Children are a gift. I will not dispute that. We had to work very hard to conceive our son and I would not trade him for anything. He was a priceless gift from God. That being said -- there are some days when I understand why some wild animals eat their young.
There are days when I am ready for his afternoon nap as soon as he has finished breakfast, and I am ready for bedtime when he wakes up from nap. I think it's the age -- at least that's what they tell me. But that's what they say at every age I think. I didn't really buy into the whole "terrible twos" thing. I honestly thought that if I was a good enough mom, we would be immune to it. And, to be quite honest, two was a breeze.
Then he turned three. The thundering threes, as I have recently heard them called, are just that -- thundering. As soon as his birthday came two months ago, he morphed into something other than my sweet little munchkin. There are many days when I am ready for a glass of wine at noon.
Today is one of those days. Tonight, bedtime was directly followed by the pouring of some delicious Moscato.
Like I said, I love my son. My heart is so full of love for him, that sometimes it feels like it might burst. But there are other times that I think I might scream. Motherhood really does give us a nice long ride on the bipolar-coaster, doesn't it?
Some days -- like today -- for instance, I would put money on the chances that I gave birth to the whiniest kid ever born in the history of time. I don't think there is a betting pool for that sort of thing in Vegas though. He wants to go to sleep when he's awake, wants to read when there are no books around, wants a snack when he's just eaten, wants anything to eat besides what is on his plate, he wants to play outside when it's negative 12, wants to play inside when it's a a gorgeous 72, he wants to go home when we're gone, and wants to go somewhere when we're home.
He can throw a nasty fit. If there was ever a competition for the best Wild-Ass-Fit-Thrower. We would win. Hands down.
He might also be the loudest kid on earth. My husband and I are both quite chatty. So it's no surprise that our munchkin inherited the jabber-gene, but, for the love of all things Holy, he never stops talking. Ever. He has two settings: talking and sleeping. There is no in-between.
I cannot go pee by myself anymore. Privacy is a luxury of the past. If I close the door, I see fingers poking underneath the door and hear a little voice telling me, "I'm hungry! I need a snack! I just pooped! I shared my raisins with Daisy and she threw up!" If I leave the door open, I have a toddler staring at me shouting, "Are you pooping, Mommy? Can you read me a book? Did you poop? Are you pottying? I'm hungry! YAAAAY, MOMMY! You did it! I'm so proud of you for pooping!"
I guess I should be excited, because it's been a good 27 years since anyone has been proud of me for pooping.
I also cannot shower by myself. Even in the evenings when my husband is home. Even if he is perfectly content doing something without my attention. If I get in the shower and expect to relax to the sound of not-a-toddler, I hear, "Mommy what are you doing? Can I come in there with you? I'm going to sit here and watch you. Mommy are you done yet? I'm hungry. I need a snack. Can you play cars with me?"
Three-year-olds can be manipulative. They can look you straight in the eye and say "I don't love you"and then, in the very next moment, snuggle in nice and close and say, "you are so beautiful, Mommy, I love you. You're sweet." This, in a few instances has been followed directly by him looking intently into my eyes, and then in one insanely fast motion, he licks my glasses while they are on my face. Who does that?!
He is also very conflicted on clean vs. dirty. From me, he inherited a generous dose of OCD tendencies. His race cars have to be lined up exactly right (and freaks out if you turn one the wrong way), his Pull-Ups must be stacked just so, his toys need to go in their proper containers, he cannot have books (except his Bible) left in his room at night, his blankets have to be stacked in proper order on his bed, his duck has to sleep on his right side (McQueen sleeps on the left), he hates having his hands dirty.
On the other hand, he does not give a rat's behind about being potty trained. He doesn't care if has has crap in his pants. We've read all the articles, we've tried big boy underwear. He thinks he deserves the same applause for peeing in the hallway that he does for peeing on the toilet. I will not applaud him for peeing on the carpet. I will not. It makes me want to cry to clean piss off of the carpet. I mean, this is why we don't have a puppy!
Today, he pooped during nap time, didn't care and went to sleep. I was not aware of this until I walked into his room to wake him up and the smell of poop punched me in the nose. What was even more awesome about it was that it was such a gigantic dump that it exploded out of the back of his Pull-Up and was all over his back. Not only that, it had dried into crust form on his back and flaked off as he slept -- leaving little flakes and balls of dried shit all over his sheets, which then cascaded beautifully onto the floor.
I have sort of kept the idea that diapers are a convenience that will be hard to leave behind (especially while traveling), but I do not want to clean up the remnants of explosive shit. No I do not.
I love him. I really do. But on days like today, when he is begging to watch his favorite movie for the bagillionth time, and he has to read "Jesus Walks on Water" for the 90th day in a row (I mean, there are 99 other stories in that adorable toddler Bible), when he cries because his Buzz Lightyear sunglasses won't light up, and then cries because his Buzz Lightyear sunglasses are lighting up, and then throws a sobbing fit because Mommy just cannot handle this shit and threw the Buzz Lightyear sunglasses in the trash can -- days like these, Mommy needs a drink.
Cheers, my friend. And thank you for keeping me In Good Company.