Yelling at my kid

 I am sad to report that I have become the mom who yells. Not every time, and not in every situation, but when "nice voices" don't get my kid's attention and he has the gall to say "no" when I calmly ask him to go back to bed because I'm busy watching Bridgerton, folding my laundry and enjoying not having kids all up in my face, yelling is the only thing that gets him to budge. Oh, and taking away his treasured blanket, because basically I'm a monster.

Look, I hate yelling. I hate the way it makes me sound, I hate the way it makes me feel, I hate it when my kid actually gets upset at my yelling (trembling chin, eyes filling up with tears), I hate it when the baby who is sitting nearby starts crying because mom's yelling, even though it's not directed at her. Yelling gets my blood pressure up, it gets my anxiety simmering and it makes me feel like a failure as a mom. But it's so hard to resist the false promise that yelling yields results, primarily because yelling usually yields the results I'm seeking in that moment. I have literally yelled at my 4 year old about how much I hate yelling but how yelling is the only thing that actually gets his attention and gets him to follow the directions he's been given 43 times. 

I constantly read and follow mom accounts on IG that give me guidance on how to deal with toddlers and their tantrums, picky eating, etc. Obviously I've read multiple times that yelling only reinforces to them that out-of-control responses are ok. And it's clear that my son has picked up on this; sometimes he will get upset at the tiniest thing and he will escalate quickly by matter-of-factly yelling in my face about what he will or won't do. And honestly, when that happens, I feel like I'm looking in a mirror. In that moment, I can see the damage my yelling has done, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I'm asking my 4 year old to control his emotional responses but I, a grown ass woman, can't control my own. I almost always apologize to my kid after I've yelled, and even this seems disingenuous because I will inevitably do it again.

I have my good days and my bad days with the yelling. Sometimes I can recognize that my patience is thin and my temper is flaring and I can stop myself from yelling and reel it in. But then other times, I can't stop myself, even though as it's happening I know I'm not being the best I can be. I understand that I'm not perfect, and I accept that. I also accept that some days aren't going to be good days for me because the stress of parenthood is too overwhelming. I guess my goal is this: every day I will try to recognize that yelling isn't the best option I can choose, but I'm still only human. 

NO WAIT, IT'S THE FOURS! THE FRAZZLED, FITFUL FOURS!

You guys. I was warned by moms who have gone through it that, in fact, it's the FOURS that are the real ballbusters, and you know what? They are completely correct. My son, who turned four earlier this year, is........challenging. In both good and bad ways. It just depends. But basically I can sum it up like this: four years old is a three year old tantrum but with way more sass and attitude. Case in point: the other day, my son had waited too long to poop and thus had skid marks in his underwear. After I started to yell at him (since this was the 2nd day in a row he had done this while at home, 2 feet away from the bathroom) I realized the yelling wouldn't help so I tried to dial my reaction down a bit and speak more calmly. I explained that I was getting tired of washing soiled underwear every other day, and my son responded by stating "Well, if you don't wash my underwear then daddy will." I replied that maybe he would, and my son would have to take that issue up with his dad. My son's dead serious, matter-of-fact response: "well, if he doesn't wash my underwear, then I'm going to put my poop all over the wall. I'll put it all over the toilet paper and on the floor and on the table and on the mail. So if he doesn't wash my underwear, that's what I'm going to do." Needless to say, I couldn't hold my laughter in and that broke the tension for the time being, which was a positive thing. But seriously, what a little asshole! 

One trip around the sun

 My baby girl is turning 1 year old tomorrow, and I can hardly believe it. That was the fastest year of my life, and it was the year of the Covid, so that's saying something. 

**UPDATE**

I started the post above, and I never finished it. Go figure. That's actually a perfect example of what being a mom of two young kiddos is all about: starting things and then never getting the chance to finish them.

Anyhoo, my daughter turned 1 at the end of April, and it seriously came around lightning fast. You would think with how tired I am and how long the days can feel with these kids that it wouldn't have felt like it happened so quickly, but it did. And I have the sneaking suspicion that everything will be this way from here on out, because she is my last baby. And she's literally running to keep up with her big brother, so this girl is on a mission to grow up way faster than I'm prepared for her to. 

