oh, now i get it; KIDS MAKE YOU CRAZY!

I was voted “most nonchalant” in my senior class. I have always prided myself on my patience. And before I had kids, I always said that the one thing I would surely do differently from my mother was to just not be so CRAZY.

I always thought that if she would have just asked nicely instead of nag or talked openly and calmly when I screwed up instead of scream like a lunatic, surely I would have been more willing cooperate or hear her side. But too often, I just wrote her off as crazy:

“She’s only this angry because she’s crazy. I mean, who cares if I threw a big party in her house while she was away. And who asked her to sit up all night waiting for me to come home just because she had no idea where I was. That’s her problem. She’s crazy. I’m glad I’m not crazy.”

A few months ago, I was outside my front door trying to hang a wreath. My 6 year old and two year old were playing in the living room, loudly, and my nearly two month old was sleeping, finally, upstairs. My m other-in-law, who lives next door had just dropped the kids off after taking them for just a moment so I could try and get the baby to sleep after a long day. I stood in the doorway and said, “please quiet down, the baby is sleeping upstairs.” “Ok” they respond, half-ass through the grandma induced sugar rush they are clearly burning off. Two seconds later (literally) , two sugar induced screams wake my finally sleeping baby. I turn around and yelling;

“Great! Thanks! Now you woke up your brother."

“You’re welcome” my daughter snarls in some sort of sick delight.

Now comes the screeching at the top of my lungs, the kind of screech that scratches your throat and gags you mid-rant;

“EXCUSE ME!!!!!!!!! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TALKING TO? AND WHAT EXACTLY DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND ABOUT WHAT I JUST SAID!?”

The screeching has stopped both kids in their tracks for a moment. The gagging from the screeching adds a little extra crazy and actually makes them think mommy might be turning into some kind of monster right before their eyes. And in this moment, I turn to attempt to hang my wreath again when my mother-in-law rounds the corner with a step-stool in hand to help me. My throat is still scratchy as I thank her.

There is a good chance that she has heard me lose it like this before. After all she does live next door, but having to look her in the face while my face is still bright red from the blood curdling screaming makes it far more humiliating. She has, kindly, never mentioned it.

One time, when I was maybe 7, I got a brand new pack of crayons and begged my mom to let me take them down to my friends house just a few doors down. She reluctantly agreed. And when I returned with one missing crayon, she marched me down to that house where we found it under the deck which she then sent me crawling under to get it. “How silly…” I remember thinking, “it’s just a crayon.”

I was reminded of this crayon story the other day when I found my daughters brand new box of crayons laying recklessly in the garage, with crayons missing, and then found myself rambling on (to myself) for the next five minutes;

“That is it! I’m just gonna hide these crayons until she can be more responsible with them. But then she’s just gonna keep asking me if I know where her crayons are, just like everyone asks me where EVERYTHING is before they even bother looking for it! And when I finally cave and give them to her, she’s gonna ask me where the green crayon is! And when we can’t find that, she’s going to insist she needs a new box of crayons because this one is now incomplete!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Who knew crayons could be so infuriating.

I have gone crazy. But usually after a good self-induced guilt trip from the burned visions of my children’s terrified little faces in my mind, I can find my way back to calm again. I don’t enjoy it at all. It is always exhausting, sometimes embarrassing, and rarely effective in the long term. It is also a certain reminder of what a frustrating child, infuriating teenager and ignorant soon-to-be-mother I once was.

Rightfully so, my daughter is the mirror image of me, both in looks, and in exasperating little idiosyncrasies. I used to HATE having my hair brushed. The other day during our daily hair brushing battle, I wrapped my daughters hair tightly around my fist a few times and, through clenched teeth threatened;

“I DON’T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND! WHEN YOU WHINE AND MAKE ME CHASE YOU AND BEG YOU TO STAND STILL EVERY MORNING YOU MAKE ME WANT TO GRAB YOU BY THE HAIR LIKE THIS AND TAKE YOU DOWN!”

It happens all the time. I have a battle with my children that makes me crazy, and inevitably reminds me of myself and my poor mother. I hear her chuckling in amusement all the time at what seems to be her premeditated retaliation from the great beyond. Sometimes I even give her the long over due credit she deserves; good one, Mom.

I can only hope that she has forgiven me, or at least that my insanity stops being so amusing to her before my daughter becomes a teenager. I do not want to meet my 16year old self in ten years any more than my daughter wants to meet her crazy mother who has been sitting up all night waiting for her and thinking she was laying in a ditch somewhere.

lost in translation

The other day one of my facebook friends responded to one of my posts. I don’t remember exactly what my post said but it’s usually something that my kids have done that was amusing, or that others may find amusing because it’s happening to me and not them. I usually find the humor eventually. I write it to vent frustration and then I read it for a laugh.

