Being a mom is hard work, no matter who you are or your life circumstances. Sometimes I get so bogged down by the challenges that I forget to enjoy the good things that motherhood has brought to my life. So in the interest of transparency and a desire to make you all feel better about your Crappy Mom moments, I will share with you my confessions.
I have been a rotten mom for the last three-ish weeks. Really rotten. The kind of rotten that is eating away at my conscience and I'm pretty sure is giving me an ulcer. And I can't find a way to get out of this pattern. My kids have been gross and I've been even worse. My home has become a cacaphony of screaming, crying and non-stop arguing and most surfaces are covered in some manner of nose slime and bitter, angry tears. I can't seem to shut off my snap-response reaction; someone acts out, I yell and the cycle continues until I can hardly even look at them. The anger I feel is blinding and makes me feel so incredibly guilty. I love them, more than anything in the world, so why am I being so immature in the way I'm handling things?
My daughter is just now starting to implement some classic passive-aggressive revenge. For example: T is potty trained and completely capable of informing her caregivers when she needs to use the bathroom. But for the past few weeks she's been punishing me for sending her back to daycare after a lovely three weeks at home with her momma. She is pooping and peeing her pants all the time, informing me after the accident that she needs to go potty. She does it at home, at school and everywhere in between. I've been good about not yelling at her when the incidents occur but I do express my wishes that she inform me Prior to peeing all over the stairs. What makes me crazy is the little look that she casts my way - the one that says "Ha-ha, I win and there's nothing you can do about it." And heaven help me, she's right. She's also at that lovely stage where she cannot be brought out in public. You know what I'm talking about, every child goes through this stage, some more than once.
And my big boy has entered a phase of constant arguing. Everything I say is wrong. My driving is wrong. The way I'm pouring the milk is wrong. I'm doing the laundry wrong. I can't tell time correctly. I know nothing. In fact, it's amazing I survive each day with my complete lack of knowledge. If he keeps this up, he just may be ready for law school by the third grade. And I will certainly be driven to an early grave. Of course, I know better than to engage in an argument with a four-year-old. While he is capable of understanding bits of rationale, he still lives in the wonderfully narcissitic world of childhood. And while he enjoys knowing that he is always right, I can't stop myself from arguing and I can't figure out how to tune out the constant barrage of his version of You Suck.
Because I'm a reasonably intelligent woman, I've been trying to change the tone in our home by making more time for stories, snuggling, family fun and otherwise enjoyable activities. But no matter what I do, the big ones end up arguing and try as I might, my lap simply isn't big enough for three kids. I end up exasperated and give up easily. That's not the mom I want to be; it's not the mom I want my children to recall from their childhood. I find myself having to apologize almost nightly for my nastiness and it breaks my heart when G's response is simply a smile and "It's ok, mom." T will look at me with her sweet, open smile and tell me I'm beautiful. So what the hell is wrong with me?! Why can't I remember what lies beneath when T starts to channel Linda Blair in The Exorcist? And when G feeds me nothing but the four-year-old version of the middle finger all day?
I know that my actions and responses set the mood for my family and that the responsibility lies with me and only me. That's a heavy burden to carry and though I may be broad-shouldered in a literal sense, lately I haven't been strong enough to get out of my own way. What discourages me most is that I can be a really great mom. In fact, sometimes I even feel a little superior. Sometimes I impress myself with my ability to maintain a cool demeanor and refrain from internalizing the situation, or diffusing the uglies before they get out of hand. It makes me so sad when I lose that part of me, when I fail to live up to my own potential.
Last night I worked really hard to keep myself in check. I was silly and happy with the kids and exercised patience during the few moments it was needed. Not surprisingly, we had a great night. The best night I've had with my kids in months. I enjoyed every moment of our night together and found myself not wanting them to go to bed quite yet because I wanted a few more snuggles. There were no tantrums, no accidents, lots of giggling and some snuggling and I never had to raise my voice. They got through the bedtime routine without incident and said goodnight happily as I sang our Goodnight Song on my way down the stairs. All three of them slept late today; I'd hit the snooze button twice and was up reading my email before G came barreling into my room for a little snuggle before our day started. The kids woke up on their own, every one of them cheerful and sweet. The only incident came when it was time to get our jackets on G was arguing about shoes v. boots. He got it together and while I explained that I wasn't happy with his behavior I refrained from yelling and didn't escalate the tension further.
