Inaugural post

August 15th, 2005

So I’m wasting time here on the ‘puter — when really I should be doing other, much more important things like…oh, showering, tidying up, getting dinner prepped, switching the laundry, etc. — when I happened upon a little ditty I wrote after a difficult day with Julia, my firecracker of a two-year-old. I’d totally forgotten I’d written it, yet when I started reading it I was thrust back into that day with brute force.

I finished reading it and I had to laugh at myself. I had no idea then how fun things would get once Oliver was on the outside.

“I knew this parenting gig was going to be hard when I first got my feet wet. I knew it’d be hard before I dipped my feet in the parenting pond, but I realized after I was ankle-deep that it was going to be hard. Some days breeze by and I think, “Yeah, I’ve got shit locked down here. I’m kickin’ ass at this Mommy thing.” And then there are days where I think, “What the FUCK was I thinking?! I suck at this! I wanna go home!” It’s then when reality smacks me in the face … er, Oliver kicks me in the bladder and with startling realization, it hits me that I’m going to have another one in less than six months.

Julia’s pushin’ me. Testing me. Testing us, but mostly me because I’m the one who is dealing with her constantly, on a day-in, day-out basis. Yeah, it’s her age; it’s normal, blah, blah, blah. It ain’t fun to deal with and it ain’t pretty to witness. Watching your daughter throw herself on the floor screaming, kicking and flailing because there are no yogurt-covered raisins in the house is disheartening, if not a tad bit embarrassing. Listening to her throw every object that isn’t nailed down around her bedroom in a fit of fury is frustrating…and fuck, man, I want to do the same thing too. A small part of me thinks, “I just can’t deal with this right now.”

It doesn’t help that I’m knocked up, full of hormones and feeling rather aggressive most of the time. It must be the fact that it’s a boy in there; my aggression levels are through the roof. Since pulling a ligament in my stomach three days ago, I’ve been uncomfortable at best and weepy. Like, drop of a hat weepy. Don’t forget short-tempered. The things I can normally tolerate, like toddler outbursts, picking up the never-ending stream of mess created by both child and husband and the repeated, shrill cry of “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!” that emits from my daughter’s mouth on a regular, daily basis now makes my skin crawl. It’s just getting to me.

It got to me this morning. After a horrible afternoon and evening with Julia, I woke up this morning feeling tired and sore. My stomach feels like there’s a knife sticking out of it. I would’ve given my left arm for two more hours in bed. But my bladder was throbbing and there’s a kid in there jumping on it. No time to wake up slowly. Gotta get up, now.

Apparently my little ball of sunshine didn’t want to have her butt changed, even though her overnight diaper was bulging and she reeked of piss. She’s focused on going downstairs and getting in her ball house, which my husband thoughtfully blew up and put together in the middle of our family room as a surprise for her on Saturday morning. I’m talking to her calmly, trying to keep her mind off of the balls while attempting to quickly change her soaked diaper. The sleep in my eyes is blurring my vision and for all of my speedy efforts, I’m a bumbling idiot. It’s not even 7.30am. Cut me some slack, will ya, kid?

Kicking, flailing and hitting ensues. The soothing techniques I’m using are lost on Julia and have long flown out the window. I’m now gripping both of her ankles, telling her to “Stop kicking!” in my best stern, crackly morning voice. Julia is shrieking for the balls, putting up a good fight. I can’t give in; this diaper must be changed. She kicks out of my grasp and belts me in the stomach…on the left side, where my torn ligament throbs. My knee-jerk reaction is to grab her leg and jerk it away, rather roughly, which is what I do.

Instant tears. From her and her hormone-riddled mother. But she stops thrashing and I quickly and efficiently change her diaper. I hug her, stroke her hair and tell her I am sorry. I kiss her leg. She gives me a kiss. I’m forgiven — by her, anyway. ‘She’s not being so bad’, I think. ‘She’s just being a kid’. I take a deep breath and carry her downstairs to her breakfast, which she immediately pushes on to the floor while screaming for the balls. My stress level rises.

“Mumm-ah! Where are you? I farted in the balls!” she screams from downstairs.

Yeah, parenting is hard…but worth it. In ways I can’t even begin to count.”