It's Like 36 Banana Slicers When All You Want Is a Break
There are many things I do well. For example, I make the best fudge you've ever tasted. It's creamy and thick, without any of those nuts or other things that cause distraction. And I have an amazing talent for picking out greeting cards. Standing in Hallmark, the right card calls to me, expressing everything I didn't know I wanted to say. You should be so lucky to get one of my birthday cards. I also write better than the average person. When required (or when inspiration strikes), I can turn a phrase like Bobby Flay turns a steak -- with finesse and precision.
Other things I'm not so good at, like staying home with a 2-year-old. The truth is I never wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. It's one of those things that just sort of happened, like online shopping after drinking too many Captain and Cokes. You probably had good plans in the beginning, but somehow you ended up with 36 banana slicers and you don't even really care for bananas all that much.
I was not designed to be a SAHM, and I knew this long before I had a child. I simply don't have the patience or energy for endless repetitiveness, unpredictable tantrums, and a complete lack of rationality. Have you ever tried to explain to a 2-year-old why it's not okay to tongue-kiss the dog, then two seconds later chase him while wielding a yard stick? Talk about sending mixed messages. Have you ever weathered the full-on thrashing meltdown that happens when you won't let a toddler grab his own toothbrush out of the cup or -- god forbid -- glob on the toothpaste by himself? Prepare to experience a psychopathic rage, followed by tearful pleas for hugs.
It seems amusing now, after the fact, but in the moment it's all I can do to take a deep breath and remind myself that hitting him constitutes child abuse. I am frustrated. I am fed up. I am worn out. And it's only 1:30 in the afternoon. Some days, like today (and last Saturday, and last Thursday) the best I can do is turn on classical music to drown out the sound of his not napping, lay down on the couch, and repeat over and over "this too shall pass." I say the words in time with the beating of my heart. This-too. Shall-pass. I breathe in thistooshallpass and breathe out thistooshallpass. But it seems that the only thing that passes is (not) nap time, followed in quick pursuit by my sanity.
All moms -- working and at-home and everything in between -- have bad days or weeks, you say. It's not a reflection on your mothering abilities. It doesn't make you a bad person. But I can't hear you, because I'm too busy picking up these banana slicers my kid has scattered all over the house.
Other things I'm not so good at, like staying home with a 2-year-old. The truth is I never wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. It's one of those things that just sort of happened, like online shopping after drinking too many Captain and Cokes. You probably had good plans in the beginning, but somehow you ended up with 36 banana slicers and you don't even really care for bananas all that much.
I was not designed to be a SAHM, and I knew this long before I had a child. I simply don't have the patience or energy for endless repetitiveness, unpredictable tantrums, and a complete lack of rationality. Have you ever tried to explain to a 2-year-old why it's not okay to tongue-kiss the dog, then two seconds later chase him while wielding a yard stick? Talk about sending mixed messages. Have you ever weathered the full-on thrashing meltdown that happens when you won't let a toddler grab his own toothbrush out of the cup or -- god forbid -- glob on the toothpaste by himself? Prepare to experience a psychopathic rage, followed by tearful pleas for hugs.
It seems amusing now, after the fact, but in the moment it's all I can do to take a deep breath and remind myself that hitting him constitutes child abuse. I am frustrated. I am fed up. I am worn out. And it's only 1:30 in the afternoon. Some days, like today (and last Saturday, and last Thursday) the best I can do is turn on classical music to drown out the sound of his not napping, lay down on the couch, and repeat over and over "this too shall pass." I say the words in time with the beating of my heart. This-too. Shall-pass. I breathe in thistooshallpass and breathe out thistooshallpass. But it seems that the only thing that passes is (not) nap time, followed in quick pursuit by my sanity.
All moms -- working and at-home and everything in between -- have bad days or weeks, you say. It's not a reflection on your mothering abilities. It doesn't make you a bad person. But I can't hear you, because I'm too busy picking up these banana slicers my kid has scattered all over the house.
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