Mondays have become my favorite day of the week. Mainly, because Miles goes to daycare on Mondays. And for five glorious hours, I can go grocery shopping, or finish crafts, or pack boxes (or watch television) without interruption.
Mondays are my day to catch up. To rejuvenate myself. To be alone with my thoughts.
On Mondays, I have five hours to be completely selfish. And it makes me a better mother for the rest of the week.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Battles & Blessings
Battles:
- Getting everything packed.
- Keeping up with an increasingly active two-year-old.
- Keeping up with a continually-ravenous two-year-old. He must be going through a growth spurt.
- Trying to entertain said two-year-old. For eight hours a day.
- Motivation. I lack it. Muchly.
- The opportunity to go through everything and get rid of the junk that has filled our home.
- Cuddles from an increasingly affectionate two-year-old.
- Witnessing Miles' first kiss. He kissed Scarlett right on the lips on Friday. Too cute.
- Being included in Miles' games and adventures. He makes everyday life exciting and fun.
- Patrick's work Christmas party: an opportunity to dress up and go out as a couple.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Tantrum
God help us, we have entered the Terrible Twos.
Okay. I really don't feel I can call it that, yet. There have been tantrums, yes, but so far, two is my favorite age. He's becoming independent. He's self-aware. He learns new things every.single.day. He is super affectionate. And loves to play, both alone and with me (or others). He is curious, and adventurous, and filled with the magic of the world. He can communicate his wants and needs, and is learning to be patient when he has to wait.
But, Lord help us if we dare to use the 'n' word: "No."
All hell breaks loose. Arms and legs fly. His body becomes a mass of wildly swinging jello. The screams are ear-piercing, shrill, and loooooong.* Tears rush down a face contorted with righteous toddler rage that we, the Evil Overlords, dared to tell him 'no'.
Most times, I just leave him to scream and walk away. Other times, like today, he chooses to throw these massive fits in the middle of a thrift store whilst helping an unfortunate young performer find costume pieces.**
Picture this:
You are wandering through the aisles of your local thrift store, looking to score some bargains on some gently-used clothes. Rushing down the aisle toward you is a two-year-old pushing a toy truck he found at the other end of the store, moving faster than those little legs should allow. A half second later, you see his mother, looking a tad frazzled, round the corner and spot him, fast-walking after him, while still trying desperately not to knock over clothing racks or elderly women who block the aisle, oblivious to the chaos that has entered their lives. A few seconds behind her, a young man holding two pieces of clothing that he obviously did not pick out for himself, saunters after, trying to keep up. Or possibly to distance himself.
The young man catches up to the mother and the boy in the shoe aisle. He finds them by the sounds of torturous screams. He turns the corner to find the mother seated on the floor between two racks of shoes, the toy truck behind her, out of reach of little arms. She is trying to keep his little toddler head from bashing into the hard tile-over-concrete floor, but the boy seems determined to break away at any cost. Any time there is a break in the screaming, the young man can hear the mother trying to reason with the drooling, snot-faced thing that was so cute five minutes ago. Finally, in exasperation, she hauls the toddler up, and carries him out of the aisle like a football - a kicking, screaming, gooey football.
And then, the mother calmly walks the young man over to the jewelry counter and points out a few items that will complement his new costume. Quietly, barely audible over the screams of "Truck! Truck!", she asks, "Does that give you a basic idea of what you need?" The young man nods, and thanks the mother. She says, "You're welcome," apologizes for the toddlers behavior, wishes the young man a good day, and walks out of the store, the flailing snot-monster still raging, locked in a fireman hold over her shoulder.
No panic. No fears of judgement. No breakdowns. I was the mom who had her shit together, for once, and who walked out of that store in charge, and wrestled that two-year-old into the car without feeling like I needed a stiff drink. For that moment, I felt like SuperMom.
And then I got home, collapsed in my recliner, and let Elmo baby-sit for the remainder of the evening.
*Boy, that kid has a set of lungs.
** I doubt he'll ever have children after today.
Okay. I really don't feel I can call it that, yet. There have been tantrums, yes, but so far, two is my favorite age. He's becoming independent. He's self-aware. He learns new things every.single.day. He is super affectionate. And loves to play, both alone and with me (or others). He is curious, and adventurous, and filled with the magic of the world. He can communicate his wants and needs, and is learning to be patient when he has to wait.
But, Lord help us if we dare to use the 'n' word: "No."
All hell breaks loose. Arms and legs fly. His body becomes a mass of wildly swinging jello. The screams are ear-piercing, shrill, and loooooong.* Tears rush down a face contorted with righteous toddler rage that we, the Evil Overlords, dared to tell him 'no'.
Most times, I just leave him to scream and walk away. Other times, like today, he chooses to throw these massive fits in the middle of a thrift store whilst helping an unfortunate young performer find costume pieces.**
Picture this:
You are wandering through the aisles of your local thrift store, looking to score some bargains on some gently-used clothes. Rushing down the aisle toward you is a two-year-old pushing a toy truck he found at the other end of the store, moving faster than those little legs should allow. A half second later, you see his mother, looking a tad frazzled, round the corner and spot him, fast-walking after him, while still trying desperately not to knock over clothing racks or elderly women who block the aisle, oblivious to the chaos that has entered their lives. A few seconds behind her, a young man holding two pieces of clothing that he obviously did not pick out for himself, saunters after, trying to keep up. Or possibly to distance himself.
