does. Sometimes I wonder if I have any answers. I decide to forgive the look lady and move on....as evidenced by my blogging about it:) If anything, tanturms and the subsequent looks they provide usually drive me to my knees in prayer, and I figure that's a pretty good place for a parent to be anyway.
The cashier avoids eye contact and continues scanning groceries. Good move, considering that any engagment at this point might prove explosive. "Mine!" A 's cries escalate. C is nestled soundly in the front carrier. How he is sleeping throught this current spectacle, I have no idea.
"A , stop it." I search my mind desperately for some parental wisdom on grocery store meltdowns. Didn't I read what to do on a bumper sticker in traffic? Ahhh....bringing your undernapped, hungry toddler to the grocery store at five p.m. always results in the same outcome no matter how many times you try for a different result. Yup, that was it.
As I berate myself and try to talk A down, I see it. Slight at first, but growing in intensity at the same pace as A's escalating tantrum. THE LOOK. The disapproving, why can't you control your child, eyebrow raising, lips-pursing look, cast your way several times, so you get the message loud and clear that because your 2-year-old is screaming in the grocery store, that you have somehow failed as a parent. That look, cast authoritatively by a bystander who has all the parenting answers, apparently!
Red-faced, I turn away, apologize to the cashier, and start to hightail it to the car. The bagboy, God bless him, offers to help us to the car. I agree, and as he pushes the cart outside, A screams, "No, my mommy push. My mommy."
"He's helping, Pumpkin. Let's tell him thank you."
The brave, or perhaps crazy, young man unloads the cart and begins to leave when A reaches out, "No, green buggy, come back."
"That is not your green buggy. It belongs to the store. Let's go home and eat Princess noodles."
"Princess noodles?" She calms down. I wearily climb into the car, where A a's behavior has suddenly become as good as gold, which is the way it is 95% of the time. On the way home, I begin to contemplate the look. What good does it do? I wonder. If the purpose is to utterly humiliate and encourage me to feel like a parenting failure then mission accomplished. If it is designed to stop the tantrum, then it does not work, and don't you think I'd be doing that if I could. My goal is simply to purchase the items on my list and leave, not ruin anyone's shopping experience.
And why....why would you want to make someone feel that way? If you've had children, it's shameless. Are you so far removed from toddlerhood that you've forgotten how hungry, tired 2-year-olds behave? Dont' get me wrong? I'll quickly remove that file from my brain, as well, but never so far that I resort to humiliating frazzled moms with my glare of disapproval. If you have yet to have children, how about a little sympathy? Wouldn't an I've-been-there-look with a reassuring smile do so much more. For crying out loud, I have a 9-week-old strapped to my chest, a two-year-old screaming melodramatically in the cart, and did I also mention that I had not had a bath in 2 days? Seriously?!!! Not the time to judge my mommying.
I arrive home, unload children and groceries, and heat up princess O's for A . I recall my prayer earlier for a more humble heart. I guess few things teach humility like my grocery store drama, unless it is falling in Target. I smile, slowly feeling my sense of humor return and say a prayer for parental guidance. Why don't I ever think to pray in the heat of battle? It's always after and usually for forgiveness. How do I expect my kids to learn when God has to teach me the same lesson a thousand times?
Replaying the meltdown in my mind, I wonder how I should have reacted. I meekly scurried by, head down. What I really wanted to do was glare back and stick out my tongue, but I am almost certain that would have sent to wrong message to A and C. I think about how overwhelming it all is-discipline, parenting. The love part is easy! but the rest.....whoa. If I'm going to let a look get me down, perhaps I'm going to need a heavier dose of perspective. I realize it's not really even about the look; it's about my own fears and feelings of inadequacy, how I don't have all the answers or strategies, especially when it seems that everyone else does. Sometimes I wonder if I have any answers. I decide to forgive the look lady and move on....as evidenced by my blogging about it:) If anything, tanturms and the subsequent looks they provide usually drive me to my knees in prayer, and I figure that's a pretty good place for a parent to be anyway.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Off Target
How difficult could a quick trip to Target be? Right? They even have an automated door! With 2 little ones in tow, all I have to do to enter is push the cart right up to the doorway, and voila! the door does the rest. Of course, that is after I put A's shoes back on, place C in the front carrier, and lift A out of her car seat and into the cart without her kicking her brother. That has become easier with practice. The real challenge begins once we enter the store. Let's just say on this trip it brought me to my knees.
My mom, A, C, and I enter the store on a mission to find a birthday present for A 's friend. Nana takes C and heads for the shoe aisle, while A and I dash to the toddler clothing. It is half-past naptime, and C's tummy will be rumbly in less than 20 minutes (shout out to Pooh!).
"Which dress should we get, Lucy?" I ask A . I present her with a black and white dress or a pink dress. "This one or that one?" I playfully hold them up one at a time, over and over.
"That one," she says pointing to the black one. "And this one for A ." She grabs the pink dress and hangs it on the cart.
"Who said you were getting a dress?" I ask while laughing.
"Pink for A and black for Lucy."
"Okay," I agree. "Let's find something else to go with the dress. How about a bow?"
My mom wanders over to us with C sleeping, but I know any minute he'll be gnawing on his fists. "Let's go to toys."
I stop to look at outdoor toys when A starts to climb out of the cart. "Hold you," she says draping her arms around my neck so suddenly I lose my balance.
"Not now, Pumpkin. Stand right here beside Mommy." I place her on the floor, where she immediately darts down the aisle toward the main door. "A !" I shout. C is safe with Nana, so I sprint after her, my heart in my stomach. What if I don't find her, and she begins to wander on her own? Or worse, what if she gets out to the parking lot?