Thinking back on this year gets me all choked up, because amidst the Covid bullshit and the stress of two kids, my daughter brought so much joy to our home. I mean, maybe not for the boys in this house (pets included), but it has been nothing short of nirvana for me, having this sweet ball of energy and tenacity to wake up to every day. She is so unlike her big brother; she plunges headfirst into everything (figuratively and literally; she constantly has red spots on her head from using it as a battering ram) and isn't shy or timid towards anyone or anything (except for maybe her boy cousin who has been known to playfully swat her in the head a few times). She wakes up bright and early every day, no matter what time she went to bed; meanwhile her brother is still snoring for another hour. She loves being outside, no matter if it's hot or cold or raining. She is obsessed with books (both kids actually love reading). She loves the family pets and will attempt to pet, chase, climb on, etc (the boy couldn't care less about the animals). She loves getting her hands dirty in the sandbox or digging around in my tomato plants and then getting herself soaking wet at the water table. She puts just about everything in her mouth, which is not my favorite whatsoever, but at least she'll have a robust immune system. She is such a light in our lives and sometimes I can't believe I was ever afraid or intimidated when I found out I was having a girl. I couldn't imagine our lives without her. 

I'm at the point where I have to find a daycare for her, and I know that I'll be just as nervous and anxious about her starting as I was with my son. Even though she is a force, she's still a mama's girl and has plenty of "stranger danger" intuition. And as with my son, I know things will work out fine in the long run, but I don't want her to go quite yet. Even though she's running to do everything her brother is doing, she's still a baby in my eyes, and I would give anything to have one more day of baby snuggles with her. Hell, I'd even do some midnight feedings, just to have the chance to experience those moments again. As I've said in a previous post: don't blink. 

Closed for business

 Well, it's pretty much official, give or take a feeding here and there: this mom-bod is closed. Finished. Done with bearing/sustaining life beyond my own. For all intents and purposes, it's a bittersweet reality, but I'm definitely feeling the "bitter" more than the "sweet" right now.

After my daughter was conceived, the hubs and I had decided we wouldn't be having anymore kids after her, for multiple reasons. First, the cost of kids these days is significant, and we certainly didn't favor the idea of struggling financially, even more so than we theoretically would with two kids. Second, we waited until our 30s to even start trying to have kids; we old. And lastly, staying pregnant proved to be difficult for me; over the course of six years, I had five miscarriages and the two healthy pregnancies. It just didn't make sense (for us) to be trying for any more kids, since the chances of a successful pregnancy on the "first try" weren't really in our favor. The toll that pregnancy loss takes on one's mental and emotional well-being is a heavy one, and one that I didn't want to chance bearing again. 

And so before my second kid was born via C-section, when the doctor asked one more time to make sure that I still wanted my tubes removed during the surgery, I briefly joked that I wasn't sure but then confirmed that yes, we weren't planning for any more kids and to cut those things right out. But despite our resolute decision to be finished having kids, I mourned that "loss" for weeks, maybe even months after. Deep down, I knew it was the right decision for me, for all the reasons mentioned earlier. But there was also sadness in knowing that I would never again hold another life inside me, and it took awhile, much longer than I had anticipated, to process that finality.

Maybe every mom experiences this, but I'm feeling like my second kid is hitting all the milestones and benchmarks way quicker and earlier than my first kid. And thus, with breastfeeding, at 9 months old she has essentially indicated she's finished (I stopped nursing the first kid at 11 months). Nursing her is no longer a go-to, and really hasn't been for a couple of months now. She will occasionally nurse when she wakes up in the middle of the night, but that's about it; probably more for comfort than anything. I quit pumping when she was around 8 months, since the small yield wasn't worth the effort anymore. As soon as she started solid foods around 6 months, ol' girl was hooked. I swear she swatted away the breast in the AM in favor of pancakes. Luckily, I built up a decent stash, so she's still exclusively drinking breastmilk. I'm hoping that stash will take her to a year old when she can start cow's milk, but the way her appetite is climbing, I doubt it. (Update: my stash is almost gone, so looks like she'll be on formula for at least a month or so, which is obviously fine.)

When I realized one night recently that my daughter was pretty much done breastfeeding, it brought back all those feelings of sadness and grief that I felt when I had my tubes taken out. Despite the few inconveniences of it, I had a wonderful experience breastfeeding both my kids. I was very lucky that both they and I picked it up quickly and easily, and other than the occasional clogged duct here and there, it was extremely positive and fulfilling for all of us. As I laid in bed with my husband, I got emotional and cried as I discussed how this particular chapter of my baby's life was ending, as was my own. And even though I knew the day would come eventually, I just wasn't ready yet. Even as I type this, a month after starting the original post, I still don't feel ready to let it go. Just today, I attempted to breastfeed her in order to get her to settle down for her nap. She willingly started to nurse and then a few seconds later, started to slowly bite down on my nipple while starting to grin, knowing that she wasn't supposed to be doing it. After a couple of warning scolds, she just started laughing, the desire to nurse gone and now wanting to play and be silly. It's the first time I've offered breastfeeding to her in almost a week, and I mostly did it just to see if she would actually nurse. It would seem that she truly is finished, and I have a lot of feelings about it.

