Jan

25

Shadow

So. During the course of Sunday afternoon, I:

• Screamed at the tantruming 2-year-old to SHUT UP

• Hauled thrashing toddler to his feet by the neck of his shirt and roughly shoved him towards the hallway, yelling GO TO YOUR ROOM, slammed his door shut behind him at top volume

• Stormed back to his room in order to pound on closed door as loudly as possible, still yelling

• Told the 4-year-old he was being a crybaby for howling when his brother pulled on his shirt

• Fought with husband over something stupid

• Yelled GET OVER IT at toddler for crying about his new shoes

• Yelled at 4-year-old to GROW THE HELL UP after the millionth brotherly wrestlefest ended with him crying

I was ugly, furious, out of control. I imagine my face, transformed by anger, and what it must look like to my children. The unattractive parentheses on either side of my cheeks deepened, brows creased, mouth open. A terrible witch.

At one point, Dylan acted out after being told to stop misbehaving. He threw his cup on the floor with a loud clatter, staring at me, and I started to walk towards him to—I don’t even know. Bark at him not to do that, probably. And Riley saw me coming and clapped his hands over his ears.

I had yelled so much during that day my boy was covering his ears.

At the end of the evening, I made cookies and ate a large amount of the dough. I took three beta blockers. I talked with Riley about how if he needs an adult to intervene when he and Dylan are playing, he should ask for help instead of crying. (Which he immediately put into effect during their next tussle: “Mom! Help! HELLLP!”) I sat Dylan on my lap and indulged his bottomless desire to surf Flickr for pictures of animals. I took slow, deep breaths.

Too late, though. The day had happened, every shameful, shitty, regrettable moment. The moments I hope they forget. Oh please. No need to keep those memories, babies. It’s my job to hold them and learn from them, not yours.

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Jan

20

Goodnight moon

Riley wakes up early in the morning, earlier than the rest of the household. He used to come get under the covers with us but the sweetness of his presence couldn’t overcome the annoyance factor of having an impatient, squirming, pointy-elbowed bed partner who repeatedly asked if it was time to get up yet (to which we’d hiss back NO IT IS 5:45 AM OH MY ACHING GOD), so we asked him to stay in his room, which he does. He turns on his bedside lamp, he gets out books and toys, and he generally keeps himself happily occupied until the adults come staggering out in search of caffeine.

He also gets dressed on his own, which blows my mind. He goes to bed a pajama’d wee boy, his scrawny butt padded with his nighttime Pull-Up, and by the time we greet him in the morning he’s outfitted himself in t-shirt and jeans, Spiderman underwear lurking underneath. Suddenly he’s some kind of hulking kindergartner or something, chattering away at top volume and likely as not sporting his custom-made water pistol holster, fashioned out of a sock and a belt by yours truly.

Oh, he’s getting to be such a big boy. Which leads me to a delicate question about that aforementioned Pull-Up — at what age do kids typically stop using those at night? He’s rock solid on the bathroom thing and has been for a long time, but not peeing all night long (or waking up and using the bathroom) seems like a lot to expect from a 4-year-old. But maybe not? I have no idea, really.

As far as diaper-related issues go in my house that one overnight Pull-Up is pretty far down the give-a-hoot list, but I thought I’d ask those of you in the know. When did your kid start sleeping without a safety net, so to speak?

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