You know those mommy bloggers who write post after glowing post about how wonderful motherhood is and how each moment is a precious gift?
This is not one of those posts.
If I were to define my job lately, it would go something like this:
Begin day early. Too early. Mentally prepare for 12-13 hour work day. Greet boss, who is ready with a list of demands already, starting with his breakfast, which I’m not attending to quickly enough. Fight with boss about wearing pants. Explain to boss that pants are a part of life and other people in the office (and outside the office as well) appreciate the use of pants. Especially when it’s 32 degrees outside.
Prepare breakfast for boss while he sits in his chair, high and mighty above this lowly servant. Offer him a beverage to tide him over while he waits. He concedes and for the moment, is quiet. Serve boss a bowl of oatmeal and blueberries. With a spoon, per request. He eats the blueberries first. Fifteen minutes later, he is finished and off to start his day. If I am lucky, he will be happy for a bit and allow me to get some other work done. You know, the work that keeps his life running smoothly, like cleaning the office, scheduling his meetings with acquaintances and preparing various food stuffs.
Oh wait, the boss is demanding another drink. Only I was busy with another task and wasn’t quite fast enough getting it to him and…OH MY GOD, THE WORLD IS ENDING!!!!!!
Walk away from the ranting and allow boss to vent his frustrations about my poor performance. When he has succeeded in telling me just how terrible I am, he decides the drink I offered him five minutes before will suffice and walks off with it.
Enjoy a few hours while boss is happy and pleasant. Share some jokes around the milk cooler and exchange some high fives. Laugh at his fart noises. Indulge in some office-place hugs and kisses. Promise him I won’t sue for harassment; I actually like them a lot, you know.
Sense a shift in the tides. Boss is hungry for lunch and my window is small. Hurry to create a meal suitable for a prince and serve him before his blood sugar drops. Am successful today, and avoid a speaking to. We chill some more. Begin to think that maybe today is the today boss will come out of this foul mood he’s been in for the past week. (Realize I am an idiot.)
He’s getting tired and is ready for a siesta. We’re one of those rare offices that encourages sleeping on the job, so I dim the lights, draw the shades and read him some books. He finally succumbs to sleep and for a blissful hour and a half, I slack off.
He awakes and is angry about it. I offer him a snack, but it’s only after I supply the exact combination of food and TV show (blueberries and cereal with milk in a cup, Curious George on PBS) that he stops shouting at me. We spend the next few hours alternating between having fun, and throwing ourselves on the floor for no reason and sobbing. (Him, not me. Although…I’m thisclose.)
Dada’s home! DADA’S HOOOOOOOOOMMMMMEEEE!!!!!! Joy and happiness and doves and rainbows and sunshine. I go to my office and use the bathroom with the door closed for the first time all day. Well, for a few minutes, anyway, until my boss opens the door on me.
It’s been a week. The last couple molars coming in plus the arrival of the (early?) Terrible Twos tantrums has pretty much knocked me out cold. The early wakings — hours of the morning we haven’t seen in ages — paired with the insistence that he come into “Mama and Dada’s bed” rather than go back to sleep in his own, the yelling and hurling himself to the floor for seemingly NO REASON WHATSOEVER multiple times a day. It’s taken all my strength and patience not to hang him upside down by his ankles and shaking the stuffing out of him.
I love him. And I get it, I really do. His teeth hurt, he’s old enough to become frustrated and wants me to know about it, but despite being highly verbal (ew, that was such a braggy mom thing to say. But no, really. He has a LOT of words. I promise.), he’s not old enough to clearly express to me WHY he’s so frustrated. So, he yells. And cries. And throws himself on the floor. A LOT.
It’s times like these during my motherhood journey that I want to take my mom by the shoulders, look her in the eyes and tell her, OH MY GOD, I’M SO SORRY. Because I did the exact.same.thing. to her, I’m sure. And then I turned into a teenager, so yeah. Shout out to my mama.
This stage will pass, eventually. I hope. Or you know, get worse, right as the baby is born.
At least then I can drink wine again.