You know how it is. At some point after giving birth and going through the most excruciating, agonizing pain you could ever have imagined (Unless, of course, you're that poor, pale, pathetic Edward kid from the Twilight Saga...because apparently HE goes through such torture every time he sniffs his ridiculous girlfriend. Ugh, I hate those books! But where was I? Oh yeah...) so anyway, at some point after you've given birth the extra strength ibuprofen kicks in. The soreness slowly fades away, and you get this sort of permanent amnesia. You forget (mostly) how much the contractions hurt. You know the episiotomy was umm...uncomfortable? But you don't really care. It was all worth it, and you think you'd like another baby now, and isn't that what they invented epidurals for in the first place?
Well, no. I'm not planning to have another baby. I lack the necessary equipment these days. Remember? I was just sitting here thinking about how our perspective changes once we're removed from the immediacy of a situation. While we're giving birth, we don't think we'll live through it. Afterward, well, maybe it wasn't THAT bad. It's kind of the same thing with our kids. Once they've passed through a difficult phase, we tend to forget what holy terrors they were. They become "sweet little angels" as we look back on those days with a warm glow.
Yeah. Right. Amnesia.
My mother stopped by yesterday and dropped off this little package. It was full of letters. Letters from a frazzled young mom with a rambunctious three-year old boy on her hands and a baby girl on the way. A mom who was living about 1,000 miles from home with no family nearby! A mom who was often at her wits end!
Oh, and a little boy who was way too precocious and very, very verbal! (And a little sassy, too!)
Well, that's it! Tonight I have HAD it. I don't know how I can stand it another minute! I don't want to be the wife, mommy, house-keeper, clothes-washer, chef, floor-mopper, activity-planner, butt-wiper, child-bather, bed-maker or kid-wrangler any more! For once I just want to stay in bed ALL DAY, eating brownies, drinking cokes and reading a good book. With a fan blowing right in my face. And some peace and quiet! I don't want to get up to fix dinner or vacuum the carpet or remove the boy from the countertops or pick up the matchbox cars or answer the door. Somebody make it stop! All day long it's "Todd is hungry...NO NOT DAT! Todd is thirsty...NOT DAT CUP! Todd wanna play...NOT DAT GAME! Todd needa movie...NOT DAT MOVIE!" How can a three year old have so many opinions?
Geesh. Complain much? I have no explanations other than I was lonely and hormonal and my kid was driving me nuts. Obviously, I was perfectly sane.
This morning I caught Todd in the kitchen, sitting right on the counter (again) with the plate full of peanut butter cookies between his legs. He had dumped the entire contents of the salt AND pepper shakers on the whole plate of cookies and when I walked in he was licking his fingers saying, "Mmmmmm....Todd wove cinna-nim and sugar on his COOKIES!"
Model child, that one. Never a toe out of line. Always the picture perfect little boy. And yes, he always referred to himself in the third person. He was practicing for when he would be king, I suppose.
Today Todd has decided to wear dirty underwear. ONLY dirty underwear. All day. You see, we bought him some "tighty-whities" like Daddy wears and now he refuses to put on the 4 million pairs of Ninja Turtle and Scooby drawers he owns. Oh no. "Todd can ONWY wear da WHITE ones I told you!" Except, he only has three pair of those and they're all dirty. So he keeps going into the laundry room, digging through the basket and pulling out dirty underpants. He's changing every time he pees. How am I supposed to WASH them if they're on his little butt?
Never a dull moment. He certainly kept life interesting. And when we took him out in public, he made polite conversation with everyone he met.
Yesterday I took Todd with me to my OB appointment. He did not want to sit quietly in the waiting room and look at his books. But the office was pretty full, and I could tell the cuteness factor was wearing off cause some of the ladies were looking at me like, "Make that kid be still, already!" So I plopped his butt in the chair and whispered, "Alright! You sit in the chair and be quiet, now. Do you understand me?" And do you know what he did?? He looked up at me, crossed his arms and said plain as day, "YOU be quiet you pompous old WINDBAG!" Oh my LORD I thought I was gonna shrivel up and DIE! Where does he GET this stuff?? ** Edited-I found out where he got it from. He was a Disney freak and he watched the Jungle Book about 87 times a week. The elephants. They're the guilty ones!**
And another thing...he was absolutely thrilled to be getting a new baby sister.
Todd has decided that we don't have enough stuff for his baby sister. He said a crib, car seat and bottles won't do. She needs to have a rocking horse that takes quarters like the one at the grocery store (he promises he will let her ride it sometimes) and he would like to be sure that she brings her own dollars with her because he says he isn't sharing his ice cream money with "Doris Isabel." Doris Isabel. That would be the baby. He's decided her name is NOT going to be Heather after all. Because he doesn't know how to spell that name! (He doesn't know how to spell Doris Isabel, either, but who am I to argue??)
The more I read, the more I wonder why we didn't have this boy committed to an asylum.
I'm beginning to panic here. WHY did we think we needed another child? I'm telling you, if Doris Isabel is ANYthing like THIS one, we're doomed! Last night I was trying to get up the dishes from dinner while Hubby took his shower. Todd was sitting at the table eating a piece of cherry cheesecake and he kept rolling gooey cherries all over the table. Every time I went into the kitchen, he made another mess behind my back. Finally I told him if he didn't knock it off he was going to bed without finishing dessert and he wouldn't get a story. He pointed his fork at me and said, "Don't piss me off, Lady!" Yeah. No dessert, no story and a bright red butt. Where does he hear this stuff?? Is he watching cable in the middle of the night?? Let's hope Doris Isabel doesn't learn to talk.
Lucky for me, Doris Isabel was NOTHING like her brother. SHE was a perfect little angel, as far as I remember. Or maybe I just didn't have time to write any more.