I feel sad that my breastfeeding journey is over. I will deeply miss the closeness it forged between me and my babies. It was something that was exclusively just us--mother and child. I also feel proud that my body was able to adequately provide food for my babies for as long as they needed it, despite the fact that my previous pregnancy losses had me feeling like my body had failed me. At the risk of sounding cheesy, it truly was an honor to be able to have breastfed both my kids with relative ease, and the joy it brought me will not be soon forgotten. And finally, I feel fucking ECSTATIC over the fact that I never have to wash breast pump parts EVER AGAIN.

What kind of mom am I going to be?

Now that the baby is a few months old and I've returned to work part-time, I've started to wonder about what kind of mom I am and what I can/should do differently as I parent a toddler. And I guess if I'm thinking about what kind of mom I am, I should take a look at my mom and my feelings about how she was a parent to me. That seems as good a place to start as any.

I suppose my overall, general perception of my mom could be summed up in one word: strict. When I was young, I just remember there being a lot of rules in my house. Bed time was at 9pm sharp. No R-rated movies were allowed in the house. Chore day was Sundays. Bedrooms were expected to be picked up; no piles of clothes on the floor. No TV during dinner. No food in the living room. There were certain TV shows that we weren't allowed to watch (oh, and we didn't have cable. To this day, they still don't.) You had better be on your deathbed if you were going to tell mom that you were too sick to attend school or church, and even then, she made us go 95% of the time either way. I could go on and on. We used to say the entire rosary as a family in the living room every Sunday evening. If we were traveling, we would say it in the car. Each kid had to recite a section of it. True story.

When my son left babyhood and embarked on his journey into toddlerhood, I tried my best to take it all in stride, considering what a neurotic, control freak I am. I knew that I had to learn how to relax, not stress about every little thing and to learn how to pick my battles if I was going to get through it unscathed. I cannot stress enough how important it has been for me to pick my battles. I'm not saying I get it right every time; I don't. But I try very hard to not sweat the small stuff. However, I'm still only human. And toddlers have a very super-human way of getting under the skin of even the most composed mom. 

I lose my patience and temper way too often. I yell more than I ever thought I would. And these things make me sad and disappointed in myself as a mom and as a person. I struggle sometimes between the push and pull of wanting to give my babies everything but also not wanting to turn them into spoiled, entitled brats. And it can be so difficult sometimes to keep your composure, especially at the end of a long day when your toddler hasn't napped and your baby is cutting teeth and cranky. But, I will *always* apologize to my kids and tell them I was wrong when I feel it's the case. Just the other night, my kid threw a tantrum for having to take a bath. He was running on no nap and he just looked exhausted, so naturally he fought me when I informed him it was bath time. Instead of recognizing his immediate handicaps (e.g. no nap) I escalated quickly myself and ended up yelling and setting a poor example for how a mom should act when her toddler is tired and being obstinate. I made a point to apologize to my kid the next morning and talk with him about what mommy did wrong, but also what he did wrong, too. I asked him to work on his temper and using calm words to explain his feelings, and I vowed to also work on improving mine. 

Sometimes I wonder if I had had kids earlier in life, if I would parent any differently than I do now. Overall, I think I would be the same; maybe just a tad more mellow and with more energy. But I don't regret waiting to have kids this late in life. If anything, I wasn't nearly mature enough to have children in my twenties. I'm barely mature enough to have them in my thirties. 

I think the takeaway from this question of what kind of mother am I going to be is something like this: as long as I love my children, the rest will happen how it happens. I never want my kids to question my love for them. I never want them to feel like they can't come to me when they're in trouble. I will not tolerate disrespect and I will never be the mom who tries to be BFFs with her kids. I will do my best to hold my kids accountable for their actions. I will not raise my kids to be entitled assholes. I hope I can be effective in teaching my kids how to have empathy for others. I hope my kids have confidence in themselves. I hope they grow up to be close with one another and have each other to lean on when mom and dad are gone. I hope they will take care of me when I can no longer take care of myself. I hope they will put love and positivity and activism and altruism out into the universe as they grow and get older. I hope they will love themselves. 

 

IT'S THE TERRIBLE THREES. I REPEAT: IT'S THE THREES. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The title says it all. That's it. That's all. Beware the threes. The twos were a fucking dreamland. The threes will break you. My son is about 3 months away from turning 4, and there is an end in sight, so don't lose hope yet. Just stock up on the wine, hunker down and try not to have a nervous breakdown. 

