Day 260 or The Honeymoon is Over

Remember that glowing post I wrote yesterday about the beauty of coming home to my children? How they seemed to appreciate me more? Were you laughing then, knowing that the other shoe would drop? That somehow, some way they would make me pay for those days of relaxation and those nights of unhindered sleep? And that they would choose the night that their father worked to do so?

I don't know what pod appeared in our home this afternoon but my children were replaced by an insane alien breed that cannot stop bickering, crying, and/or saying "Mommy" 12 times every minute. They have fought, thrown toys, screamed at the top of their lungs, and kicked the wall.

I swear that every ounce of residual cruise high has gone LOW.

And yet, I sit here laughing. Not because I need a straight jacket, though that is still a possibility -- stand by, boys. Not because my daughter just mooned me. She did. Seriously. But because my son just disappeared to his room and returned claiming that he had just put something on his blog. Yes. You read that right. He told me that baby was being so silly that he posted it on his blog and now everyone can read it. He's six, ladies and gentlemen. Yet in 2010, my six year old has created an imaginary blog wherein he can document his life.

And what do I do? I run to my blog to share it! He then sees me typing and says, "It that your blog, Mommy?" Oh, dear. I feel a lot like Dr. Frankenstein at this moment. Oh, what have I created?

Alas, I scooped up both of my monsters and told them that I loved them. Even when they made me crazy. Even when I yell and they kick. Even when toys have flown and tears have flowed. Always and forever.

I hope one day, my son will blog about that.

Day 105 or The Things My Mother Said That I Swore I Wouldn't

The Real Title Should Be : The Things That My Mother Said That I Swore I Wouldn't But I Said This Week...

You may judge, but this is my little truth corner so here it is.

1. "Because I said so" -- I used to think this was a cardinal sin. And I never start here but after providing multiple logical answers, multiple times... this is a solid go-to. There is no answer back. Conversation closed.

2. "You're older" -- I hate that I say this to my older child. I was the oldest and no matter how old my younger brothers became, they were always younger which seemed to lessen their culpability because I was always "older".

3. "I don't care who started it, I am ending it" -- Enough said.

4. "I'm going to throw every toy you own in the trash if you..." Insert one of the following -- fight over another toy, don't put up your toys, throw another toy, etc. etc. etc.

5. "You are making Mommy crazy" -- Well, this is true but I am sure that there is a wealth of child-rearing experts that would say that this is a terrible thing to tell your children.

And for the coup de gras, the proof that I have officially become my mother, ladies and gentlemen... "I'm going to call Santa and tell him to put you on the naughty list". And the other night, I did. I called Santa (luckily my children can't read their father's full name on the phone screen yet. This won't work next year.) Okay, you may judge. I know. I know. Perfectly awful.

One thing my mom said that I'm proud to say... "I love you even when you make me crazy. And one day I hope that you have a child just like you".

Mommy Needs a Time-Out Pt. 2.1

To my non-mommy friends, just because your foes are not pint-sized terrors doesn't mean that they can't make you Looney-town. We all have someone or something that makes a straight-jacket look really cozy. We all need a time-out sometimes from a boss, a boyfriend, a parent. So I say to you, thanks for listening to my mommy vent. You, too, are not alone. None of us is alone.

Day Sixty - Six or Mommy Needs a Time-Out

So in the post Halloween haze coupled with time-change mania, my children and I were not on our A-Game. We were neither in sync or in the groove. And well... Mommy had a meltdown.

Now I did not hurl myself on the floor as my two year-old did (though I was tempted) nor did I start yelling the same thing over and over as my six year-old did but I would not have survived the white glove test of parenting today. I have no doubts of that. .

There was no perfection pie here

I did not use my calm voice. I did not rise above the melee. I was full on in the "melee". I was sick of the fights over toys. (Legos for goodness sake. They LITERALLY have thousands. They both need the same tiny red block? Seriously?) And the use of furniture as both weaponry and gym equipment. I was sick of my children screaming demands for pink milk from across the apartment rather than coming to me to ask. I was sick of negotiating the Halloween candy disbursement. I was just plain sick.

So I yelled. I used the scary Mommy voice. And then worst of all, I just started crying. Right in front of my children. Sooooo not pretty. And when my husband came in, I literally told him that I needed to go into the bedroom and be left alone for at least fifteen minutes. I did not want to see or hear my children. I wanted a Mommy time-out.

These are the moments that kill me. I adore my children. I want to be the steady force in their life that helps navigate them through the real craziness in life. I don't want to be the craziness. I want them to remember the moments we played dress up like Mommy and Daddy this morning and not the moment when the parental sanity timer went "ding! time's up" and I took a ride on the looney train. In other words, I don't want my children to have extended therapy sessions about their memories of Mother before she started wearing the very stylish if impractical (especially after Labor Day) white long-sleeved jacket. Very long-sleeved.

So I took a time-out and the day was better but I still wouldn't want any TLC film crews following me. And I won't be writing any Dr. Sears style parenting books. I might call my mom, however. She should get a BIG laugh out of this one.

Day Sixty - Two or To Stuff or to Spread?

Are you a stuffer? Or a spreader?

I'm a spreader. When I have a stack of papers or other items, I like to spread out with a series of specific stacks and I don't pick up the stacks until I find the perfect place. Not "a" place, mind you. "The" place. Now this worked really well when I was young and single. I was naturally an insomniac (sound like any kids you know?) and rarely slept more than four hours a night. Some nights I didn't need sleep at all. So when I embarked on such a project, I simply stayed up until the project was complete. My closets were beautiful and nothing was just lying about.

Flash forward to now. I love sleep. Need, need, need sleep. Have two children that understand the phrase, "Please don't touch, Mommy's not finished" about as much as they would if I said it in Mandarin. And, here's the kicker -- I married a stuffer!!!! So I take the time to spread out everything for sorting and if I walk away from it for more than five minutes, assuming my two kids haven't already gotten to it, he stuffs it. He stuffs it into drawers, stacks everything into one and places it "somewhere", or worse. Worse -- I found stacks on the floor of the closet -- Really? Really?

This makes me looneytoon, over the cuckoo's nest, Crazy with a capital K! See he treasures clean surfaces -- can't stand my stacks. And I can't stand stuffed drawers and not knowing where anything is. So where is the happy medium here? (Hey, if we can figure this out, maybe we can solve health care reform!)

I know that my stacks don't always look pretty (okay, rarely look pretty) but I know where things are. And I'm the one who gets up with my son and has him ready to go to school at 7:00 am. So I think I should have priority (especially today when I am frantically looking for a due library book) but he wants everything to "look" clean. To me it's not clean, it's just hidden.

So here we are -- at a stand-off. I know that time is not my friend and I appreciate that my stacks sometime stand for a while, but I can't find anything his way. Any suggestions? To spread or to stuff, that is the question.