Easy Peasy

I'm going to confess that I may have more or less, outright but unintentionally, lied to a few close friends. 

Over the last year or so couples with one child have asked "How different is it with two?"  and I had responded in what I thought was truth that it is not that different than one.  If you're making one sandwich, one more is no biggie.  Tying one pair of shoes?  Two is just  a few seconds more work.  1+1=2 , right?  Easy peasy. 

I failed to factor in a few things when answering this question. 

First, kids grow.  it's not that I didn't know this, but more a fact that when I was asked, one child was strong-willed and independent, and the other was still in her "fool you" stage of being calm and laid back.  This morning I had two independent, free-thinking, spirited children that needed to be dressed for a birthday party.    Where last year I could have dressed the youngest and tackled the oldest, this year it was a full contact sport for forty minutes to get two children into pull-over dresses and tights.  (And for those of you who saw me this morning, yeah, I lost the battle of tights in two stages; one before we arrived and one at the party.)

Second, kids sense fear and weakness.  Somewhat like wolves and other pack animals, they have a built-in sense of when you are about to go down for the count.  My children know that if I am barely dressed, with dripping hair and no mascara, I will give them anything to get five minutes of grooming time.  "Can I have cheerios with whipped cream?"  (Whatever.  Just let me dry this nest on my head.)  It is no mystery that my hair has gone from shoulder length, to chin length, to cropped, to about one inch of messy, tousled, spikes.  (It's a style…somewhere.) 

When the lead wolf has you backed into a corner of desperation, the second will circle around and make an announcement like the following "Maaaammmaaa….The dog is eating the cheese out of the fridge and the cat is licking your coffee cup."  "ARGH!"  The voice in my head screams.  "Why is it so (expletive) difficulty to get my (expletive) self out the door in the morning?!  What the (expletive) is wrong with me/ my life/ my kids that this is so hard?"  On the outside, I try to sound calm and in control when I say "Okay.  Let's go shut the door, put the dog outside, and stomach-pump the cat."  Some days go better than others.

Third, when both children are mobile and opinionated, it is much harder to get them both out the door in gear appropriate to function, occasion, season and some level of decorum.  This year I have taken one child to the car wearing only a diaper in the dead of winter.  Okay, we had a exceptionally mild winter and it was probably forty degrees out, but this is not the kind of parenting I had planned. 

I was going to be the mom who dropped her spotless and exceptionally bright children at daycare with shiny, glossy ponytail bouncing before running  ten miles and whipping up a fabulous nutritious breakfast to eat on the go and heading off to work in my relatively spotless car.  I did not plan to be the mom who dropped her kids off partially dressed, with rats-nest hair  and mismatched socks, personally sporting a still-wet, unstyled coif, (and whatever clothes were clean and didn't need ironing),  before returning to my goldfish-encrusted, sippy-cup splattered car and driving like a sweaty, panicky madwoman to work, hoping that my stomach won't growl too loudly before lunchtime because it was a decision between leaving for work fed or dressed and modesty won out.

Fourth, I failed to factor in how many times I would be orchestrating any departure without additional adult help.  Because of the work schedules in our house, weekend events are almost always  a single parent event.  This is neither good or bad, just tremendously more difficult than I expected.    When your youngest is two, and for some reason this was the turning point in our house, they know when you are outnumbered (try reading that last phrase in Vincent Price's voice).  It helped didn't it?    It's times like this when the "good parent" guilt voice kicks into high gear in my brain.  "A good mommy would be able to get two SMALL children out of the house without losing her  mind/temper/shpedoinkles."  I don't know how some parents do it without ever, ever screaming.    I am going to be totally candid that my kids have seen it more than once and I hope that I have made up for it with the remaining 99% of our time together, but holy bovine Batman, I am a reasonably smart, well-educated person and these two little people have had me over a barrel for the last two hours! 

Fifth, sometimes stages and developmental trends overlap.  Some days for all of their differences, they are just the same level of need at different heights.  I don't know if it's easier or harder to have two children close enough in age that one still has accidents and the other is wet frequently.  My children are like camels, taking up massive quantities of fluids during the day and then hitting the sheets like a tidal wave during the night.  The " no drinks after X-o'clock" theory has been massively disproved in this house.    Some mornings I feel like there is no end in sight.  And this if before I've completely woken up or had my coffee.

Finally, because children almost never come in perfectly matched sets, they arrive with their own temperaments.  So in my house I have one very sensitive and anxious, perfectionist, independent soul; and one curious, independent and limit-testing soul.  What this translates into in practice is that both children seem to need me almost constantly lately.  (How did this get written you might ask?  Um, have you noticed my last entry was in DECEMBER?  It's been a work in progress.)  When we go out, one has to be watched for the turning point when over-stimulation turns into crying, and one has to be watched for when inhibition turns into nudity.  Good times people, good times.

So to my friends who asked if two was all that different than one…I don't think I can answer you with a straight face anymore.  The two in my life have evolved into exponentially more than parenting just one.  I'm hoping for a little lull any day now though and so, all I can say is I'll keep you posted as time goes on, and if you see me in public looking disheveled and exhausted, you'll know that for that moment in time 1+1= 10.  (I never was all that good at math…)

Did you miss me?

About six weeks ago I had reconstructive surgery on my foot.  This meant a minimum of six weeks of being off my foot and at the mercy of those willing to care for a less-than-patient patient. 

