Monday, June 1, 2015

PUNintentional

Children are challenging little fuckers. This is true. However, anyone who owns more than one kid (yes, I OWN them) will tell you, there is always one child who stands out as the most difficult of the two or three or however many there are- ask the Duggars, they'd agree that, yes, one of the pack stands out as more of a problem than the rest. Too soon?

Anyway, Avery was always the impossible one. I had just banked on her explosive sensitivity to seal her fate as the hardest.  Not to mention the kid didn't sleep till she was five. She was exhausting on so many levels. Adorable, sure- lovable, absolutely- but at times she would frustrate me so far into oblivion that my right eye would twitch for hours. I always felt as though I was one meltdown away from my head shooting off my body and into outer space where it would eventually find a new planet to orbit for eternity. 

Landon, on the other hand, only partook in two activities until he was three. He just smiled and napped.  He was like a personified hug for thirty-six months; warm, cuddly, and squishy forever.

Or so I thought.

One day, at right about the time she started Kindergarten, my daughter and all her tantrums and insomnia folded into a cocoon, and when she emerged, all of that buzzing tension bloomed into insane brilliance and sweetness and helpfulness. Like, I can't even explain. She definitely has her emotional moments- I mean she IS my daughter and maybe she recently cried at dinner out with my in-laws because her lettuce wraps weren't properly sauced in a timely manner, but other than that, she's more of a personal assistant than a six-year-old. It's not uncommon for her to have my coffee ready for me in the morning. She's like four months away from me legitimately hiring her to babysit Landon. She fetches my phone charger when I leave it upstairs and couldn't pahhhhsibly get it myself. She gives her little brother impromptu math lessons. She eats like a yoga instructor. She's thoughtful and loving and pretty much perfectly behaved. It's an unreal turn of events and I'm thrilled about it. 

And just when I thought that ever-present feeling of being thisclose to jumping off a cliff was gone, Landon decided to go through his Terrible Twos. At four-years-old. He name-calls. He looks me in the eyes while he touches the thing I just told him not to touch. He hits. He whines and screams and won't eat his vegetables. It's, somehow, more frustrating than my first go-round with Avery because I was so blind-sighted.

He also gets super frustrated with me now. He will ask me the most ridiculous questions that can't be answered by an adult with a human brain then be pissed when I can't come up with a satisfying response. He asks things like, "How many things is in the whole world?," and when I try to explain that there's no concrete, solid number to his not-even-real question he gets annoyed and tries to rephrase and shout-whines, "No. Mommy. Tell me HOW MANY STUFF IS IN THE WHOLE WORLD. HOW. MANY. STUFFS. JUST TELL ME!!"

And to this, what I want to say is, "Landon. You are projecting your insecurities about not knowing all the things adults do onto me and it is causing you to become aggravated." But- he's four, so I just say, "Ok, seventy stuffs," and we move on with our lives.

But he will get over it. I'm confident it's just a phase. He's still struggling to communicate and his little mind is on overload.  I get it.  His innate sweetness peeks through every so often and I'm reminded of his unworldly adorableness.  He asked me yesterday, "Mommy?  What are you doing? Do you want to lay down with me and hear my heartbeep?" and then my brain and insides explode and I die everywhere. 

That said, that edgy keep-the-kitchen-knives-away-from-Mommy feeling is still quite active. 

The kids and I were killing time before having to go to one of Avery's schoolmate's birthday parties yesterday, and due to having to skip Landon's nap to make it to the party on time, he was tired and bored and doing absolutely whatever he could to be destructive and make his misery known. He was picking fights with the Christ child and coloring on the table and knocking over the bag that contained the birthday present repeatedly. I was so overcome with frustration and so close to running away, that I had to clench my fists and look up at the ceiling to keep from crying. I faked a call to Grandma. To the police. To Santa. It was constant and there was no reasoning with him.

Meanwhile, Avery is putting the finishing touches on her darling home-made birthday card (show-off) and folds it up and seals it's envelope. She hands it to me, and I thoughtfully place it in the gift bag so that the top of the card is peeking out so all the parents at the party can see how cute my kid's card is. I walk away, and Landon jumps on his opportunity to be a dick, and shoves the envelope far, far into the bag to destroy the aesthetics of the gift.

And at this, Reverend Avery, who is always down for an opportunity to tattle, says, -wait for it-...

"Moommmmm. Landon's pushing the envelope! I mean it! MOMMY! HE'S REALLY REALLY PUSHING THE ENVELOPE!!!!"

And to that wonderfully unintentional pun, I said, "Yes, honey, he certainly is."


Monday, May 18, 2015

lemon-aid

One doesn't ever really acknowledge the warp speed of passing time until he or she becomes a parent.

