After a recent blog post, I was criticized for glorifying my own heroics (I paraphrase). The post was, I thought, self-deprecating-- I had just finished Tina Fey's Bossypants and have the annoying habit of adopting the tone of whatever author I'm reading-- and at first I was amazed, hurt, and a little angry that I could be so misread. Now I've started to wonder. Maybe by writing about how I muscle through the tough moments I do risk inadvertently portraying myself as some kind of "super mama." I admit that there are some strengths I bring to this work, primarily a certain amount of pure physical strength and endurance, combined with a determination to try to do things well. But mostly I feel like I just do what I have to. I have three little kids and a temperament that won't let me hide out at home, which wouldn't make the challenges any less difficult, I'm sure, but would make them more private.
There are challenges, though, that I don't feel like I'm surmounting all that gracefully, and they're much more complicated than making it to (and through) story time without anyone breaking down. Mostly, they leave me feeling empty and inadequate and worried, not "amazing" at all. What would it be like to write those things down? I want to know, so here goes.
* * *
Sylvia loves to pull hair. It was kind of cute when she was smaller and immobile. Clayton would put his head in her lap and she'd grab his hair in her little hands and he'd pull away easily, smiling at his infant sister. Now it's just annoying. Dee Dee will be playing happily or lying on her back screaming and Sylvia will crawl up to her, grab a couple of fistfuls of hair, and laugh. "No, Sylvia!" I say countless times a day, and "Uh, Sylvia, you're such a pain!" I don't worry that I'm scarring her for life; she doesn't understand me yet. But Clayton does. Yesterday he said," I don't like Sylvia!" This could be just three-year old-blabber--there is absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth-- but I wonder. Clayton seems to have a special bond with Dee Dee; do I reinforce that by vocalizing my irritation with his other sister? I expect him to get annoyed by the girls--especially now, when they're into absolutely everything-- but I want him to get annoyed with them uniformly. I certainly don't want any preference he might have to be fueled by me making my frustrations known. * * *
I didn't expect to write that. I think that was kind of a baby step in the direction of airing the things I really worry about, the things that get me down. Another (bigger?) baby step is my continual angst about Clayton's "quiet time." He hasn't actually slept during "quiet time" for months, but I insist he takes it anyway. Partly because it seems like a good idea for him, mostly because I want the momentary break it gives me. The only leverage I have to coerce him into it is his videos. He knows the "rules:" no quiet time in his bed, no videos. But two days this week he was adamant in his refusal, so "quiet" time consisted of twenty minutes of book reading and negotiation followed by thirty minutes of screaming and door banging. It was restful for neither of us--my stomach was clenched the entire time, waiting for his theatrics to wake Sylvia asleep a few feet away-- and I wondered, for the umpteenth time, what am I doing this for? Sometimes it feels like insisting on a quiet time is more stressful than doing without those thirty minutes sans Clay would be, since I rarely get that time to myself, anyway. Often the worse days are school days, when he clearly needs the rest the most. He begs to watch his videos, tells me he slept at school, he slept in the car, he slept on the ceiling... I can see how desperate he is to turn his brain off for a while, so that even the prospect of being in his bed, reading or playing quietly, is too much for him to handle. So, instead of a peaceful hour of Bugs Bunny or Scooby Doo when I may get a minute to check my email or make dinner, I get a hysterical child throwing himself against his door, and me sick of myself for how, even after three years, figuring out naps or the lack of them can wind me up, piss me off, and stress me out so much. Still, my general malaise this week hasn't really been because of hair pulling, struggles over quiet time, or the fact that Dee Dee has only to look at me--and realize I'm not holding her-- to burst into tears. It's that underlying everything is the question, "What am I doing?" I feel so bored. I unload the dishwasher, round up the laundry, clean up the kitchen, tidy up the toys, make quesadillas and frozen peas... all ad infinitum. There's not much satisfaction because it doesn't stay done. This week I made up little jobs that would give me some sense of accomplishment: scrubbing the microwave, cleaning the high chair that the girls insist on climbing out of so that I can pass it along without too much embarrassment. Little errands, like buying Clayton some pants at Goodwill, at least make me feel like I've done something. I know that all this is part and parcel of my decision to stay home. I even know that one reason I made this decision was so that weekends and evenings wouldn't be consumed by all the menial chores that we couldn't get to during the work week. And that is true, to a degree-- I do manage to make dinner most days before Don gets home--, but sometimes it just seems that there wouldn't be so much housework if we weren't all home so damn much.
