It doesn't seem that special. It's not the age at which you're legally allowed to do anything for the first time. It's not a multiple of ten or five that lets you celebrate a new decade or being halfway through. My husband pointed out that it's two to the fifth power. My stepfather wished me happy 10,000. They are both computer programmers of one sort or another, so they'll forgive me if I didn't see the interest of the number the way they do.
Thirty-two.
I don't know where I thought I'd be by now, but it wasn't here.
Here. In Washington, so freaking far from most of my family.
Here. At home, alone with two boys, thanking my lucky stars that they are taking their afternoon naps at the same time.
Here. On leave from a career I'm still unsure of.
I thought by now I'd have met more of my life goals. I thought I'd HAVE more life goals. I keep looking around, wondering what I'm doing here and where There is going to be.
Birthdays are different now. I didn't want any particular thing. I just wanted some sleep, a happy birthday from my guys, and a little time to think about my life. I got all three, along with a brownie that Sebastian sprinkled for me with leftover sprinkles from his birthday. The time to myself came as I sat, eyes closed softly, while a lovely lady at the hair salon washed, cut, and dried my hair. I couldn't believe how relaxing it was, a testament to how hectic most of my other moments are now.
But I still don't know what I think about my life. I feel lost, awash in the everyday-ness of it all, unable to look beyond Tomorrow or maybe Next Week. I read and am impressed by so many people in real life and in the world out there... people who are making a difference, pursuing their dreams, starting new careers or side projects, creating beauty and order... and I feel... flat. How can I fail to be inspired by these amazing examples all around me? Instead I feel embarrassed that I am just sitting here, self-indulgent as I type in this blog instead of finding my passion and running away with it.
I've told myself many times that my children are my passion right now. Spending these early years with them is important, to me and to them. It's true and yet I have a hole where something else belongs. Something that is uniquely me; something that is a purpose. I just haven't found it yet.
Thirty-two was never a particularly special number to me, but maybe it's the bend in the road. Maybe the rest of my life is waiting around this corner. I guess that's what I'm about to find out.
Let me explain...
I can't turn it off.
The judgmental conga line in my head always starts dancing around when I'm with other parents of small children. It's not the other parents I'm judging, though. What I hear in my head are the comments I'm afraid they are making about me in their own thoughts.
When I'm alone with my boys, I feel like I'm doing an ok job at this whole parenting thing. Mostly, anyway. I manage to get everyone fed and clothed, I smile and laugh with them, I play and give them time to play alone, I feed them more or less healthful food, I make sure they are home for naps. I generally follow the guidelines of most of the parenting experts that I've decided know what the heck they're talking about.
But days alone with small children are a bit lacking in sophisticated - or even normal - conversation, so I try to meet up with other adults. This is when the trouble begins.
As soon as another adult enters my day, my brain splits into three parts.
Part one: Woohoo! Someone who understands four-syllable words! I have so many conversations I want to cram into this next hour!
Part two: What is Sebastian doing? Is Theo getting sleepy? Ok, baby, let's swaddle you for snoozing. Yes, Sebastian, I see the train. Yes, Sebastian. Ok, Sebastian. Just a minute, Sebastian. How do you ask nicely, Sebastian?
Part three: Oh, lord, I just gave Sebastian juice with his snack. I know it's because his cold is making his nose run a mile a minute and he won't drink enough water, so this is the way to ensure that he'll get some fluids, but that other parent might think I'm one of Those Parents who gives her kid juice all the time even though you're not supposed to and so now instead of a great conversation about something other than children I should probably mention the reason I'm giving him juice today and how I don't normally do that and I really watered it down...
I know you're thinking what I'm thinking. Part three is the Crazy Part of my brain. You're right. And yet I can't stop it. I think I spent half of the last four days with lovely friends who were visiting explaining myself and making excuses and apologizing for my less than ideal parenting behavior and my messy house. These were friends who were completely sympathetic to the fact that we all got sick the very morning they arrived and who are so far from judgmental that it was silly for me to be wasting valuable conversation time. But I couldn't help it.
I also find that I really am a less than stellar parent whenever we're on playdates or at classes or in public in general. I don't want to have the Toddler Conversation when there are adults around.
{You know, the Toddler Conversation.
Toddler: That's a big, red ball right there.
Parent: Yes, it is!
Toddler: That really is a big, red ball right there.
Parent: You're right! Are you going to kick it?
Toddler: Are you going to kick it?
Parent: Yeah, are you going to kick the big, red ball?
Toddler (joyfully): That's a big red ball right there!
Parent (sighing): Yes, it is a big, red ball.
Is it just my kid who fixates on things? Another question for another time.}
Anyway, so I don't want to spend time on big, red balls when I could be talking about...well, anything else. And when I'm talking about anything else, I might not be as quick to react when my kid is asking a zillion questions or is about to do a face plant as he's trying to step around one toy to get to another. I'm always sure that the other parent thinks that I'm totally neglectful and that it's amazing that Sebastian isn't covered in bruises.