So, I did it. I got it together and my sweet kids came back. We had a great night, a great morning and all is well in the Schroeder house. But how do I keep it this way? How can I keep myself on this track and what do I do when I find myself veering off into Crappy Mom territory?
Friday, January 20, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
I'm Just Lucky Like That
My kids went to bed beautifully on Friday night; they took baths, ate a yummy dinner and then slipped into a lovely slumber with no fussing of any sort. Or at least not until 11:30 when G woke up to go potty. But still, armed with amoxicillin for my sinus infection and bracing for a weekend with three kids and no plans, it was a good night.
Until 1:30, when I woke up to someone knocking on my door. Hard. And then with the doorbell, over and over. You should know that this isn't the first time this has happened. The teen mom who lives next door with her son and absentee mother often has late-night company that confuses my door with hers. I know, I know, my friends do it all the time too, at 3:00 in the morning. So while I was tempted to chalk it up to the skank-around-Sally next door and ignore it, the incessant ringing and pounding was bound to wake my sleeping lovelies and then I'd have a hot mess on my hands.
I crept over to the window to peek outside and my breath caught in my throat because outside my house is a police cruiser. All I can think of is that my kids are safe with me inside and the only reason the police could possibly be at my house in the middle of the night is because the neighbors finally set the place on fire with their constant pizza burning and they were coming to get us out of the house safely. Now, I know this is almost the least rational explanation that I could have come up with, but it was late and I was disoriented, braless and now full of fear, running down the stairs to meet up with the police.
When I open the door the officer apologizes for waking me and asks if I'm Lindsay. It takes me a minute to convince him that I am not, indeed, Lindsay and he takes another tactic. "Do you know Rena Lilly*?" gesturing next door. Ahhh, yes, the absentee mother. While not friends with Ms. Lilly, I have had numerous polite, overly-personal-on-her-part conversations in the eight months that we've been in this house. One would think by now, she'd know my name isn't Lindsay. But that's the least of my worries because by now the cop is regaling me with the story of Rena's Night Out.
Apparently, she got in a fight with her boyfriend while driving from one bar to the next so he pulled over, shoved her out of the car, threw her keys at her and drove away, leaving her to roll down into the ditch in her drunken stupor and lay there in the freezing cold until someone equally as drunk called the police and then ran, lest they get picked up for DUI. The office looked high and low for Rena's keys to no avail and dirtbag boyfriend wouldn't answer her calls and eventually shut his phone off so he could enjoy his night out without all the pestering from his drunken, assaulted girlfriend.
The officer explained to Rena that her only option was to be taken to detox, as she had nowhere to go. Her response? She'd rather go to jail. OR LINDSAY'S HOUSE. And that brings us back to the present: he asks me if she can sleep on my couch and it's clear that No isn't an option. He warns me that she's "pretty drunk" and heads to the cruiser to help her out of the backseat. She weaves and wobbles her way up the sidewalk, bumming a cigarette from the officer on her way. Once inside my house, I guide her to put her things down and kindly go outside to smoke with the officer. I think it was a bonding moment for the two of them. A way to debrief after the trauma of the night, if you will.
I ran upstairs to grab some blankets and a pillow, looking at everything I own and thinking "what do I not mind getting full of puke/snot/blood/urine tonight?" I rustle up some old linens and get downstairs just in time to see her stripping her pants off with the door still wide open. She hands me her pants, then looks at me tearfully and says, "Do you have some clothes I can wear, 'cause I peed my pants." Wow. I'm now at a loss for words. And my hands are full of a grown woman's urine. After a few attempts at conversation and lots of crying, I get her tucked in on my couch (making a mental note to schedule a steam-cleaning) and head up to lay awake for the rest of the night.
In the morning, I ask her where her daughter is and find that she hasn't seen her, nor the grandson, in two days and that's what started the Fight last night. A moment later I mention that there's a strange car parked outside and I think I can hear music coming from her house. She jumps off the couch and races to her front door. Knocking, ringing the bell and kicking the door, no one will answer. She comes back in my house and runs out my back door, ten seconds later she's flying back to her front door and throws up her hands, yelling "They fuckin' left!" As luck would have it, my four-year-old was awake to witness the spectacle.
