Oct
16
I work outside of the home, and usually I find this to be a good balance. It’s not perfect, mind you—the long commute times and hectic evenings make for some long, arduous days—but in general, it works out nicely for all of us. The boys love their school, I feel I’m a better parent for the opportunity to periodically shift my focus to career-related duties, and I never feel as though we’re getting short-changed on spending time together (the upside of kids who go to bed late and wake up early, I guess).
We deal with the logistical complications as best we can, with me taking point on getting the boys ready in the mornings, JB managing dropoffs and pickups, and both of us stepping up to give the other flexibility to hit the gym or whatever it is we need to do during the week. It sometimes seems like a system of wildly spinning plates, but I imagine most families feel that way regardless of their working situations. Life with kids is hectic, no matter what.
The thing that never fails to send it all crashing down around my ears, though, is sickness. Both kids were sick last week, and Riley had some sort of dear-LORD-let-us-never-mention-it-again stomach bug this week. Plus, daycare was closed on Monday for an inservice day. Between these events and various colds and fevers over the last few months, I’ve pretty much run through all of my sick time at my office. Every day I’m gone, I get further behind and more out of the loop on ongoing projects. I suspect that every time I have to send another email saying I’m staying home with my sick kid, I become more known as that coworker who’s always staying home with their sick kid.
I’m lucky in that I have a very flexible, understanding workplace, and no one’s ever taken me aside and finger-wagged me for my absences. But it’s hard, you know? It’s hard to worry about my job when I’m already worried about my child. It’s hard to have the tense discussion with JB about whose turn it is to stay home. It’s hard not to feel like I’m letting everyone down.
And then there’s the sort of sick kid, when you have to decide whether or not they’re well enough to go to school. What a shitty choice that is, made worse by the fact that you’re undeniably influenced by how often you’ve been home to date. Maybe you’ll be at home with a cheery, miraculously-recovered child who’s overjoyed to get a solid day’s worth of Curious George, maybe you’ll kiss them goodbye and get the Daycare Call of Doom later in the afternoon.
I got the Call of Doom last week after Riley had seemed perfectly fine in the morning then woke up from his afternoon nap screaming about a headache and eventually barfing. I broke every traffic law in existence getting to him, but it still took over half an hour, and when I saw his sad pale face I could have crumpled under the guilt. My boy had been sick and crying and we weren’t there to take care of him. This is wrong. This is wrong.
Of course, once he got home he was totally fine. And I know kids get sick at school sometimes and live to tell the tale. (Hell, I still remember Scott Pendleton’s pukefest in Spanish class in 8th grade, and how once he finished horking in the classroom sink, he turned to the rest of us and grinned to show he still had his gum.) Parents can’t be everywhere at all times.
Still, it sucks. I mean, caring for sick kids sucks no matter what—I tend to immediately get overwhelmed with anxiety and concern, and depending on how much laundry is involved, shameful amounts of self-pity—but it particularly sucks to feel like I am failing on all fronts. Like no matter what I do, it’s not good enough.
Oct
13
We continue to have sleep problems with Dylan, and I’m finding it really difficult to nail down exactly what’s going on because they’re ever-changing in nature. First he was resisting bedtime altogether, then he was sick, then he was fine but waking up because of an intermittent cough, then he was resisting naps, then he was waking up at 5 AM, then it was 3 AM, then there was this miraculous night when he slept just fine and because I am indescribably stupid and constantly believe whatever stage we’re in at this exact moment in time is what it’s going to be like FOREVER I was all, yayyyyy, sleeping problems fixed! And now for the last few nights he’s been waking up at 1 or 2 AM, completely wide-awake and cheery and ready to have a lengthy, spirited discussion about donkeys.
Basically this child is like a round-bellied, pudge-knuckled virus who continually mutates in order to more efficiently fuck with its host.
We all seem to be getting enough rest somehow, but man, I have to say I do not enjoy a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed toddler in the wee hours of the night normally devoted to REM cycles. A sleepy, just-needs-a-little-comfort warm ball of koala-clinginess is one thing, but a double-espresso Chatty McDonkeytalk is something else entirely. Last night I rocked him, sang to him, gave him milk, and eventually—judge me if you must—drugged his tiny ass with Benadryl in a frustrating two-hour stretch from 1-3 AM, while all the while JB issued forth great peaceful blubbery snores until I slid back into bed and “accidentally” kicked him, hard, in the meat of his upper thigh.
I’ve noticed that the person who gets up tends to run out of patience with the blatting child far before the person who obliviously sleeps through it all. Funny how that works, right? I was lying there staring at the ceiling mumbling, “What the fuck is his problem? Why won’t he sleep?” and JB yawned and theorized that maybe Dylan was just a little thirsty and didn’t know how to say so, at which point I exploded in a series of hisses.
“What do you mean, can’t say so? Have you not heard this child ask for milk? HE KNOWS HOW TO ASK FOR MILK. HE ASKS FOR MILK ALL THE TIME. It sounds like this: BABA? MILK? BABA? MILK? It’s the thing he likes to repeat the entire time you’re pouring the milk in the cup just to drive the point into your throbbing skull, IS THIS RINGING A BELL. And by the way I already gave him some goddamned milk while you were lying there sawing logs like a tranq-darted grizzly bear, motherfucker.”
(I will grudgingly acknowledge that I am not necessarily at my personal best at 3 AM.)
Now that we seem to have passed the very worst of the All Tantrums, All the Time stage, there is so much about Dylan that is deeply, almost painfully enjoyable right now. His tiny helium voice, his openmouthed excitement, his desire to be held and cuddled, his bustling rear end as he runs from one distraction to another. His mad dance skills. His love for reading along with Mouse Mess. His rosebud mouth and delicious soft cheeks.
It’s enough to make a person entirely resistant to the notion of him ever getting even one single day older, except for the faint and necessary hope that someday, just someday, he’ll start sleeping through the fucking night. Or at least be old enough to fasten to the bed with canvas restraints and a nice sturdy ball gag.
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