Then there are the inevitable misbehaviors by my toddler. They happen when we're alone too, of course, but I just deal with them. When someone else is around, they take on a new light. I'm trying to ignore his screaming tantrums when he doesn't get his way so that he stops getting attention from them and stops having them. Occasionally other parents will try to fill what they see as a breach. Then the conversation has to turn to my parenting strategy on tantrums. (This almost never works, however. Few people have the capacity to ignore Sebastian's tantrums. They are annoyingly effective at attracting attention.)
All the while I am sure the other parent is a) thanking her lucky stars that her kid doesn't have screaming tantrums over crackers or b) judging whether my strategy of ignoring is pretty much the dumbest thing she's ever heard and is wondering whether to ask if I've tried telling him to stop or to give him time outs. (Yes, yes, I have. They don't work.)
I have no idea if either of these reactions is true, but because I am so busy wondering if I'm a bad parent because my kid is screaming, I assume that the other person is wondering the same thing.
And the house. Oh man, don't get me started on the embarrassment that is my house. But not all the time. Only on days when I've (foolishly) invited someone over to play. Why is it that the boys never sleep on the days before the playdate so I can clean?? I won't see my neighbor for weeks at a time when my house is more or less put together and my chores are all happily checked off the list. Then I get sick, the boys get sicker, the house goes to hell, and ...yep...there's the knock at the door. Hi, D! Welcome to my wreck of a house. Sigh. I want to explain that it's not always like this, but what's the point? And am I just kidding myself? I think it's like this more often than not these days.
My point, my point. Yes, I have one. Parenting has brought me to levels of insecurity I didn't know I possessed.
I just hope the people around us are a lot less judgmental than their imaginary counterparts in my head.
And that I can turn off those voices soon, because I'm pretty sure that hearing voices is one of the first signs of insanity.
Popcorn Days
Yes, I'm still here...just never on my computer. You see, there is almost no time whatsoever from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. when both boys are actually asleep. Most days I get about 40 minutes, in which I run around like a madwoman trying to finish at least one household chore and one Must Do item on my task list.
But not all breakless days are created equal.
Some days neither boy takes a decent nap. Theo wakes up after 40 minutes all three (or four) times I put him down. Sebastian is up after an hour or so. They are cranky and overtired and by the end of the day I want to run screaming into the night.
And then there are Popcorn Days.
These are the days in which they sleep on completely opposite schedules. One goes down within five minutes or so of the other waking up. When that one finally goes down, the other wakes up. Repeat all day... one up, one down.
But Popcorn Days - though still tiring - are also wonderful. I have each boy to myself for a chunk of time. I can laugh and sing songs with Sebastian. I can coax an almost-giggle out of Theo. And neither one is overtired. They are at their best, even if I'm not quite.
Popcorn Days remind me how much fun each stage of childhood is. I'm not wishing Theo could just sit and play by himself while I feed Sebastian, nor wishing Sebastian would STOP SINGING FOR TWO FREAKING SECONDS so it's quiet enough for me to put Theo down for his nap.
Instead, I am reveling in the wonder of wherever each boy is and how lucky I am to be a part of his life.
There are wonderful moments on other days when they are both awake and Sebastian kisses Theo on the head and is rewarded with a big, gummy smile.
But Popcorn Days are the best.
(Until the day when they both sleep for two hours in the afternoon at the same time, of course. Is that day ever coming?? Please let me believe in it for a while longer.)
But not all breakless days are created equal.
Some days neither boy takes a decent nap. Theo wakes up after 40 minutes all three (or four) times I put him down. Sebastian is up after an hour or so. They are cranky and overtired and by the end of the day I want to run screaming into the night.
And then there are Popcorn Days.
These are the days in which they sleep on completely opposite schedules. One goes down within five minutes or so of the other waking up. When that one finally goes down, the other wakes up. Repeat all day... one up, one down.
But Popcorn Days - though still tiring - are also wonderful. I have each boy to myself for a chunk of time. I can laugh and sing songs with Sebastian. I can coax an almost-giggle out of Theo. And neither one is overtired. They are at their best, even if I'm not quite.
Popcorn Days remind me how much fun each stage of childhood is. I'm not wishing Theo could just sit and play by himself while I feed Sebastian, nor wishing Sebastian would STOP SINGING FOR TWO FREAKING SECONDS so it's quiet enough for me to put Theo down for his nap.
Instead, I am reveling in the wonder of wherever each boy is and how lucky I am to be a part of his life.
There are wonderful moments on other days when they are both awake and Sebastian kisses Theo on the head and is rewarded with a big, gummy smile.
But Popcorn Days are the best.
(Until the day when they both sleep for two hours in the afternoon at the same time, of course. Is that day ever coming?? Please let me believe in it for a while longer.)
A little note
Dear Theo,
Clearly you already have a sense of humor, what with following up your stellar sleeping through the night routine with a three-day (and counting) growth spurt. Eating every hour and a half or two hours, even through the night, is exhausting us both. Seriously, baby bear, you are 14 pounds already. I think you can just hang out at this size for a while. Let's enjoy the fall clothes before you outgrow them because everything in the next size up is for winter, buddy. Also, my back is killing me and I could use another month or so to get those muscles geared up for carrying around a bigger baby.
