May
20
You’d think that once you were on your second child you would become, if not exactly a parenting expert (can there really be such a thing? I say no), at least upgraded from your status of rank amateur. If I did anything else day in and day out for years on end I’d probably be pretty awesome at it—I mean, just look how I can breathe and eat and shit without a second thought—but this kid-wrangling business? NEVER STOPS KICKING MY ASS.
This morning has been nothing but an endless stretch of meltdowns from Dylan and I’m so frustrated with him and I’m even more frustrated with myself for BEING so frustrated. I know this is a stage, and it’s not like we didn’t experiece the exact same things with Riley: the suicidal tendencies, the screaming, the frenzied temper tantrums, the arched-back flopping. It seems like I should have learned some goddamned coping skills by now, yet I still find myself at the frayed end of my barely-there rope on an hourly basis, staring at my beloved boy and thinking I. JUST. CAN’T. DEAL. WITH. YOU.
I’m frustrated by the angry food-swatting, kicking me during diaper changes, shrieking because a toy is out of reach, pinching me because I’ve picked him up out of some harmful situation, flinging himself backwards onto his head then howling because duhhhhh it huuuurts. These are things that toddlers do, I know this, and I know it’s just part of the job to get through these unpleasant moments, preferably without merrily tossing your child into the Deadwood pigpen, but man, I just wish I had the sense that I was getting better at this.
I feel like I’ve gained all these little skills of lesser importance, like knowing how to cover my hand over a child’s fingers while pulling on a sleeve so their pinky doesn’t get bent back or clapping loudly when a baby is cough-gagging so they’re startled out of their Barf Process or cookie-cuttering a pancake into a star for a picky eater, but where are my deeper wells of patience? Where is my ability to manage a difficult situation without feeling as though the world is coming apart at the seams? Where is my innate knowledge that while we may be in the suck now, the pendulum always swings the other way?
This job is humbling, in every way possible. I thought it would be easier the second time around, but no. It is often times more fun, less scary, and maybe even more indescribably wonderful, but not easier. Not at all.
May
18
When I finally arrived home from DC on Friday night after two delayed flights and a near-poisonous amount of airport food, I staggered in the door around 1 AM prepared to collapse in the comfort of my own bed but lo! What is that melodious sound I hear? Why, it’s the baby, awake and blatting angrily from his crib, almost as though he sensed my arrival and had strategized the most restful, soothing method with which to greet me!
Pro Tip! Never show weakness in front of children, because that is the exact moment they will punch you right in the nads.
It would have been a great weekend for some mellow family downtime, but JB had to run off in order to try and kill himself on the slopes of Mt. Hood. He was even kind enough to live-tweet the details of his ascent, made harrowing by the unusually warm weather and subsequent deadly ice melt. (“Hundred mile per hour television-sized ice falling now”, he wrote, before lapsing into total radio silence for a couple hours and leaving me to envision him flattened somewhere on the side of the mountain, finger still hovering over the iPhone keypad.)
Should not be allowed to Tweet and climb.
Also? This photo is why I will never summit a mountain EVER. It’s not the physical exertion, or the insane amounts of gear, or even the surely-unpleasant business of starting a climb at 3 AM, it’s the fact that the shit is so STEEP. Like, take one wrong step and you’re FUCKED levels of steep. No thank you, not even with training wheels and my own personal Sherpa.
The kids and I had a pretty decent weekend on our own, even though Dylan is firmly mired in a stage I like to call “Exhausting, But Rewarding. Wait, Mostly Just Exhausting, Actually”. The weather was beautiful and I would share the lovely photos I took of my kids frolicking in the backyard but I was too busy prying fistfuls of dirt out of Dylan’s mouth while Riley stood nearby and whined about how he wanted to go back insiiiiiiide to get the camera. Oh, and I had planned to share a picture or two of Riley joyously playing with the inflatable rocket I brought home from the Smithsonian store but he was greatly disappointed in this thoughtful gift and informed me it wasn’t the right KIND of rocket, and that he’d like a little pink one instead.
So let’s recap: Daddy’s gone for the weekend, I’m on my own with the children, my older child is ungrateful, my younger one is howling because I won’t let him eat fertilizer, and I’m supposed to hand over a pink battery-powered rocket? I don’t think so, kid, any object that meets that particular description is staying right in my bedside drawer where it belongs because FRANKIE SAYS RELAX.
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