On any given day lately, I feel like I have a laundry list of about 103930 things on the verge of driving me completely insane. Like, one day I think I’m going to have PTSD from parenthood.
One day things are going to be smooth sailing (probably not until they go to college) and I am going to be in a corner rocking back and forth, drool puddling in my lap, and mumbling lines from Dora the Explorer.
“Isa, turn the wheel! Turn the wheel, Isa! I’m turning the wheel! I’m turning the wheel! I’m TURNING THE WHEEL!”
That is probably going to happen.
I don’t know if it’s just my kids but something about right now is really hard. Or maybe it’s just me.
It’s no secret that sleep in this house is a contentious subject. I would like everyone to have more of it and Emma and Joshua would like everyone to have less. I am losing this battle mightily.
But even when I do get a good night’s sleep and there is plenty of rest during the day, the feelings of irritation and exhaustion are still there by the afternoon. Sometimes earlier.
I walk around feeling, quite frankly, like I’m drunk. Or hungover. My brain is foggy. I get dizzy spells. Everything seems louder than it actually is. If one more child touches me for one more second, my skin might actually burst into flames.
Joshua is demanding. So, so very demanding.
“Get me milk!”
“Get me a snack!”
“I. WANT. A SNACK.”
“I. WANT. MILK!!”
It’s like I’m raising the boy version of Veruca Salt. I’m working on manners and asking nicely. Success with being…not a brat…is slow-going but it’s happening. Mostly. I think. Sometimes.
He has absolutely zero patience and every parenting trick in the book to help him build patience has failed. Unless there’s a trick I haven’t tried yet and then maybe that one would work. Except I don’t know it.
Mostly I just get flustered and shake my fists up beside my face and clench my teeth to keep from yelling “WOULD YOU JUST WAIT FOR FOURTEEN FREAKING SECONDS!!!!!!!111111”
Everything is an emergency. Except nothing is an emergency.
I’m trying not to yell so much. Trying really hard. It’s not working. I can tell it’s not working because Joshua yells. He’s a yell-er. Just like me.
He yells at me. He yells at Emma, telling her not to go down the hallway, not to sit on his cushion, not to cry. He yells at her for touching a toy that he’s not playing with because the minute she touches it the toy morphs into the very thing that he must play with right that very second.
I’m not willing to believe that yelling is a genetic trait so I can only guess that he’s learned it from me which makes me incredibly angry at and ashamed of myself but also frustrated with him. (Except sometimes it’s funny.)
Emma is so very into everything. Everything. And she wants everything. And she wants it now.
At least some of her behavior is related to the chicken pox vaccine. The rest of it is related to the fact that she’s So. Very. Aware. of the world and has no words. So she grunts and flails and points and scratches and climbs. OMG. She climbs.
She climbs on everything. She uses the dog to do it. The dog helps her by laying still and allowing it to happen. They are conspiring together to make me even more insane than she and Joshua will. (BTW, I do stop her from climbing on the dog when I see it. And I’m so very thankful for a patient pup.)
I’ve tried taking them to the daycare at the gym just to get a few minutes of no one touching me or screaming at me or demanding anything and then I go and pick her up and find out she’s been crying the whole time and feel like a giant, soggy poop sandwich.
And speaking of poop, Joshua always has to go in the middle of a meal, and not by himself, and Emma goes something like 5 times a day. Both of these things contribute to the wide-eyed, dazed face I have by 4:00 in the afternoon.
PTSD from parenthood is a real thing and I think I’m going to have it one day.