So, yeah. Enough with the constant eating. The Dairy Queen needs a night off.
Much love,
the mama
Clearly you already have a sense of humor, what with following up your stellar sleeping through the night routine with a three-day (and counting) growth spurt. Eating every hour and a half or two hours, even through the night, is exhausting us both. Seriously, baby bear, you are 14 pounds already. I think you can just hang out at this size for a while. Let's enjoy the fall clothes before you outgrow them because everything in the next size up is for winter, buddy. Also, my back is killing me and I could use another month or so to get those muscles geared up for carrying around a bigger baby.
So, yeah. Enough with the constant eating. The Dairy Queen needs a night off.
Much love,
the mama
The difference sleep makes
It's been said before, and it will be said again many times before my children are grown and gone:
Sleep makes all the difference.
Ok, maybe not ALL the difference. But a huge difference.
First of all, when the kids don't sleep well, I don't sleep well. When they don't nap, I don't get things done during the day, which means I have to do them at night when they finally go to bed, which means I get less sleep before they wake up and we repeat the chaos, only this time way more exhausted.
When they don't sleep at night, I don't sleep at night, end of story, no explanation needed. Except, wait...what's that you say? You want to know whether my husband can get up with them and I can still sleep? Yeah, right.
When my husband doesn't sleep 8 or 9 hours a night, he yawns repeatedly all morning, making me want to hit him with a pillow and chronicle how much more sleep he has gotten than I did. He then falls asleep randomly during the day, usually right when one child needs to eat and other needs to nap or when one needs a change and the other needs attention or...well, you get the idea. Never at a helpful time. Since I juggle them all week, I'd rather not do it all weekend, too.
When I don't sleep, I am foggy, inefficient, unable to carry on a conversation, incapable of answering questions from a 2-year-old patiently 100 times each. I am grumpy and apparently likely to want to hit people with pillows (look, he's lucky it's nothing harder. I can't remember the last time I slept 8 or 9 hours straight).
But I do settle into a sleep-deprived routine, learning how to get everyone fed, clothed, and more or less entertained on 4 to 6 hours of interrupted sleep a night and no nap - because heaven forbid both boys nap at the same time for more than 30 minutes - and I start to forget that it was ever different.
Until a miracle happens.
A miracle titled "The Baby Slept Through the Night"!
No, it's not really sleeping through my night, it's that stupid textbook definition of more than 6 hours straight, but you know what? I'll take it.
Theo slept for 7 straight hours last night, of which I slept five and a half!!
He then ate and fell back to sleep for 2 and a half hours!
I know it's not a miracle, he's just getting older, but I swear when the sun came up I heard angels and a hallelujah. (Except that I didn't, because I was ASLEEP!)
And then I remember that sleep makes the difference between the person who's been impersonating me for the past three months and the Real Me.
So maybe I was right the first time: sleep makes all the difference.
Sleep makes all the difference.
Ok, maybe not ALL the difference. But a huge difference.
First of all, when the kids don't sleep well, I don't sleep well. When they don't nap, I don't get things done during the day, which means I have to do them at night when they finally go to bed, which means I get less sleep before they wake up and we repeat the chaos, only this time way more exhausted.
When they don't sleep at night, I don't sleep at night, end of story, no explanation needed. Except, wait...what's that you say? You want to know whether my husband can get up with them and I can still sleep? Yeah, right.
When my husband doesn't sleep 8 or 9 hours a night, he yawns repeatedly all morning, making me want to hit him with a pillow and chronicle how much more sleep he has gotten than I did. He then falls asleep randomly during the day, usually right when one child needs to eat and other needs to nap or when one needs a change and the other needs attention or...well, you get the idea. Never at a helpful time. Since I juggle them all week, I'd rather not do it all weekend, too.
When I don't sleep, I am foggy, inefficient, unable to carry on a conversation, incapable of answering questions from a 2-year-old patiently 100 times each. I am grumpy and apparently likely to want to hit people with pillows (look, he's lucky it's nothing harder. I can't remember the last time I slept 8 or 9 hours straight).
But I do settle into a sleep-deprived routine, learning how to get everyone fed, clothed, and more or less entertained on 4 to 6 hours of interrupted sleep a night and no nap - because heaven forbid both boys nap at the same time for more than 30 minutes - and I start to forget that it was ever different.
Until a miracle happens.
A miracle titled "The Baby Slept Through the Night"!
No, it's not really sleeping through my night, it's that stupid textbook definition of more than 6 hours straight, but you know what? I'll take it.
Theo slept for 7 straight hours last night, of which I slept five and a half!!
He then ate and fell back to sleep for 2 and a half hours!
I know it's not a miracle, he's just getting older, but I swear when the sun came up I heard angels and a hallelujah. (Except that I didn't, because I was ASLEEP!)
And then I remember that sleep makes the difference between the person who's been impersonating me for the past three months and the Real Me.
So maybe I was right the first time: sleep makes all the difference.
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