I am insanely jealous of single people that live alone.
I love my children. I love my husband. I like my cats a whole lot. I also would like to be by my fucking self occasionally.
From the moment I arrive home, Rhys begins his whine. This isn’t just any whine, of course. The pitch is at dog whistle level, except only parents can hear it, and it brings my heart rate up to dangerous levels.
Next comes the wrap. He grabs hold of my legs, puts his face into my pants, and the whine grows steadily louder. I have JUST walked in the door. My bags have yet to be dropped. Moments earlier, he was laughing on the lawn with the neighbor boy and his sister. It is I that causes his such tremendous anguish for this tiny person. If I pay attention to anyone else, the whole fucking show is over, my friends.
Hitting whoever happens to be between him and I.
Senseless acts of destruction, just to get my attention.
He holds my hand, drags me to and fro, with the whine starting up is my fingers even THINK of loosening from his tiny, sweaty paw. He sits in my lap. Actually, it’s not sitting as much as flipping over, wiggling around, jumping up and down, climbing around my neck. Anything but sitting, actually.
I’m patient. Understanding. I know I’ve been gone for 12 hours. I know I’m missed. I’m aware that his version of the universe, he is the sun, I am the earth, and I need HIM to survive. He’s almost 3. His world is small. I get it.
I’ve been trying so hard to focus on my kids when I get home. My house is a disaster, but there have been many fewer disasters since the kids of the house feels tended to. Which is awesome. Except…
Really, folks, I just want to put on my fucking pajamas without someone making a comment about the fact that my boobs used provide their breakfast. Pour a glass of wine WITHOUT a battle over which child gets to hold the glass. Come home, plop on the couch, and do nothing (NOTHING) but watch a shitty movie.
It’s been a week of guilt about how resentful I am. My poor boy needs to hang from his momma like a little monkey just as much as I need my space. He’s growing, and I’m gone so much of every day.
Most weeks, I lose my shit at least once, yell “LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A SECOND” and lock the bathroom door( I never get to pee alone) with him screaming my name and pounding with all his might, jiggling the doorknob and weeping “moooma, let me in!” Yes, weekly. (Does this make me a shitty parent? I don’t think so. More parents should talk about the completely childish responses they have to their children’s temper tantrums.In fact, I want a You tube channel of adult temper tantrums. Million dollar idea.)
This week is actually a success because he hasn’t SEEN my need for space. I’ve put him first every moment he’s with me. It hasn’t been too bad. I’m successfully unconditionally parenting this week, and we are all in tact. Except there is one more week day in the week. I’m already tired. And I feel like my patience is getting the craziest workout ever.
I’m at risk of losing my shit any moment. So, send me your good vibes, folks, because I feel this tea kettle about to boil over!