It was both a blessing and a curse to be forced to step back and let someone else do those things that I firmly believed could only be done correctly by me.  (My husband will be the first to say we do it VERY differently, so this statement will not surprise him in any way.)

I learned:

• First and foremost, I don't like imposed growth opportunities.  I am not patient with slowing down and letting go.  In fact, some would say, I can't.
• My daughter who cannot hear me ask her to pick up her laundry and put it in the hamper, can hear me mutter under my breath and will repeat any criticism to the party in question.  Oops!  Another learning opportunity for me.
• "Making breakfast" is a very different thing to a Dad than to a Mom.  But, yes, in fact one can survive on toast and banana for six weeks.
• If my husband had to pack a suitcase for me without my assistance, he really has no idea what I wear on a daily basis.  This led to a few memorable fashion ensembles being presented to me without the slightest indication that they were jokes.
• My daughter will auto-correct daddy's fashion faux pas approximately 85% percent of the time.  This is not a bad percentage give her age.  However, we did learn the phrase "fashion refugee" during the time frame of Mama's recuperation.  (Refer to entry #2).

Perhaps one of the kindest and most humble moments in the six weeks came when my family got together to celebrate my mother's birthday.  I overheard my husband tell my father "I don't know how she gets it all done.  I didn't realize how much she does in a day." 

Our household is not completely traditional in its role assignment, but 90% of the time, if the lawn is mowed or the garbage taken out, it is done by the Mr., and 90% of the laundry, food prep, daily cleaning is done by Mama.  I'm sure there are millions of small details that go unnoticed by me in the chores Mr. takes on, and perhaps someday I will have the chance to be humbled by taking on his role as well.  Still, it was a silver lining in this LONG  recovery to know that he is far less likely to ask "What did you do all day?" when he comes home and finds the house in shambles and the kids dirty and clamoring for a sandwich and Mama having a bottle glass of wine and trying not to cry as dinner is still, STILL, not done!

Things my husband has learned:

• Kids will not tell you they are hungry until it is too late to feed them peacefully.  They are around the bend by the time they tell you they are hungry.
• Laundry piles up faster than you think it will.  Stay ahead of it.  You can't always wait until there is a full washer load of one color.  Sometimes a small/partial load, while not eco-friendly, will guarantee that the beloved blanket is dry by bedtime. 
• In relation to the above, if you are line-drying the blanket, HIDE IT BETWEEN OTHER CLOTHING, or buy earplugs and sedatives.  Give yourself time to guarantee that the little bugger is dry before naptime.  Trust me on this one.
• Do not start a non-negotiable request with "Do you want to...?"  You're sunk, pal.  Anything you say afterward is just more quicksand.
• We will be protecting Mama's foot like it is the Hope freakin' diamond.  There is no way any of us will survive another six-week stretch.

The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe

My four-year-old has a STRONG fashion identity.  This is not surprising really.  She has made her desires known loudly clearly since she was about four months old when it came to clothing.  There were sleepers she would, well, ...sleep in... and those that would create such a tempest of unrest that they were kept in the closet for sheer decoration and cuteness factor.  She had a penchant for shoes as soon as she could reach over the shopping cart side and snag them with her own two hands.  If Sex and the City staged a toddler revue, my daughter would be a contender based on sheer shoe volume.

Now given this, you might assume she is a Toddler and Tiara's kinda girl.  Well....in a word, no.  Is her hair brushed and neatly coiffed?  Rarely.  It still bothers me but I have to content myself for now with it being clean.  I could poke at the lion in her cage every morning by insisting that she can't leave until it is tangle free, but for now, I'm erring on the side of maturity to help me with that battle.  And, to my relief, I am slowly seeing signs of her caring that her hair is taken care of.  Praise Be!

All Miss 4 wants to be right now is a pink witch.  She saw a rather, shall we say, "provocative", Halloween costume last year and has not forgotten it.  Clearly, the sparkly bustier and thigh-high tights are emblazoned on her brain.   I am hanging on tightly to the notion that my being totally unbudging about her donning a bustier at four will not scar her for life.  Or at least I am banking on it not being as detrimental as perhaps letting the blatant sexualization of little girls not begin in my house at four.  Can she be a witch for Halloween?  Sure!  I'll help paint her face, buy the pointy hat, even find her some stripedy tights.  Will they come with garters?  Not so much.  If I'm wrong, I'll put the extra quarter in the therapy jar.  She'll have a nice tidy sum by adulthood.

...Stepping slowly off the soapbox...

Long ago, I decided that barring frostbite and sheer negligence, Miss 4's attire was not a reflection of my parenting and not something I wanted to battle daily.  So I no longer offer "She dressed herself." with a nervous and apologetic giggle when we go out in public.  I assume you will look at her red glitter shoes, floral leggings, camo skirt and neon green fleece and either get it, or not.  So, given my total acceptance of all but the most illogical and unsafe of attire, I expected something similar in return.  This week I donned a rather exceptional podiatric appliance.  I now have a walking cast.  Upon seeing me, Miss 4 immediately stated "I hate the color of your boot!"  She is unfailing in her criticism.  Because she is four, it is hard to separate her fashion sense from her fear of the unknown.  So daily, I get to hear that she "hates" the color of the boot.  We'll work on empathy as we go.  For now, at least she's stepped away from criticizing my "brars".