A few weeks ago, I wrote about Thomas’ defiance, and general dislike for all things living, namely me. Things have gotten worse and I’m about ready to throw up my hands, call up some wolves and make a deal. He is miserable.
I can deal with the demands of cereal, milk, juice, a new Bently, whatever. But what really makes my ears turn into themselves, is the WHINING. Dylan went through this phase too and I recently mentioned this to my mother-in-law and she replied, “Not MY Dylan. I can’t believe he was ever like that.” How quickly they forget.
I don’t know what the deal is between ages 2 and a half and about 3 and a half, but seriously, I’m about ready to run away from home. The constant whining, crying, flailing, turning himself into Jello when I try to pick him up, it’s all grating on my last nerve and I’m not the first parent to admit that I’m ready to snap.
All.
Out.
Lose.
it.
Take this morning for instance. 8:00 a.m. (late for him seeing as he has been rising at 5:30 lately, which let me tell you, is wicked fun), Crabapple McNasty came down the stairs, crying, whining, DYING for Cheerios. You would think that Cheerios were The Force and he was Luke Grumpwalker. Only whiny-er. Now before you even ask, we have talked about asking nicely, we’ve done the whole, “Stop crying so I can understand what you want” many-a-time, and we’ve used time-outs. I’m doing my very best to stay consistent and shape this kid into Our Sane Lovely Thomas, instead of OPK.
He’ll be watching a video that he requested and all of a sudden, scream and whine that “he wants a show.” Um, he’s watching a show. I don’t get it.
He’s at that stellar stage where he probably needs a nap in the afternoon, but he’s too old for it and fights it every step of the way, (which results in more frustration and no sleep anyway,) so he really starts to melt down around the time I have to make dinner, which really, is the highlight of my day. There’s nothing more heartwarming than a screaming toddler making my ears bleed as I saute mushrooms, chop salad and make one of those gourmet dinners as Stay At Home Slaves Moms are so famous for making (as if). He hasn’t napped since he was 10 months old, I don’t think he’ll start again now.
If you’re a parent, how long did your kids nap for? (When Dylan was this age, I worked long hours and I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.)
The thing is, the meltdowns are not limited to morning, and pre-dinnertime. He does this all day long (like “wanting a show while he is watching a show” above, or melting down for milk or juice like I’m supposed to have read his mind 5 minutes before he even thought about wanting that drink), and 5 nights out of 7, he wakes up at 3 or 4 a.m. and just has a fit if his blanket or teddy aren’t exactly where they should be. I’m tired. Physically and mentally exhausted. He’s got me by the balls and I’m walking on eggshells to prevent the crying now. If I see a meltdown coming on, I scramble to give him a choice between two things - you know, the whole needing independence thing.
I don’t want to live like this.
This is an open call for parenting advice. He will be 3 on July 8th. If he’s lucky.
I asked Karl if I could participate in The Interview thing that is going around and after getting all bitchy bantering over his choice of questions (no, I will not rub your feet at BlogHer, dammit), we finally settled on these and so here goes nothing.
1. Name three places you haven’t yet visited that you’d love to go.
Three? Shit. Already I’m struggling, because there really is only one that steals my heart every time I think about it. Africa. I want to spend a year in Africa, learning everything I can about the animals, the people, the culture, the music, the plant life. I want to dance with African people, and learn to speak their languages. I want to learn crafts with the children, and teach them whatever I could possibly offer. I think Africa is the most beautiful place in the world and I want to see every single square foot of it. Someday…
As for two more…Australia is high on the list, for the same reasons…to learn culture. I’ve also always been curious about Japan, because they have really fucked up game shows, and everything seems so absolutely surreal there. I want to see that for myself. Hello, Kitty? Hook me up!
2. What are your favorite things about your hometown?
I was born in Toronto and lived in and around Toronto most of my life. The best memories I have all have to do with good friends, some of whom I have reunited with through Facebook, and as a young adult, I loved the diversity and excitement of downtown. For this reason, I think I would LOVE New York. Maybe one day I’ll go visit Liz and make that a reality. You know, when she is done with the breastfeeding and we can go get drunk.
3. Do you have any methods/tricks for stimulating your creativity?
With the graphics, sometimes it flows and sometimes I get really frustrated with myself. If I’m working on a blog, I often read nearly the whole thing to get a sense of the person. It’s time consuming, but it’s how I fell in love with some of my favorites too.