The ugly truth (long post)

I'm sitting here thinking about a client of mine who recently had her first baby, not long after I had my second. This person is a bit of a hot mess--she can't take care of her own basic needs, let alone a baby's--and I've worried about how that child is going to fare ever since I found out about my client's pregnancy. Now that the baby is here, things seem to be just as I expected in terms of this baby's basic, essential needs not coming first and not being met. And it makes me angry and sad. Sad for the baby because she didn't ask to be born into this mess and angry at the mom because she wanted this kid, now she has it and she's not doing what she needs to do to properly care for her child. And I know why. Aside from her personality disorder, she's overwhelmed and under prepared for her new normal. Perhaps she thought "how hard can it be to take care of a baby? They don't do anything except eat, sleep and poop." And yet, from what I understand, she's struggling just to keep the baby clean and fed, for a multitude of reasons ranging from financial limitations to sheer laziness and selfishness on her part. 

And as much as I want to be angry with her for not acting responsibly, and believe me I am, I also think it's important to point out that she may very well have fallen into a false sense of reassurance that motherhood is a breeze and the illusion that knowing how to mother your offspring is just an inherent trait that all women have. That, like in nature, as soon as the baby pops out our primal instincts will guide us toward knowing exactly what to do in all aspects of the baby, from feeding to hygiene to health issues. And as you may well know, this just isn't true. First-time moms have so much to learn (hell, second- and third-time moms are still learning new things) and it can be a shit show for awhile for all of us, no matter what our pre-existing circumstances are. 

As I reflect on my own feelings about motherhood thus far with a 3-year old and a 4-month old, I can totally relate to the fact that so many moms are ill-prepared to meet the hard, shitty realities that come along with motherhood. Sure, squishy babies that smell amazing and adorable baby clothes can make the mom life seem like a Pampers commercial where all you do is laugh and play and roll around with your baby in a field of flowers while they are happy all the time and moms know how to do everything right all the time. But the ugly truth is that parenthood can be a blowout diarrhea shit some of the time. Or a lot of the time. And what pisses me off is that prior to having kids, I never heard my parent siblings or my parent friends ever talk about postpartum depression or feeling like a failure when the kid won't go to sleep at night or crying in the bathroom because the sleep deprivation is so punishing or having the fleeting moments where you're so exhausted and burnt out from this tiny human that came in like a wrecking ball that you think to yourself "what the fuck have I done and can you return babies??" All I ever saw or heard about were the milestones being met--rolling over, crawling, walking, first words--or the oohs and aahs about how cute the baby was. Perhaps I wasn't paying close enough attention to catch any of the negative stuff, since I was still so far away from being ready for my own kids. Well consider me on fucking high alert now. Universe, you have my attention. 

For starters, the experience I had in the hospital with my first kid felt like being in a room full of rabid telemarketers. I was inundated with people coming and going in my hospital room, and at times it felt intrusive and jarring. Just as I would drift off to sleep, a nurse would come barreling in or the person bringing food would stop by or some other random person. If I was supposed to be relaxing or bonding with baby after 9 months of pregnancy, that objective was drowned out by the guy coming in my room while I had my tits out feeding my son to hock family photo packages. This was especially disruptive when it happened all hours of the night. However, I did appreciate the constant influx of nurses checking in with me, since I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I had a nice balance of nurses who did the basic minimum and nurses who really talked to me and dove into my questions with kindness. Honestly, in the time of COVID, my experience having my second kid was so much more relaxed and serene. Nurses only came in when they had to, there was no one pestering me three times a day about my kid's name for the SSA, and there was definitely no one barging in to ask me about a family portrait package. Plus I got to leave the hospital a day early since I had no issues and they didn't want me to have to be in the hospital any longer than needed, in order to lessen the possible risk of exposure to coronavirus. Despite not being able to have visitors, it was a great experience that second time around.

The first night home with my first kid was a NIGHTMARE. I might still have a touch of PTSD from that horror show. It was so awful that I dedicated an entire earlier post to just the first night home from the hospital. Feel free to scroll back and read it. I won't go into detail here; just know it was a shit show of epic proportions. Looking back now, it was the first of many times to come in which I would find myself crying on the bathroom floor because kids. I'm happy to report that my first night home with my second kid was leaps and bounds better.

