FUCKING COVID

 *heavy sigh*

Welp, our house has been hit by covid, and we are knee-deep in quarantine. It started a couple of weeks ago when my mom tested positive. Since she had just been with my son for a day, we had to all get tested; luckily everyone's test was negative. We stayed away from her for ten days, and when we did finally go see her, we masked up while indoors with her. Then, that weekend, we had my brother and his family over with their daughter to hang out. Three days later, my SIL was sick, and then a day or two after that, my husband took an at-home covid test because he had minor symptoms and tested positive. He immediately masked up and proceeded to isolate in our basement as much as possible, which didn't seem too difficult since his office is in the basement anyway. But he was also eating and sleeping down there in order to avoid getting anyone else sick. I also tested at this time, and I was negative. My MIL also ended up testing positive, which she could very well have gotten it from my daughter, who she babysat the same days that my son was exposed at school.

Unfortunately, whether it was exposure from my husband or my SIL or my kid's school (there was a positive case at my son's preschool and he was considered a close contact), my kids ended up testing positive for covid shortly after my husband did. Luckily, my son has virtually no symptoms other than some congestion/runny nose. My daughter experienced several symptoms--fatigue (she's currently taking 2.5, 3 hour naps), slightly elevated temps (but no fever) for a couple of days, a minor cough, some congestion, and extreme crankiness which has led to extreme clinginess to me. As of today, though, both kids seem to be feeling fine and aren't exhibiting symptoms. Baby girl is still all up in my face, though, and still taking super long naps.

Which is probably why, after testing negative four separate times in a two week period, I finally ended up testing positive. I had symptoms here and there for a week or two, but they were all symptoms that could be attributed to allergies or a cold, and I tested negative every time. But alas, I noticed my taste waning late one night, and the next morning it was completely gone, along with my sense of smell. I figured it was just due to the congestion I was experiencing but thought it best to get tested anyway. Sure enough, I was positive for covid. So now I get my own 10-day quarantine. Woohoo. 

I don't really want to go into all the details; I feel like I've been eating, drinking, breathing and living covid nonstop now for the past two weeks straight with no break and no end in sight. But if there's anything to take away from my experience, it's this:

        -Get vaccinated! Symptoms were relatively minor for most of the adults in this clusterfuck, probably because everyone is vaccinated. No one ended up hospitalized or on a vent, so it would appear the vaccine is doing its job. My MIL did end up checking herself into the ER for several hours due to dehydration and feeling extreme nausea, but she had tests done, symptoms treated and was able to go home.

        -Wear your mask! I wear one all day at work. My son wears one all day at preschool. Is it really that deep to wear a face covering for 30 minutes in the grocery store? No, it is not. Mask up!

        -Consider the health and well-being of others. We're all in this together, for better or worse. 

Stay safe out there! 

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.