She wanted the blanket on her head. Like a cape. She looked like the Virgin Mary if the Virgin Mary were a 21mo with a baby blanket with multi-colored feet all over it draped on her head. She kept taking it off and putting it back on; beaming at whoever would look at her - look at me! aren't I clever!
But then she got her eyes covered, and she ran at a good walking speed straight into the side of the chair.
And she cried. And she couldn't recover. She wanted to be held. Only held. Beseechingly she stared at me as I put her down (after about ten minutes of hugs of course) so I could finish the laundry, so I could supervise the eating. (Lewis was working on the fire place.)
But she couldn't recover. Screaming. Why won't you pick me up! I feel my thin patience ebbing as the boys are throwing peas at each other, she is still screaming at me, and the laundry that's been mocking me for days is still sitting there - but now with a hard stop deadline of family is coming tomorrow looming.
And I do what all mom's who've used up all their patience do ... I calmly and quietly ask for peace.
No. I yell at the baby - STOP IT! And I immediately feel like garbage and it's the jumpstart dad needs - hmmm, mom's done. Intervene. It's as if a switch gets flipped inside when they realize the partner is not at top form.
But she's done. She can't recover. The boys see the writing on the wall and stop throwing things, but they aren't eating. And in the other room she's screaming herself crazy, now upset because her favorite person is mad at her.
And she can't recover.
So I take her from her dad and roll my eyes. He shrugs. He did try. He's hurt she won't be comforted. And she's still crying on my shoulder. I pull her away and look in her eyes - if you want to be held, you'd better stop. I will not holding you screaming. And with big hopping hiccups she attempts to get herself under control.
But she just couldn't recover.
And I fold the remaining laundry one handed, her crying silent tears onto my shoulder. After I'm done I attempt to put her down again, but she still just cries. I run the basket of laundry to the boys room and she's waiting for me, at the foot of the stairs, still crying. Looking at me accusingly as if I've abandoned her and run over her favorite toy.
And my patience is gone. It's just gone. I have nothing left. But I sit down on the stairs and I let her crawl into my lap and I sing to her and we're rocking and she's calming down and I know that really she's tired and wondering why we aren't in the bath yet.
And so we sit, rocking and singing, her glad for my attention at last. No distractions. The boys are playing with their dad or working on something and running around and D passes us a few times, sitting and rocking, singing. He sits next to me.
He kisses my cheek.
You're the best mom.
And off he goes. Dropping his bomb, and off to rejoin the fun.
That child. That child. As if he could see into some dark corner of things and knew that he needed to take a moment and fill up his mother's cup. And I sing to my daughter again and we're rocking and she's blinking her eyes and rationally I can look back on the last hour and realize she just wanted and was quite clearly demanding an earlier bedtime.
I do not have any great parenting mystery solved. I do almost everything wrong as much as I do anything right. And I mean that honestly. I feel that I screw up at this a lot.
Especially with D. My big hearted, such big feelings, D.
But if he can be so empathetic. If he can be so loving. If he can look at his mama just a few minutes after she's lost her mind and still think she's the best, unprompted, maybe I'm not so horrible.
Just something I wanted to remember.
But then she got her eyes covered, and she ran at a good walking speed straight into the side of the chair.
And she cried. And she couldn't recover. She wanted to be held. Only held. Beseechingly she stared at me as I put her down (after about ten minutes of hugs of course) so I could finish the laundry, so I could supervise the eating. (Lewis was working on the fire place.)
But she couldn't recover. Screaming. Why won't you pick me up! I feel my thin patience ebbing as the boys are throwing peas at each other, she is still screaming at me, and the laundry that's been mocking me for days is still sitting there - but now with a hard stop deadline of family is coming tomorrow looming.
And I do what all mom's who've used up all their patience do ... I calmly and quietly ask for peace.
No. I yell at the baby - STOP IT! And I immediately feel like garbage and it's the jumpstart dad needs - hmmm, mom's done. Intervene. It's as if a switch gets flipped inside when they realize the partner is not at top form.
But she's done. She can't recover. The boys see the writing on the wall and stop throwing things, but they aren't eating. And in the other room she's screaming herself crazy, now upset because her favorite person is mad at her.
And she can't recover.
So I take her from her dad and roll my eyes. He shrugs. He did try. He's hurt she won't be comforted. And she's still crying on my shoulder. I pull her away and look in her eyes - if you want to be held, you'd better stop. I will not holding you screaming. And with big hopping hiccups she attempts to get herself under control.
But she just couldn't recover.
And I fold the remaining laundry one handed, her crying silent tears onto my shoulder. After I'm done I attempt to put her down again, but she still just cries. I run the basket of laundry to the boys room and she's waiting for me, at the foot of the stairs, still crying. Looking at me accusingly as if I've abandoned her and run over her favorite toy.
And my patience is gone. It's just gone. I have nothing left. But I sit down on the stairs and I let her crawl into my lap and I sing to her and we're rocking and she's calming down and I know that really she's tired and wondering why we aren't in the bath yet.
And so we sit, rocking and singing, her glad for my attention at last. No distractions. The boys are playing with their dad or working on something and running around and D passes us a few times, sitting and rocking, singing. He sits next to me.
He kisses my cheek.
You're the best mom.
And off he goes. Dropping his bomb, and off to rejoin the fun.
That child. That child. As if he could see into some dark corner of things and knew that he needed to take a moment and fill up his mother's cup. And I sing to my daughter again and we're rocking and she's blinking her eyes and rationally I can look back on the last hour and realize she just wanted and was quite clearly demanding an earlier bedtime.
I do not have any great parenting mystery solved. I do almost everything wrong as much as I do anything right. And I mean that honestly. I feel that I screw up at this a lot.
Especially with D. My big hearted, such big feelings, D.
But if he can be so empathetic. If he can be so loving. If he can look at his mama just a few minutes after she's lost her mind and still think she's the best, unprompted, maybe I'm not so horrible.
Just something I wanted to remember.
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