Having kids has truly brought all of my neuroses front and center. The germaphobe, catastrophizing control freak that I am shines brightly as a parent. Everything from pinworms to abduction to drowning to him splitting his head open on the driveway because he's such a klutz and beyond are on my daily mental list of fears. And in this time of COVID, you better believe every sneeze or cough that escapes their faces makes me cringe because obviously they have coronavirus. Sometimes I re-fasten my baby's diaper six or seven times because I'm worried the scratchy tab part of the fastener will irritate baby's thigh. Yep. 

The sleep deprivation. Man, you thought you loved sleep before kids? Well kiss that luxury goodbye, because you will never get a truly good night's sleep with children in the picture until they grow up and get the fuck out of your house. And even then, I'm willing to bet the farm that I'll still lose some amount of sleep over my kids. Some of my personal experiences with this facet of parenthood tie directly to the fact that I'm a neurotic mess, so this may not be the case for everyone. But certainly in the beginning, the adjustment you have to make to your sleep schedule in order to keep the tiny human(s) alive is no small feat. Again, since I'm a psycho, I can probably count on one hand how many times I've truly had a full night's sleep since my 3 year old was born. Between leaping out of bed at the slightest whine to creeping into his room every two hours to check and see if his hands/face/ears are cold and adjusting the fan or space heater twenty different ways to Sunday to try and achieve the ultimate comfortable temperature in the room, I don't get much sleep these days. The universe threw me a bone with my daughter, in that she was sleeping through the night by 3 months old. Maybe that's late for some but it felt really soon for her to be doing this, so I thought I hit the jackpot there. As I type this, though, she has entered her 4 month sleep regression/growth spurt, so I've had to get up a few times for the past couple of nights in order to feed her. Oh, and the concept of having an infant and a toddler at the same time? I. Am. Tired.

Relationships are difficult enough on their own, but add kids to the mix and you're looking at yet another thing you have to work extra hard at and fall short on and thus will probably immerse you in guilt most of the time. In order to maintain a semblance of a connection with your partner, you have to be able to make room in your physical and mental space-time continuum to spend quality time with that person. As for me, when I've had a baby and a toddler hanging all over me all day, sucking every ounce of patience and energy away from me like leeches, the last thing I want to do at night is put any kind of effort forth to spend quality time with my husband. Don't get me wrong; I love and cherish him. But between getting menial tasks accomplished after the kids go to bed (because that's the only time anything extensive can get done) and making sure I have time to myself beyond just the time I will spend pumping before my own bedtime, I have no energy or inclination to take care of anyone else in my house. Countless nights, myself and my husband go to bed separately and usually without saying good night because I will inevitably pass out in my or my kid's room and won't wake up until the wee hours, at which point he's already gone to bed. We are two ships passing in the night in a bleary haze of fatigue. Why did we decide to have kids again? Kidding...kind of. 

Nothing and no one tests your mental limits quite the same way that your kid does. Because, at least for me, there is nothing that presents more of a dichotomy for me than my kids. I love these kids more than I am able to explain or put into words. I fought and endured to have these babies, and I am so grateful for the opportunity to be their mom. However, I cannot tell you how many times I have found myself so frustrated and angry over something related to my kids--the tantrums, the crying and screaming, the anxiety, the inability to reason with my toddler that he will not, in fact, die if I pour water on his head to rinse out the shampoo--that I have felt the push/pull of loving motherhood and hating it at the same time. Again, to be very clear: I love my kids. But I have found that I don't always love being a mom. And it's difficult to admit that to myself, even as I type out the thought, because it makes me feel like I'm not grateful for my kids. It makes it sound like I don't appreciate having these beautiful babies, and nothing could be further from the truth. But the hard truth about motherhood is that it's not always puppies and ice cream and sometimes you want to punch your kid in the face because you've asked him to do something for the 20th time and he has yet to do it. Obviously I don't punch my kids or act on these feelings in any way other than rage cleaning (yay!) or hiding in the bathroom for an ugly cry (or just crying right in front of my toddler because why not), but so many times I have found myself wanting to just scream into the void and then questioning my life choices but then smiling and laughing at these asshole kids who put you through the ringer and then make your heart feel so full in the next minute after. It's exhausting and confusing and rewarding and terrifying and beautiful.

At the very least, I hope that my mixed bag of feelings about motherhood and kids is helpful and comforting to hear for another frazzled mom. I hope that the ugly truths that I am happy to openly admit to anyone will reassure other parents that it's normal and ok to find parenthood both awesome and awful at times. I hope that more parents will admit to new parents that there will be dark days and many difficult moments. And I hope that when I think about the truth of motherhood for me, I will remember that the hard times are fleeting and cyclical. And that at the end of the day when I'm passed out in my son's bed with him, exhausted from whatever kind of day it was, I am lucky enough in this life to wake up the next day and do it all over again.