I’ve been asked to update you on The Crazy. Apparently me telling you I’m ‘fine’ wasn’t enough. Some of you weren’t buying it. That’s okay. I guess the best way to explain things is that it’s basically the same as it was, but I’m keeping the Stuff I Will Deal With Later down. I’m sleeping nearly every night, except tonight, obviously since it’s after 2 and I’m here and plan on working the rest of tonight because today was a write off and what was I thinking having a business and an almost 3 year old holy crap I may just go nuts after all? I’m eating about the same as I was, and have lost another size. I’ve been walking and doing yoga and still have an insatiable appetite for sex. Yeah Daren seems really upset too. Ha. I’ve been too busy to think much about the demons, a.k.a. my parents, but I have been emailing with my half-sister and found out that my Dad hasn’t changed at all over the years. Surprise surprise.I still get really down sometimes, maybe once or twice a week. I vetoed one of the original questions that Karl sent because I wasn’t sure how to talk about it. His question was, “How does your depression normally manifest itself?”
I’m still figuring that out, actually, and I vetoed the question because it made me cringe. Not a lot of people like admitting when they aren’t feeling strong and I’m certainly one of them. I know there are people who will read this site and criticize me for blogging my weaknesses. They will take what shakes my inner core and shove my nose in it, like I’m some dog who has shit on their carpet. In spite of them, I keep writing. One of the greatest things Daren has taught me (and I’m still learning) is to not care what people think of me.
Truth be told, “My Depression” isn’t something I’ve actually called “My Depression” before and when Karl wrote that question, he had no idea the impact it would have on my psyche. I read that question and stopped breathing. Silent tears ran down my face. All of a sudden, I had to own this two letter phrase, call it my own?
Needless to say, I wasn’t ready for what was next.
I was angry. With Karl. He didn’t even know it.
Sure, I had PPD, once upon a time. I own that, but that was then and this is now and I was pissed that Karl made me swallow “My Depression.” I don’t even know if I have depression. And if I do, why don’t I know it yet? Why did I refuse drugs? If Karl thinks I have “My Depression,” then maybe I do!
Except I didn’t think so. And I don’t think so. I’m starting to think that depression is the most over-diagnosed thing since ADD. I mean, EVERYONE has bad days. EVERYONE.
Yes, I am going through something that I can’t explain as anything other than stupidity, with a sprinkle of shame. But anorexia is just that, for me. It doesn’t mean I’m depressed. In fact, most days, I’m pretty happy. Even keel. I wasn’t a few weeks ago, but I am now. I’m mostly fine. And this time, I mean it. No Britney Spears air-quotes around that word.
On the brink of a very busy day, Thomas and I carried on the most interesting of conversations this morning, while he played with my makeup and watched me flat iron my hair.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A chewing man.”
“A chewing man? What does he do?”
“He frows granades at people and has kids.”
“How many kids will you have?”
“I will haff two boys and one wife. We will live in my wooooom.”
“Oh you and your family will live in your room? Greeaaat. Lucky Mommy.”
“We will have a picnic down at the black table wif yogurt.”
“But you’re not allowed to eat in the family room at the black table.”
“My kids will be all yogurty.”
“Will I have to wash your kids?”
“No. My wife will wash dem.”
“Excellent. I just have to let you live here with her and your kids?”
“Yes. In my woooom. And they will not be allowed to go out of my woom.”
Every single morning at 8 o’clock on the kids station, this video plays. I’ve always thought Crazy Frog was kind of annoying, (despite having paid off a Carnie to win him once), but since it’s been injected into my system in a hypodermic needle on a daily basis, I’m not only singing along (riggadinging along?), I’m DANCING TO IT.
The Motorbike, The Bee, The Bubble and The Step, will ensure that I overtake the BlogHer Dance Off this year.
Bring it on Jenn and Y! (Jenn’s Miracle Dance totally cracked me up. She may just win.)
It’s 11:30 p.m. Sunday night. Daren and his hockey buddies storm into the dressing room after playing a friendly but fierce game of hockey; panting, sweaty, loud and boisterous. Gloves and helmets are flying off, skate laces and hockey pants being torn wide open to reveal the stench of grown men. Laughter, the occasional fart, ball scratching, hot showers running.
“Who’s up for a beer?” asks Steve.
“I can’t. My wife expects me home,” answers Rob.