I see her, blond hair bouncing, giggling uncontrollably while she darts in and out of aisles. "A , get back here now."
I sprint faster, finally catching up to her. We're running side-by-side, when I reach to grab her. She shoots in front of me and we collide. Bodies fly through the air. A hits her bottom-nice padded diaper breaks her fall (maybe there are benefits to not being potty trained). My body, on the other hand, decides to land with all its postpartum weight on my knees. A bounces. Mom thuds. "Ow." I whisper through deeply inhaled breath. I look over to A who clearly doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She searches my face intently looking for some clue on how to react. All she sees at this point are grimaces and gasps for air.
When the initial pain stops, I look to my daughter and simply motion her to me. At this point, I'm not even concerned that I, in all my grown-up glory, have just taken a dive in front of all Target's mid-day shoppers. No, my focus is on my little escape artist. A cautiously walks over to me. "Help mommy up," I whisper. She hesitates. Most likely because I'm six times her size and the logisitics are too much for her 3 year-old brain to calculate. I manage to sit up, compose myself, and pulling her closer, calmly say, "We don't run from mommy. EVER. You and mommy could get hurt (as evidenced by my inability to walk). You could get lost or hit by a car or taken from mommy, daddy, and C ." I search for another more dramatic, frightening, serious calamity, but none comes. Plus, at this point, I'm trying not to cry or laugh.
With throbbing knee, I finally stand, take A by the hand, and march her back to the cart. On the way, a clerk has the nerve to ask if we need help finding anything. Does he not see my expression? "No, thank you," I nod, while thinking I found her. I lift A and put her back into the seat of the cart and buckle her in. To which she has the nerve to protest, "No buckle mommy. No buckle in." Did she not just see her mommy fly through the air, hit the floor, and not even raise her voice? Don't push it missy. I remain silent, while reminding myself that I am the one who decided to bring my unnapped toddler shopping. I push A back to the toddler section, where I grab a cute t-shirt for the remainder of Lucy's gift and walk to the check-out. My mom and C follow. We pay, leave, and I put A into her seat, remind myself she is exhausted, and stroke her hair. We head for home, and before I get half-way there I hear my little sprinter snoring in the back. I just smile and rub my aching knee.
My mom, A, C, and I enter the store on a mission to find a birthday present for A 's friend. Nana takes C and heads for the shoe aisle, while A and I dash to the toddler clothing. It is half-past naptime, and C's tummy will be rumbly in less than 20 minutes (shout out to Pooh!).
"Which dress should we get, Lucy?" I ask A . I present her with a black and white dress or a pink dress. "This one or that one?" I playfully hold them up one at a time, over and over.
"That one," she says pointing to the black one. "And this one for A ." She grabs the pink dress and hangs it on the cart.
"Who said you were getting a dress?" I ask while laughing.
"Pink for A and black for Lucy."
"Okay," I agree. "Let's find something else to go with the dress. How about a bow?"
My mom wanders over to us with C sleeping, but I know any minute he'll be gnawing on his fists. "Let's go to toys."
I stop to look at outdoor toys when A starts to climb out of the cart. "Hold you," she says draping her arms around my neck so suddenly I lose my balance.
"Not now, Pumpkin. Stand right here beside Mommy." I place her on the floor, where she immediately darts down the aisle toward the main door. "A !" I shout. C is safe with Nana, so I sprint after her, my heart in my stomach. What if I don't find her, and she begins to wander on her own? Or worse, what if she gets out to the parking lot?
I see her, blond hair bouncing, giggling uncontrollably while she darts in and out of aisles. "A , get back here now."
I sprint faster, finally catching up to her. We're running side-by-side, when I reach to grab her. She shoots in front of me and we collide. Bodies fly through the air. A hits her bottom-nice padded diaper breaks her fall (maybe there are benefits to not being potty trained). My body, on the other hand, decides to land with all its postpartum weight on my knees. A bounces. Mom thuds. "Ow." I whisper through deeply inhaled breath. I look over to A who clearly doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She searches my face intently looking for some clue on how to react. All she sees at this point are grimaces and gasps for air.
When the initial pain stops, I look to my daughter and simply motion her to me. At this point, I'm not even concerned that I, in all my grown-up glory, have just taken a dive in front of all Target's mid-day shoppers. No, my focus is on my little escape artist. A cautiously walks over to me. "Help mommy up," I whisper. She hesitates. Most likely because I'm six times her size and the logisitics are too much for her 3 year-old brain to calculate. I manage to sit up, compose myself, and pulling her closer, calmly say, "We don't run from mommy. EVER. You and mommy could get hurt (as evidenced by my inability to walk). You could get lost or hit by a car or taken from mommy, daddy, and C ." I search for another more dramatic, frightening, serious calamity, but none comes. Plus, at this point, I'm trying not to cry or laugh.
With throbbing knee, I finally stand, take A by the hand, and march her back to the cart. On the way, a clerk has the nerve to ask if we need help finding anything. Does he not see my expression? "No, thank you," I nod, while thinking I found her. I lift A and put her back into the seat of the cart and buckle her in. To which she has the nerve to protest, "No buckle mommy. No buckle in." Did she not just see her mommy fly through the air, hit the floor, and not even raise her voice? Don't push it missy. I remain silent, while reminding myself that I am the one who decided to bring my unnapped toddler shopping. I push A back to the toddler section, where I grab a cute t-shirt for the remainder of Lucy's gift and walk to the check-out. My mom and C follow. We pay, leave, and I put A into her seat, remind myself she is exhausted, and stroke her hair. We head for home, and before I get half-way there I hear my little sprinter snoring in the back. I just smile and rub my aching knee.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)