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Every once in a while, there’s peace and tranquility in my household. It’s like being at a spa and having a pedicure and manicure without thinking about the price. Lately though, peace has gone out the door and madness has come storming through.
In a matter of a couple of weeks, my toddler got a red warning card at school. She yelled down the hall at the top of her lungs, rested her feet on the backside of her chair and blew her straw during snack time. At home, she has refused to take naps the past few days, causing tantrums the equivalent of a tsunami.
In the meantime, my 19-month-old is Houdini. She has escaped from her crib an average of three times per night. Talk about getting my heart pumping. We have recently moved her to a bed, to avoid concussions, broken bones and any other medical problem. Now, still an escapee, we have double and triple-checked all child proofing around the house. It’s no wonder parents don’t sleep.
One of my older children, who usually excels in school, has dipped down a few grades in English. It’s killing me and frustrating my child. Extra credit anyone?
My sixth child, oops, I mean my husband, recently asked me when would be a good time to have company for dinner. I didn’t even have a chance to look at our calendar to give an answer. Doesn’t this scream, “Now is probably not a good week!” The date originally started with Sunday, then turned into Friday and ended up being the next day! We didn’t have a drop of milk in the house or even an egg. Coincidentally, it was the same day I volunteered to drive to Topeka for my son’s field trip.
To top things off, I can’t seem to forget what my OBGYN told me at my last appointment. How can this be? I forget everything else without even trying. Unfortunately, it keeps popping up in my brain when things look really bleak and I’m searching for a glimpse of hope in the near future. She said, “By this time next year, you’ll have a two-year-old, turn 40, and be pre-menopausal.” Is there any medication for all of this? Maybe this magic remedy will be my million-dollar idea, although chemistry was never my strong point. I still don’t use the element chart, which my teacher promised was as essential as breathing.
Why bother to get out of bed each day? I’m just going to pull the covers over my head and have my husband wake me when everyone’s out of diapers, the mortgage is paid off and all of my children have graduated from college with honors.
Maybe I’ll just concentrate on what a motivational speaker said to her audience. “Instead of saying, I’m having a bad day, say, I’m having a bad moment.” That way the moment will pass and the day won’t be shot. Since it’s been well past a week and a half already, I’ll just change the wording to, “It’s been a bad two weeks.” That way I only have a couple days left to wallow in self-pity.
I’ll just imagine the light at the end of the tunnel being a vacation in the Caribbean (with all expenses paid in full). I’ll soak up the sun, while everyone else blasts the furnace back home. I’ll focus on my daughter graduating from pre-school with honors, my baby staying in her new bed and sleeping until 9 a.m., my other child getting straight As and my husband never inviting company over without a 36-hour window. As for turning 40, having a 2-year-old and going through menopause simultaneously, well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, or jump from the nearest one.
Complements of the Atchison Globe
Early in our marriage, my husband and I read, The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate, by Gary Chapman. The author asks married couples to rate five areas they feel most loved. Chapman’s choices include: words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service and physical touch. The author’s point being, use your spouse’s number one love language to express your love to them.
Of course, my results were completely opposite of my husband. Receiving gifts rated number one for me and dead last on his list. This has posed some serious problems for us. My husband has admitted on more than one occasion he is petrified of giving me a gift I won’t like. I’ve even cut out pictures to help make his shopping experience easier, but it doesn’t always work.
Last Christmas we agreed not to exchange gifts in order to save money. Neither one of us followed our new rule. I ended up with a scarf my teenager asked for and gloves I already had. Maybe it was the stress of the holidays, but after the kids went to bed, I expressed my ungratefulness. After over 15 years of marriage, how could he mess up my number one love language?
I’ve learned I should never discuss anything after 1AM because my thoughts are completely irrational. At least, I thought I had learned. I ended up seizing the moment to speak out anyway because, of course, it felt rational at the time.
Not surprisingly, this led to a small argument. I mentioned every gift my husband had ever given me starting with our first Christmas. I proceeded to tell him what I really thought of each gift. Needless to say, that Christmas Eve didn’t end on a good note. I only went to bed secretly happy because he had to put together a play kitchen for our toddler that contained over 400 pieces. His frustration brought me satisfaction…cruel, I know.