Rena goes outside again and runs around the back of the house and after a minute or so, comes back in. She grabs her stuff and sputters "I gotta go quick before they lock the door again" and just like that, she's gone. I haven't heard a word from her since, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, dirtbag boyfriend's car was out front, nestled in for a sleepover.
*Names have been changed to protect those with questionable judgment and situational incontinence.
Until 1:30, when I woke up to someone knocking on my door. Hard. And then with the doorbell, over and over. You should know that this isn't the first time this has happened. The teen mom who lives next door with her son and absentee mother often has late-night company that confuses my door with hers. I know, I know, my friends do it all the time too, at 3:00 in the morning. So while I was tempted to chalk it up to the skank-around-Sally next door and ignore it, the incessant ringing and pounding was bound to wake my sleeping lovelies and then I'd have a hot mess on my hands.
I crept over to the window to peek outside and my breath caught in my throat because outside my house is a police cruiser. All I can think of is that my kids are safe with me inside and the only reason the police could possibly be at my house in the middle of the night is because the neighbors finally set the place on fire with their constant pizza burning and they were coming to get us out of the house safely. Now, I know this is almost the least rational explanation that I could have come up with, but it was late and I was disoriented, braless and now full of fear, running down the stairs to meet up with the police.
When I open the door the officer apologizes for waking me and asks if I'm Lindsay. It takes me a minute to convince him that I am not, indeed, Lindsay and he takes another tactic. "Do you know Rena Lilly*?" gesturing next door. Ahhh, yes, the absentee mother. While not friends with Ms. Lilly, I have had numerous polite, overly-personal-on-her-part conversations in the eight months that we've been in this house. One would think by now, she'd know my name isn't Lindsay. But that's the least of my worries because by now the cop is regaling me with the story of Rena's Night Out.
Apparently, she got in a fight with her boyfriend while driving from one bar to the next so he pulled over, shoved her out of the car, threw her keys at her and drove away, leaving her to roll down into the ditch in her drunken stupor and lay there in the freezing cold until someone equally as drunk called the police and then ran, lest they get picked up for DUI. The office looked high and low for Rena's keys to no avail and dirtbag boyfriend wouldn't answer her calls and eventually shut his phone off so he could enjoy his night out without all the pestering from his drunken, assaulted girlfriend.
The officer explained to Rena that her only option was to be taken to detox, as she had nowhere to go. Her response? She'd rather go to jail. OR LINDSAY'S HOUSE. And that brings us back to the present: he asks me if she can sleep on my couch and it's clear that No isn't an option. He warns me that she's "pretty drunk" and heads to the cruiser to help her out of the backseat. She weaves and wobbles her way up the sidewalk, bumming a cigarette from the officer on her way. Once inside my house, I guide her to put her things down and kindly go outside to smoke with the officer. I think it was a bonding moment for the two of them. A way to debrief after the trauma of the night, if you will.
I ran upstairs to grab some blankets and a pillow, looking at everything I own and thinking "what do I not mind getting full of puke/snot/blood/urine tonight?" I rustle up some old linens and get downstairs just in time to see her stripping her pants off with the door still wide open. She hands me her pants, then looks at me tearfully and says, "Do you have some clothes I can wear, 'cause I peed my pants." Wow. I'm now at a loss for words. And my hands are full of a grown woman's urine. After a few attempts at conversation and lots of crying, I get her tucked in on my couch (making a mental note to schedule a steam-cleaning) and head up to lay awake for the rest of the night.
In the morning, I ask her where her daughter is and find that she hasn't seen her, nor the grandson, in two days and that's what started the Fight last night. A moment later I mention that there's a strange car parked outside and I think I can hear music coming from her house. She jumps off the couch and races to her front door. Knocking, ringing the bell and kicking the door, no one will answer. She comes back in my house and runs out my back door, ten seconds later she's flying back to her front door and throws up her hands, yelling "They fuckin' left!" As luck would have it, my four-year-old was awake to witness the spectacle.
Rena goes outside again and runs around the back of the house and after a minute or so, comes back in. She grabs her stuff and sputters "I gotta go quick before they lock the door again" and just like that, she's gone. I haven't heard a word from her since, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, dirtbag boyfriend's car was out front, nestled in for a sleepover.
*Names have been changed to protect those with questionable judgment and situational incontinence.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)