Yesterday was the kind of day I want to forget today but
remember twenty years from now. (Ask me
then to see if I’m right.) When I was
growing up I’d always look at mothers of young children in the grocery store
and wonder why they looked so tired and old.
I never understood why my mom fought so hard for her 30 minute “power
nap” after lunch. When she went out with
a friend for lunch or wanted to chat in private with somebody I felt slighted
and indignant about being left out. That
was all before I lived yesterday.
It began with my son deciding to start the day at 3am. I have no idea what got into him, but there
was no changing his mind. Not by rocking
or feeding or letting him fuss or any other employed strategy. So by the time VWH and I gave up and dragged
our sorry behinds out of bed it already felt like lunchtime. And then he left for work and it was just me
and James…whom I quickly started referring to as “the child.” (As in, “The child is trying to eat the
contents of the recycling bin.”)
By the time actual lunchtime
rolled around I had gotten zero housework accomplished. The child had taken a 45 minute morning nap, less
than half of the norm. Books had been
torn, dishes dropped, toys scattered, and nothing seemed to provide sufficient
entertainment. He fussed and whined and
neither cuddles nor food nor favorite songs nor binkies made a lick of
difference.
My heightened state of exhaustion made all of this much, much
worse. As I rescued James once again
from falling off the bed, climbing into the trash can, bumping his head on the
cabinet door, getting stuck under the kitchen table, etc, etc, etc, I began to
daydream. “Remember how you used to be in college? And you could wear nice clothes knowing that
you wouldn’t be crawling around on the floor all day? Remember how you saw your friends all the
time and had important conversations about changing the world? Remember when your first class wasn’t until
9am?”
Yesterday was the kind of day when you dream about escaping to
Las Vegas with a few of your girlfriends to go see Celine Dion live.
That’s right.
Celine
Dion.
(I know some of my music major friends and professors would be shaking
their heads in dismay right now, but I don’t care. It’s my blog and they don’t read it anyway.)
Celine has it all together.
She married the love of her life and has three beautiful children, whom
she spends her days loving, albeit with the help of nannies and cooks and
maids. Then, rested, thin, and gorgeous,
she hits the stage in the evening and wows her adoring fans with an indescribable
instrument of a voice. I’d love to be
rested, thin, and gorgeous, with a great voice, and right about then I’d have
taken the nanny, maid, and cook too. As
it stood I was in grungy sweatpants with unwashed hag hair, discovering mushed
grapes under the radiator, and having little to no food (or inspiration) for
dinner. (Unless, of course, we ate the
grapes.)
Celine inspires me, so I cranked up some of her old hits in a valiant
effort to absorb some of her awesomeness.
This caused James no end of fusses because I only had audio recordings
and wasn’t using YouTube, which means there were no visuals to go along with
the song. (Poor deprived generation.) He sat there below the iPod dock, alternating
between bouncing to the music and crying because he couldn’t SEE Celine. If I wasn’t so exhausted it would have been
quite comical. But I was too tired, so
we turned off the music sooner than intended.
I decided to get creative.
This day would not get the best of me!
The child was permitted to type his own letter to the world (see
previous entry), enter the sacred domain of the DVD cabinet, and even take a
bath in the middle of the day. To up the fun-factor, I ran the soap under
running water for extra bubbles and threw on my swimsuit and joined him. That was probably the best half-hour of the
day, but half-hours pass by very quickly.
Bath-time over, fusses recommenced.
After an even shorter afternoon nap, the hours quickly
heightened in tension, ultimately culminating in a 40 minute
knock-down-drag-out battle between mother and child. James had his first temper tantrum from his
crib (complete with foot-stomping) and I curled up in a ball on the couch praying
for sanity and peace. I’m supposed to be
a good mother, one who loves her child and has unending patience. OK, I knew the patience part wouldn’t always
be true, but the need to put temporary physical space between the two of us was
a smidge unnerving.
And then, just as my wherewithal was completely collapsing into
a melted heap of goo, my faithful and noble husband (FNH?) returned from his
day. He quickly sized up the situation (the
hair was a tip-off) and offered me the car to go drive and clear my head. I opted instead for a 5 minute conversation out
of doors and away from the baby monitor.
It did wonders.
The child eventually fell asleep, completely exhausted. I concocted a dinner that actually tasted
OK. VWH consoled us both and offered
help in whatever way needed. We both
needed hugs and whispered reassurances that we were doing fine. That it was OK. That rest would come. (I could make a crack about both needing a kind
of bottle too, but I’ll refrain.)
I think I put a type of pressure on myself to make my blogs
have some kind of moral. A nice wrap-up
and nugget of truth to hold onto. I don’t
think there are any neat packages tied up with string here. It was just a rough day. One that will be a model for many days in the
future. (I’ve heard a rumor about two-year olds being challenging??)
So, to sum it up: Long
day. Celine Dion. Hag hair.
A wonderful VWH. And the story
goes on.