On Thursday I pretty much went all day without speaking to another adult. I made some small talk when I bought eggs at the local produce stand and asked Clayton's teacher, "Did he have a good day?" but that was it. The girls were in their seats eating spinach and scrambled eggs when I saw my neighbor out on the street with her kids. It was all I could do not to grab them out of their seats, bundle them up, find their shoes, and lug them both down the hill just for a few moments of conversation with a friend. By four-thirty I was already counting the minutes until Don came home. When he called at four-forty-five to say he'd be home closer to six instead of five thirty-- called just like I had asked him to-- it almost broke my heart. I'm irritable when he gets home-- I'm hungry, bored, lonely-- and that only makes it worse. I'm desperate for connection; he's just come home from a long day to a wife who's pissy and resentful over twenty-five measly minutes. I see him rough-housing with a giggling Clayton and wonder if I've laughed like that with my children today. I think of all those moms who say they're better parents for not staying home, and I have a moment of self-doubt. Would Don and I be better if we were both working, both living the same kind of challenges? Would I appreciate my children more? Would I be happier?
Those moments of doubt pass, the clouds lift, my mood shifts. There are a hundred reasons everyday that I'm glad to be doing this. Sometimes when one of his sisters is crying, Clayton will say, "It's okay, Dee Dee. Mama's right here," and I think my heart's going to overflow with all my blessings. I'm glad that mine are the legs that the girls pull up on countless times a day, no matter how difficult it makes it to get anything done. I'm glad I'm there to see my contemplative Sylvia try to put the lids on the empty bubble bottles, to spot my adventurous Dee Dee as she climbs the stairs. And I'm glad to be sharing it all with Clayton. "Ook, Mama!" he says often. "She's standing up! She's doing it!"
This week we went to Clayton's first Play-n-Learn, a preschool class for kids who aren't enrolled in preschool. Even though it is all I can do to keep the girls at bay while helping Clayton with his crafts and activities, watching him find his place in the circle to sing "The Bear Went Over the Mountain" and watch the puppet show, seeing him struggling with the finger puppets... These are the moments I need to hang onto when I'm unloading the dishwasher yet again. For one of the activities, the kids in Clayton's class are supposed to sort a baggie of toy animals onto a picture of either a forest or a farm. Clayton gets every one right, and I can feel myself beaming with pride, even though no one is watching but me. Then he pulls the eagle out of the bag. "Does the eagle live in the forest or on the farm?" I prompt. He holds the eagle in the air above both pictures. At first I think he's just hesitating, not sure, and then I get it. "That's right!" I laugh, and I want to pull him to me and never let go.
The girls are figuring out the world. When Dee Dee got a hold of my cell phone the other day, she held it up next to her head. When Sylvia plays with her shoes, she holds them down next to her feet, like she knows what to do with them. I told Don about it while I was brushing my teeth. "You notice all those little things about them," Don said, "since you're with them so much." I don't think he could have said a kinder thing if he'd meant to.
I recently had a conversation with another mom whom I know only peripherally and hadn't seen in some time. We marvelled at how big each other's children were, and I remarked that other people's kids seem to grow up even faster than one's own. "Yes," she agreed, and added, far more insightfully,"and it always seems easier for other people." I think of how people who see me with my kids will tell me "You're amazing," or "You're my inspiration." Of course that's nice to hear, but it can also make me feel a little fake, like I'm wearing a "Super Mama" costume for everyone to see when inside I'm the same jumble of conflicting emotions, insecurities, and exhaustion as any other mom. There are highs, and there are lows, and there are acres of mind-numbing boredom in between. It can be amazing or awful, often in the course of several minutes. Writing about it, I don't want to glorify it (or, God forbid, myself) and I certainly don't mean to complain. But the hard stuff matters, too, and I want to be real. I want to try to tell the truth.
No comments:
Post a Comment