“Sure, I’m game for a beer,” Daren says.
Now tell me something ladies. What is wrong with this picture?
Hell no. There’s nothing wrong with Daren here. Daren can do whatever he wants. I am not his mother. (Thank God, you should see the size of his head. Ouch.)
Rob’s wife “expects” her husband home? Hey Rob’s wife, aren’t you in bed yet? And if not, why aren’t you doing something you enjoy? Why aren’t you soaking in a tub, reading Cosmo, painting your toenails, or out with your girlfriends while a sitter watches your kids?
Daren tells me all the time that his friends think he has the coolest wife in the world. Pah. I don’t get it. I have no desire to police what my husband does. He doesn’t drive drunk, he doesn’t smoke crack, he doesn’t pick up women or do anything else that might deem him un-marriageable in the first place. Except the fact that he is a Montreal Canadians fan, he is damn near perfect for me and I really do not need a naughty mat for the guy.
When I think about our marriage, I relish in the fact that we have always maintained a set of friends between us, and then each of us has friends that the other really doesn’t see much. My girlfriends and I would rather have a girl’s night or hang out and have a coffee at Starbucks after shopping, and Daren’s buddies like to play hockey or poker, or hit the country bar. (Yes, my finger is down my throat at the thought of a country bar too - gah!)
Don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome and fun to hang out with Daren, and I love going to the bar with him, flirting with him, bending over the pool table, giving him the come-hither eyes, singing to him, whatever. He even does yoga with me and that’s damn hot. I’m signing up for this pole-dancing class, but I doubt he will join me. The Man is still The Man, after all.
So when Daren tells me about the other wives being all bossy and telling their husbands what to do, I laugh. I mean, really. Now I know I’m not talking to all the ladies who read this blog, because I know some pretty damn cool wives read this site. But for the rest of you, and you know who you are, you naggity nags: Your husband was obviously The Man when you married him, so why would that change? You were Your Own Person when you got married, so since when are you an extension of each other, all gnarled together, in tight knots and not knowing where he ends and you begin?
I need my space. My girly time. My alone time. Sunday morning, after our morning romp, I jumped in the shower and went all by myself (!) to Starbucks, and ran a few errands. I cranked Evanescence and sang in my car. I enjoyed the alone time, as I’m sure he does on the way to work or hockey while he rocks it out to Tim McGraw or whoever makes him sing his heart out.
I don’t need to know where he is at all times, who he is with and when he is going to be home. When he is out with the guys, or needs us out of the house so he can host poker, that’s his thing. I kick him and the kids out 4 times a year to have our girls night and if I can beat him to the punch on making girl plans, he’s cool with arranging a sitter if he wants to go out on the same night. We’re parents, sure, but we aren’t dead.
My point is, we are separate people, with our own lives. It works because we aren’t grilling each other. It works because we don’t treat each other like children.
So, I gotta ask the wives who do nag, the ones who ’set rules,’ the ones who call the cell phone 8 times before midnight: What gives?
Is it a trust thing? Because I have been ‘out with the guys,’ and they are hilarious and fucking crude as I can be, but when your name comes up, they talk about you like you are their Queen. They brag about you. They say things like “I don’t know how she does it.” You ought to get a sitter sometime and come out and see what they are like.
Date your husband. He is actually pretty cool. Fun to flirt with. You might even fall in love with him all over again.
Please note the new button “For Heather” in the sidebar. My friend and co-worker at Swank Web Style, Heather, has been diagnosed with a brain tumor and BooMama has been kind enough to set up a donation account to help Heather and her family with expenses that will incur.
You may not know Heather yet, but let me tell you that this mother, friend, wife, and child of God needs your help. If you can’t help with a donation, then please send your well wishes or prayers her way.
If you d like to help spread the word and put the For Heather button (thanks, Laura!) on your blog, that would be great. If you d like to put the For Heather button in your sidebar, email BooMama for the code.
Someone hit “me too” on my confessions. THANK GOD. Go let it out, Moms. It feels good. While you’re there, hit “me too” on the ones that strike you, because someone wants to know she isn’t alone.
I have this old digital video of something very funny that I want to blog.? It opens in Windows Media Player and I believe it is an AVI file.? Anyway - it’s HUGE.? 394MB, to be exact.
Does anyone know how to convert it into something smaller that I could post here?? I’ll pay someone to do it!
