I usually post smiley pictures of our girls, and write about how the days are happy and fulfilling and delightful because for the most part, that is exactly what prevails.
But today is not one of those days.
And this is not one of those posts.
know what I mean?
I suppose the reasoning stems from the fact that I have an infant and a not yet two year old. New babies cry and two year olds do too only louder and with flailing extremeties. I’m okay with that. It doesn’t get under my skin like it might for others, but today I had a short fuse. Lately Emery has been incredibly incorrigible spirited. She wants me to hold her every waking moment and denial of anything (like a kitchen knife or the toilet plunger), and/or unknown variables of all kinds send her into a whine fest or a crumpled blonde mess on the floor. Usually, I have an incredible tolerance for the endless whining or 2 children crying at once and/or holding one child in each arm until my biceps tear while living on granola bars and broken sleep, but today, not so much. It’s accumulated, I’m afraid.
You see, 2 days in a row now I have tried to mail a package at the post office. It’s something I can’t do online or on their automated services. And 2 days in a row I have unloaded 2 small children to attempt to mail a package, which only requires 5 quick minutes of time (that is, if you are parent to perfect angels that you tote around, of course). The first day we weren’t in the post office for more than 2.7 seconds before Emery miraculously broke off my near death grip on her hand and ran down the long hall of PO boxes squealing and ignoring my firm directions to “stand up, quit crawling like a bear on the dirty floor, you are not a limp noodle so please don’t become one mid stride, and no, yelling ‘mail’ repeatedly at the top of your lungs is not post office appropriate behavior,” etc, etc, etc. My struggle continued for about 2 and a half more minutes until I had received one too many those-children-are-totally-out-of-control-and-I-wish-you-would-do-us-all-a-favor-and-leave stares and hardly a oh-I-know-how-that-goes-I’ve-been-there-before-you-are-doing-the-best-you-can looks.
Eve rightly complained about all the bending over and toddler chasing I was doing while she was trying to breastfeed in the sling (which was my effort to keep her quiet). So approximately 4 minutes after entering the post office, I exited with two screaming children and an unmailed package. Take two, despite my greatest efforts, was more of the same.
And so today I returned to the car, feeling rather inadequate and yelled at calmly asked Emery to stop crying. Then I considered crying myself. I didn’t because crying requires energy that I absolutely do not have at the moment and I’m practical like that. But an hour later, I was at home playing with Emery when she had a tantrum as a result of a world crisis which involved 1 crayon being stuck in it’s box. Out came hidden stores of toddler vengeance as she cleared her table of all the crayons and stickers in two seconds flat, bit the edge of the table to leave teeth marks and took a crayon to the table top. I dissolved the situation to the best of my ability and plopped on the couch, all the while with Eve still sucking my calories away in the sling.
As if I actually had time to read it, I picked up my latest unread edition of Cooking Light and noted that the pecan encrusted trout with creamy grits sounded delicious. And then, all practicality aside, I cried. Really, it was just a lump in my throat and a few tears welling in my eyes before I had to forgo my self hosted pity party for picking up crayons and agreeing that the spider sticker on Emery’s shirt is indeed scary, but it was as close as I get to crying these days.
I suppose I almost cried because I was hungry, and that recipe looked so darn good. And because despite my best efforts, I knew I wouldn’t have the time or the energy to make it, or anything that requires two hands for more than 10 minutes anytime soon. It was because my shoulders hurt from holding Eve in a sling practically all hours of every day. And my back hurts from holding Emery simultaneously on my hip when nothing else will do. And because I so miss my yoga classes. I miss eating cheese and all things dairy, which makes Eve gassy and upset. I miss eating anything at all, which I hardly have time to do anymore. I miss cooking a big Sunday meal. I miss uninterrupted sleep. I miss not feeling like I have to count every freaking penny of monthly expenses since I’m not working anymore. I miss showering regularly. I miss eating out. I miss guiltless glasses of wine. I miss going on vacation. I miss listening to NPR instead of the annoying voice of Elmo’s Song during every single car ride. Seriously, why does his voice have to sound like that?
Mostly, though, I just miss feeling like a really good mother and wife. I’m afraid these days I’m good at meeting my family’s needs, but hardly mediocre at meeting their wants. The laundry is never done, the dishes sit, the dogs are forgotten and my garden is overgrown and neglected, among a thousand other things. I feel guilty that my similarly exhausted husband has to deal with a frumpy, hardly productive wife who can’t manage to do minimal housework despite the fact she’s given up her career. And lets not even mention that I have perpetual spit-up on my cheap, unstylish clothing, have gone 3 too many months without a haircut and highlight; and despite not having time to eat, have managed to hang on to most of my pregnancy weight. Don’t even go there, I tell you.
This too shall pass, I say with some doubt. It will pass, just wait. Just get through this day, this minute, this moment. It will get easier.
And somehow, I always do get through. And it always does ease up.
Minutes after my pity party for 1, Emery was distracted from her whine marathon by her ”booger,” which is, as she describes with adorable gusto,”soooo big!” And I can’t help but smile. Emery laughs, Eve is quiet, and all is right again. Then Emery falls against my shoulder and gives me a silent hug. Eve wiggles in her pseudo womb and wimpers that sleepy new baby sound that only lasts about this long. In that split second of serenity with my girls, I am reminded that it goes both ways. This too, shall pass. The chubby cheeked bundle in my sling, the snuggly breastfeeding, the moments of comic relief with my not quite two year old, the discovery of boogers and the rest of the world through the eyes of my daughters, who turn what was once jaded into something novel and curious.
And I presume that years from now, I will remember days like today, and only recall what I want to recall of them. Ironically, I’ll probably recollect that the days, the minutes, the moments, must have passed all too quickly.
Though I look forward to those days of edited memories and fond nostalgia for this moment, I am trying to be okay with these days as they are, no matter how whiny and unproductive. I pull out the moments that make me smile and put them away for safekeeping. All the other moments, I let pass.
For with my accelerated arrival as a mother of two I have gleaned new perspective that a newborn is easy, a barely toddler is a cinch, but both at once by yourself no matter how grateful you are for their miracle (and I am incredibly grateful), requires daily recital of my mama mantra: “this too shall pass.” And so it shall.
Most likely, when you are expecting your first child people will congratulate you. Then, they’ll predict that you won’t sleep or eat or have a life that remotely resembles what it was before you had a child. Ironically, when you finally have your baby you’ll wonder why no one gave you insight to how emotionally challenging parenting can be and how it stretches so far beyond skipping meals and interrupted sleep. You’ll find yourself occasionally second guessing carefully made parenting choices, finding your best resource in other mothers and crossing your fingers that you’re actually walking in the right direction in this wide open field of motherhood. You’ll finally realize that no sleep actually means no sleep, and that not having time to cook means toast will be your new standard for a square meal for months on end. You’ll learn that your life never being the same means you trade your Indie music for Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes and your Yoga Journal for endless repetitions of Green Eggs and Ham. It might take a while for the weight of your life change to totally add up. A while as in years. Two to be exact. At which point you might plunk down in a heap of exhaustion and frazzled nerves with a two year old jabbering about mommy do this and that in one arm and an infant gurgling away in the other. Then you will smile a wide smile and nod a silent nod. Because your life really is this awesome.