Her response was “awww, your posts always make me want another baby.” I was very surprised to think that my love for this motherhood thing was still somehow apparent through all of my venting/ranting; that my love for my children is not overshadowed by how crazy they make me at times.

Things are often getting lost in translation in my world. It’s inevitable when you’re communicating with children all day. Logic takes on a whole new meaning in their world. It still exists but on an entirely different level and one that is actually tricky to argue with sometimes.

I once told my mom that I had this “mom” thing all figured out (before I actually had kids, of course). My daughter is only six and I’m already stumped. The other night I attempted a very positive and upbeat lecture on how we both had responsibilities and one of my responsibilities is to teach her to be responsible, to be the best person she can be. It was my attempt to convince both of us (more so myself) that I am not a nag! I’m a mommy.

“You have to learn to do things for yourself so that you don’t always need your mommy to do EVERYTHING for you ALL the time. Wouldn’t it be funny if someone who was a grown up still had their mommy cooking for them and getting them dressed in the morning?”

“MOMMY! That means that you want me to die because you’re NEVER going to cook for me again and you want me to STARVE!”

How did we go from asking her to put her dirty clothes in her hamper to me wanting her to die? And how does one respond to this logic?

I find myself being equally as unreasonable sometimes;

“Madeline could you please pick up these books and put them back on the shelf.”

“No.”

“DON’T MISTAKE MY ASKING YOU TO DO SO AS A QUESTION! I’M NOT ASKING YOU, I’M TELLING YOU!”

I also vowed (pre-motherhood again, of course), that I would NEVER say “because I said so” to my kids. I always found it half-ass and infuriating when my mother “said so”. I have only said it once and Darren called me on it immediately (I forgot that I vowed it in front of him once). But it is ALWAYS on the tip of my tongue. And to be honest, I now understand its validity. Sometimes, it is a perfectly acceptable response to the 3 millionth “WHYYYYYY MOMMMY” of the day. I’m mean, by the end of the day of a stay at home mom, the mind and body just do not have the explanation and energy left to hold a conversation with anyone under the age of 30, never mind trying to reason with a two year old.

And it’s not like they don’t pull it on me;

“Leo, why do you NEED to put your jammies back on for nap time?”

“BECAUSE I DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Yes, they are evil little geniuses whose mission it sometimes appears, is to test my patience, something I had always prided myself on (before I had kids, of course). And I love them dearly and with all my heart, obviously.

The Fetching Milestone

As a parent, there is one milestone in particular that I really looked forward to with each child, the day they learned to fetch. It’s the beginning of a whole new life sprinkled with a moment or two to sit down during the day.

I started very early with my first two. The moment they were independently mobile I was trying my luck asking them to get something for me. It was worth a shot to ask my seven month old babies to crawl over and get himself a new diaper.

But there is a catch. Just because they may have learned the skill of going to get something all by themselves doesn’t mean they will actually do it for you. At first it’s all about them. They are excited to discover something new that they can do and will eagerly oblige. But it doesn’t take long for the novelty to wear off and suddenly they realize that they are just doing “work” that Mommy is supposed to be doing because Mommy does everything. And labeling it “help” and trying to explain that concept to a five year old is really no help at all.

And then there is bribery (admit it). I know bribery is not the ideal route, but I have convinced myself that if I use it, it will at least get them into the habit of helping; I’m training them, if you will. (Now that I see this logic written in front of me it’s screaming “backfire”).

And thank goodness for humor, like when I ask Madeline to get her shoes and coat on because the bus is coming and she comes back moments later barreling through the kitchen on roller skates…with no coat. Or when I ask Leo to go get me a pair of jammies from his room and he comes back, very proudly, with his Handy Manny wrench. “Here Mommy, I got you this”, as if he knew better than I did what I really needed.

I struggle with hypocrisy here too. It’s hard to explain to my six year old why I ask her to pick up some of her two year old brother’s messes. She won’t accept the fact that trying to get him to do certain things is really just more work for me. I have to pick my battles.

She gets her revenge however. Like when Leo came back with that wrench instead of his pajamas. She thought it was hysterical. I gave up and asked her to PLEASE go get them for me;

“He’ll get them Mommy, just ask him again.”

“You just want to see what he brings back next don’t you?”

“Yeah I really do” she giggles.

I have to admit, I’m curious too. But in the end, Mommy would get the pajamas, because Mommy does everything, (and because pajamas=bedtime).