It's the truth.

For whatever reason, with each child I pop out, the quicker the months elapse. And my increasing age compounds it too. It's like theeee most fucked up life equation ever. I've worked it out to 
1 day + 1 kid (x2) + I'm almost 30 = actually 5 days because how is it Monday wasn't it just Monday two days ago. 

How do I slow it down?  Going on a diet usually helps. That'll drag out your week. Or, I've discovered, when I try to abstain from drinking- that's a really good way to make two nights feel like a year. But for the most part, the months are zipping by like they've been shot from a cannon, leaving only a settling cloud of vague, mashed-together recollections of taco Tuesdays and Kindergarten homework and soccer practices. Where did the time go? The school year is almost over, you say? No way. No WAY. 

In fact, I was sitting outside with my sister-in-law yesterday. She inquired about a relatively large pot with a rather pathetic green sprout of a seemingly wimpy plant peeking above the soil. I was explaining to her that Troy planted a seed from a lemon I had used months ago while making dinner and we were expecting a fruitful lemon harvest in about 734 years by the looks of it. 
But that's not what I said to her. That's what I meant, but not what spilled out of my mouth. What I actually said out loud was, "yeah by the time we get a lemon out of that sad, sad little plant I'll be THIRTY."
Then I stopped.
Took a sip of my margarita.
Paused.
Took another sip of my margarita.
Pondered.
Took another sip of my margarita for good measure, and realized:

I'm going to be thirty in four weeks. Four WEEKS. My brain, apparently, didn't hop the Delorean and travel to the future like the rest of my body and life and family clearly has and was utterly convinced that by the time I am at the ripe old age of thirty, this struggling, woefully puny excuse for a seedling will have had ample time to die (I mean, we all saw it coming), turn into soil, be ingested by a worm to only then be gulped up by a bird that has enough time to be captured by aliens, withstand a millennia of years of travel through space to their host planet where everything is turned into lemons upon their arrival home. Because, let's be honest, that's the only way that plant is going to produce anything remotely lemon-like. And that's how far away I really, honestly, feel, to embarking upon my third decade of life. 
Sad but true.

But I mean it when I say that it feels like it was just a moment ago that my little Landon was a baby. 

And what a baby he was. The easiest. The smiliest. The quietest. He spent the first three years of his life propped up in a corner of a room with a wholly content shit-eating grin slapped on his face, only breaking squishy character when he would occasionally grunt and extend a chubby finger pointed in the direction of the fridge when he fancied some milk. Other than that, can't really remember him crying. He slept like a bear in hibernation. 
And I was certain he would never speak.

But as luck would have it, he began to dabble in words. He would try one out occasionally. He would say "car," then he would say, "blue car," ...and I just didn't see the signs. If I knew then what I know now, I would have taken precaution. Things got out of control and he became a full blown noise addict. At four and a half years old, he won't shut up. On long car rides, he talks and talks and talks until he runs out of things to say, then he just starts making random sounds as a filler. It makes me feel like a fly has trekked into my ear canal and just lives there and is now buzzing happily ever after.

We were in the car to Avery's dentist appointment today, I had music on to try to drown out the ever-jabbering little boy in the seat behind me when I decided to knowingly put all of our lives in danger by simultaneously driving and writing down the absolute nut-show that is my son.  In one breath, the following: 

"Mommy! Are ghost-es made out of clouds and cotton? Because you KNOW they can go RIGHT through your tummy. And skeletons are made out of ONLY white but everyone already knows that. Maybe when we get home you can draw me a skeleton with a line through it. Or whatevah. This song says the word, 'too' in it but I really think it says, 'toot.' I want it to say that. Mommy mommy mommy mommy... are there more homeless persons than every other persons in the world? How come I never see a pile of dirt in the road then we crash into it and then a bomb hits our car? Wait MOMMY. Can girls be teenagers?"

I feel like somehow Landon's brain has been swapped with Woodstock in '69. I just picture, his cute little face and tousled boy hair, but beneath the skull, where one would presume would be a normal-looking preschooler brain is actually a massive field filled with a sea of leather-fringed hippies dancing around and doing LSD. I mean, that's my theory anyway. I'll keep my eye on him. 

But I'm sitting here falling asleep because, surprise!, this day has gone by in a flash. It feels like just yesterday I updated my blog but it seems that is not the case. Either way and more importantly, I'm off carbs again. I tore my hamstring trying to be supercool in yoga and now have to counter my inability to work out with anorexia. Because... summer. Ugh. 

So quickly bikini season came. So quickly. And I gotta be honest, I'm pulling for that miserable little citrus sprout, because vodka has no carbs and neither does a squeeze of lemon :)