The young man catches up to the mother and the boy in the shoe aisle. He finds them by the sounds of torturous screams. He turns the corner to find the mother seated on the floor between two racks of shoes, the toy truck behind her, out of reach of little arms. She is trying to keep his little toddler head from bashing into the hard tile-over-concrete floor, but the boy seems determined to break away at any cost. Any time there is a break in the screaming, the young man can hear the mother trying to reason with the drooling, snot-faced thing that was so cute five minutes ago. Finally, in exasperation, she hauls the toddler up, and carries him out of the aisle like a football - a kicking, screaming, gooey football.
And then, the mother calmly walks the young man over to the jewelry counter and points out a few items that will complement his new costume. Quietly, barely audible over the screams of "Truck! Truck!", she asks, "Does that give you a basic idea of what you need?" The young man nods, and thanks the mother. She says, "You're welcome," apologizes for the toddlers behavior, wishes the young man a good day, and walks out of the store, the flailing snot-monster still raging, locked in a fireman hold over her shoulder.
No panic. No fears of judgement. No breakdowns. I was the mom who had her shit together, for once, and who walked out of that store in charge, and wrestled that two-year-old into the car without feeling like I needed a stiff drink. For that moment, I felt like SuperMom.
And then I got home, collapsed in my recliner, and let Elmo baby-sit for the remainder of the evening.
*Boy, that kid has a set of lungs.
** I doubt he'll ever have children after today.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Moving
I get so excited about moving. The very thought of More Space! Better layout! Playroom! Garage! makes me all giddy. I imagine a perfectly spotless, well-decorated, beautiful home that fulfills all of our needs as a family.
About a week before the move, though, the reality sets in. I realize that moving is more Find Boxes! Pack All the Things! Live With Boxes Everywhere! and There Are Boxes We Still Haven't Unpacked from Our Last Move!
Patrick and I spent the entire evening packing last night. We managed to pack most of the dining room. And fill our living room with boxes. In all of the four or so hours we spent packing, we didn't even manage to pack an entire room.
We have entirely too much crap to move. I think I'm just going to dump it all in the trash and start over.
And then, as I'm going through it, I realize; "Oh, it's my random art project from sixth grade. I can't throw this away. Even though I can't tell what it is, it's part of my life that I can't let go." So, it gets packed lovingly in a box that I will open in six months and stare at quizzically before dumping the entire contents into the trash.
I hate this process. :p
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| My imagination. |
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| Reality. Except with less organization. And no flat screen TV. |
We have entirely too much crap to move. I think I'm just going to dump it all in the trash and start over.
And then, as I'm going through it, I realize; "Oh, it's my random art project from sixth grade. I can't throw this away. Even though I can't tell what it is, it's part of my life that I can't let go." So, it gets packed lovingly in a box that I will open in six months and stare at quizzically before dumping the entire contents into the trash.
I hate this process. :p
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
My kid may be slightly spoiled. . .
In preparation for our move in nine days (eep!), I spent Saturday cleaning, sorting, organizing, and packing Miles' toys. I started by dumping everything he owned onto his bedroom floor.*
The scene was. . .overwhelming.
Really overwhelming.
Somehow, in his mere two years of life, Miles has managed to accumulate an un-godly amount of stuff. Trucks. Blocks. Musical instruments. Action figures. Stuffed animals. Balls. Stuff. Most of it, he plays with for a few seconds, once in a great while. A few things hold his attention for hours. So, I made it my mission to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were. To choose a few things to keep out, a few things to store, and a few things to throw out. I pumped the Christmas music, and buried myself in the chaos.
Two hours later, this was the scene in the bedroom:
And this was the box of toys to send into storage:
All in all, a rather successful culling. Now, for the rest of the house. <sigh>
*Thank God for Aunt Ninel for watching him during all of this.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Lessons of Mommyhood
- Never brag about how well-behaved your two-year-old is at the beginning of dinner out. He will prove you wrong before the meal is over.
- Accept offers of free baby-sitting whenever you can. Sometimes, it's as good for the sitter as it is for Mommy and Daddy.
- Children can acquire a stunning amount of crap in their first two years. More on that tomorrow.
- No matter how exciting a move may be, part of your Mommy heart is saddened at the thought of painting over the crayon marks on the wall.
- Toddlers are ridiculously adorable in wee hats and pea coats. :)
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| Sorry for the crappy quality. I took this picture in the dark with my phone's camera. I'm lucky you can even see him. :) |
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Battles & Blessings
Battles:
- Exhaustion.
- Lack of motivation.
- Sick toddler.
- Sick Mommy.
- Christmas stress.
- Moving stress.
- Disorganization. To.the.max.
- Cuddly sick toddler.
- Supportive husband (who brings apple pie and coffee ice cream on bad days)
- Time to rest.
- A move-in date for our new duplex! We officially get the keys on Dec 15!
- Time with friends.
- Free baby-sitting.
- Goodwill. Seriously.
- Lists.
- The internet. Specifically, my Mommy forums. Love.
- Hot chocolate and frozen Thin Mints.
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