This year we vowed again not to exchange gifts. With company in town, I needed to be on my best behavior. We failed to follow our little rule again, but this year I got smarter.
Always believing it’s never too late to learn from past experience, I bought my own gifts before Christmas. I brought them home and told him to wrap ’em up. (Our daughters actually did the wrapping for him on Christmas Eve, but I let it slide. My grandmother always said, “Choose your battles.” And she was happily married for over 50 years.)
I have to say, I was quite pleased with my purchases from me to me. My favorite gift was one of necessity – a bathroom door lock for the master bathroom. This $8 purchase has brought me seriously needed peace of mind. I no longer brace the door shut while simultaneously trying to pee at the speed of light. The battle with small children forcing their way in has ended. I now relish these 60 blissful seconds to myself. I’ve even considered making this my new office and my water intake has greatly increased. (Sometimes it’s the little things in life.)
To my surprise, the gifts didn’t stop with my own small purchases. My husband bought gifts for me too – big ones – and I loved them! I scored huge this year. He didn’t just speak my love language; he shouted it from the rooftop. When he’s good, he’s really good. I can only hope that I get better at showing my love for him in his language.
Hopefully, I’ll do it as successfully as he did.
Courtesy of the Atchison Globe
Judging other parents and their children is so easy … and then one day you have your own. Usually within the first two years, a new parent has stayed up all night with their child, worried about a fever, been thrown up on and wondered how something so small could poop so much. Suddenly this parent sees things from a whole new perspective. And then their child turns 3.
This brings to mind my 3-year-old. I never know how old she’s going to be on a daily basis. Some days she wakes up and wants to play house with her baby dolls. Other days she pretends she’s texting and talking to her friends on her cell phone while simultaneously shushing me and giving me dirty looks so she can hear them.
I could write a book solely about her. The kid gives me material daily. One minute she’s asking me if she can have chocolate milk without the milk (I give her credit for creativity) and the next she’ll start a conversation with an adult transitioning with, “So anyway, how’s your kids?”
Just last year she asked for a play kitchen, a table and chairs and a boyfriend for Christmas. Are you kidding me? Last month’s ongoing conversation was about who she was marrying. I’ve since heard from the boy’s mom – it’s mutual.
She literally grew up overnight after we rearranged bedrooms and roomed her with her baby sister. Now being the older roommate, after only one night with the baby she announced, “I feel older now, Mommy.” She seemed more like a confident 10-year-old not afraid of monsters rather than the young 3-year-old she was supposed to be.
In the months that followed this mental growth spurt, she decided she was old enough to take part in some grown-up activities. She asked for a glass of wine before dinner, causing me to choke, and said that when she was a mommy she could have a margarita, too. I’m in serious trouble.
This may cause a problem or two being that she just started pre-school this week. I’m already praying the school loses my phone number and e-mail address. I don’t even want to know if she asks for a latté at snack time.
Luckily I’ve heard from a few other teachers who told me they’ll believe half of what’s said in class if parents only believe half of what comes home. I really hope her teachers practice this theory.
In the meantime, I’ve tried to prepare my daughter for more age-appropriate 3- and 4-year-old conversations. She and I discussed things she could and couldn’t say in school, even though her older siblings find them hilarious. This includes any sentence with the word “freakin'” in it. She is not allowed to say, “It’s freakin’ cold” or freakin’ hot” or that she’s bored out of her freakin’ mind. She’s also not allowed to say “What the…?” Even though she has never finished that sentence, I certainly don’t want her to even try while at school. Since this question even remotely insinuates that a swear word could follow, it’s strictly forbidden. She seems to understand this … I think.
Recently while playing at home, she was reciting the ABCs. She ended with, “…w,x,y,m,c.” She flipped out when I tried to correct her, insisting she was right. She was completely adamant and stubborn, so I let it go. I figure she’ll have the whole class joining her in song by the end of next week. God bless her teachers.
We still have several things to cover before she’s too deep into the school year, but for now, I figure we’re on the right track. In the meantime I’ll forward all my calls to 1-800-whose kid is this?
Courtesy of the Atchison Globe