It's Tough Being a Kid

I'm Miles.  I'm three.

That's my standard introduction.  I've taken over Mommy's blog today to tell all of you grown-up-types something you probably don't know: Being a kid is tough stuff.

Don't roll your eyes.  It's true.

First, there's the fact that there's all these rules about everything.  And they all change.  Constantly.  It's okay for me to run and play at McDonald's in between bites of chicken nuggets.  But somehow, it's not okay for me to go run and play in between bites of dinner at the table at home.  If I'm on Mommy's Bed, it's okay to roughhouse and wrestle.  Unless Baby Samantha is anywhere around.  Or if Mommy doesn't feel like it.  Then, it's Not Okay.  It makes Mommy happy when I poop in a pull-up, but she keeps insisting I poop in the potty, and says that will make her "really happy".  I don't understand the difference.  You're either happy or you're not.  Which one is it, Lady?

Then, there's this whole time thing.  Five minutes is an eternity.  Stuff that happened before nap?  Might as well have happened last week.  And some things - some really fun things - seem to have happened just a few seconds ago, but Mommy and Daddy say they happened a long time ago.  Like my Birthday.  That was awesome!  Mommy says it was in September (whatever that means), but I remember it.  We played at the park and GrandMary and GrandDad and Grammy and Grandpa and Great-Grandpa and Aunt Portia and lots of other people came.  We had cake and presents!  And they sang to me and I sang, too, and then I got to blow out the fire!  I want to do it again, but Mommy says we have to wait a long time for that.  I don't get it.  If it's fun, why can't we just do it now?

That's another thing - these grown-up types don't seem to understand that I want to play.  Right now.  I don't want to stop to eat, or sleep, or brush my teeth, or anything else.  I just want to keep playing.  It makes me happy.  Grown-ups don't play much, and they are always grumpy.  If they would just play, like I want to, they would be happy!

There's so much I don't understand, yet, but I understand a LOT more than they think I do.  They talk about me like I'm not there, like I can't hear or understand them.  I know it takes me some time to put my words together (and who has time for that? There are things to climb!), but I understand most things.  When Mommy tells Grammy-on-the-phone that I am being whiny, it makes me sad.  I don't understand 'whiny', but I know it's not good because of the way Mommy says it.  She sounds so tired and a little sad.  And I think it's my fault, but I don't know how to fix it.  I want to make Mommy happy.  I want to make everybody happy.  That's my job.  I also understand, though, that when Mommy wraps her arms around me and holds me tight that she loves me, and that I'm safe.

I see sometimes when Baby Samantha is crying and Mommy fixes it, and then I ask her to play, and she can't, and Mommy looks all happy-sad, like she can't decide how she feels.  I understand that.  I don't understand my feelings most of the time, either.  Sometimes, I feel sad and I don't know why.  Sometimes, I feel scared, but I don't want to tell anybody.  Sometimes, I feel silly and I don't understand why Mommy sighs and tells me to calm down.  Sometimes, though, I feel all sorts of mixed-up, happy-sad or silly-sleepy-scared, and I don't know what to do, so I cry.  Or I pretend to hurt myself so Mommy or Daddy will cuddle me.  Because when they cuddle me, I feel all happy and safe.

There are a million reasons that it's tough to be a kid.  But it's time to play now.  Bye!

A Day Off

This morning, after a couple of hours of searching out garage sales as a family, we all returned home for a well-earned nap.

Mine lasted almost four hours.  Because my husband is awesome.

Even more awesome, he then gave me the rest of the day off.  He took the kids outside, then to McDonald's for dinner and playtime.  I stayed home, blissfully alone in the silence.

I watched television.

I made a skirt for Samantha (and started on a second one).

I played games on my computer.

I read.

At no point did anyone pull on me to ask for something.

Not once did I have to rush out of my seat to soothe a screaming baby.

I simply spent time alone with my thoughts, and was rested enough to enjoy it.

It was a welcome sigh of relief at the end of a crazy week.

Anxiety Update

I haven't posted much lately because I want to post something positive and happy and awesome.  But I promised I'd be honest with anyone reading this, so here goes.

My anxiety is kicking my butt.

I don't want to leave the house.  In fact, all I really want to do is sleep.  When Sam cries, I want to scream and/or hide in a corner.  Even if it only lasts a moment, and is for a legitimate reason.

Scratch that.  I just want to hide.  Even when she's not crying.  I want to take Miles and hide somewhere.  Somewhere safe that we can play without worrying that Sam is going to need something.  Somewhere we can cuddle and nap together without Sam waking us up.  Somewhere where he's not going to give me that heart-breaking look because we have to stop doing stuff together.

I love Sam, with all of my heart.  I adore the way she laughs in her sleep, and crosses her eyes when she can't focus, and grabs onto my fingers with her monkey toes.  I love every little thing about her.

But if I'm honest with myself, everything about her causes me to panic, too.  When she's sleeping, I check her a thousand times to make sure she's breathing.  When she's awake, I'm trying to make sure she's engaged and stimulated - but not overstimulated.  When she's eating, I worry she's going to eat too fast and burp it all back up.  Or she'll eat too slowly and fall asleep before she's finished, and not get enough to eat and not gain weight correctly and. . .  cue panic spiral.

Every moment with her is both wonderful and agonizing.  It's overwhelming on every level.

I've upped my meds.  I have a prescription for Xanax, for when the panic becomes too much.  I force myself out of the house, for Miles' sake, and sit in the sunlight, hoping it will somehow magically cure me.

But the anxiety is always there.  Sometimes it's mild, an undercurrent, an edge that reminds me that all of this could be gone in an instant.  Other times, it's overwhelming, and I can't deal with the thought of losing what I have, so I drown it all out by turning on the tv for Miles and losing myself in a computer game.

And then I worry that I'm losing out on all I have by doing so.

So, yeah.  That's where I am.  Overwhelmed, but pushing through.