Oh! There goes gravity.
Basically how I’m feeling right now. As I sit here on an overcast Sunday morning after my first full week back to work, watching Paw Patrol for the 753rd time, I’m trying to find my get up and go. But I can’t. I have a to do list a mile long, dishes in the sink, play dough on my floor, laundry piled high begging to be shoved in drawers, but I just can’t do it. After just one week back to work, I start envying the stay at home mommers again. Until the terrible twoster starts throwing things at me. And hits his sister over the head with a coloring book.
But I know that if I really start thinking about it, I did the whole stay at home mom thing this summer and I failed at it.
Then again, I’ve done the whole working mom thing and I failed at that, too.
Parenting is like that. No matter how much time you take, no matter how many fun things you do, no matter how many life lessons you teach, no matter how quick you are at picking up Legos, no matter how clean your bathroom is, no matter how nice you are to them- you still have more to do and you still feel like you’re failing.
Take Friday for example. The terrible twoster showed up from Memeres’s because she babysat him. Now, mind you, my kids’ memere isn’t your every day average grandmother. No. She’s way cooler. So, she brings him back, says he was an angel and he took a long nap. So I’m thinking, YEAH! I’ll get to do my workout, get supper going, maybe do some laundry.
That’s not what happened.
My brain has blocked out the specifics of what happened, but as I think about it, I’m getting flashbacks. Here’s a little backstory: Fridays in my house after a work week looks like an episode of hoarders. I stay on top of my dishes all week, until Thursday, that is. So, I have Thursday’s dishes to do and Friday’s supper to cook. I know some of my OCD friends are probably having anxiety for me right now, but no worries guys, I’m really good with it. I’m just so exhausted that I don’t care. Anyway, but to Friday.
I decide that I’m going to attempt to do dishes. After I clean up the living room. But there’s a tent in my living room. (This is no joke or hyperbole. From time to time the cooler parent, aka my husband, sets up a tent for the kids to play in. In the living room. On a side note, since the terrible twoster has been two, he now treats it as his own personal MMA cage. It does not end well for my four year old.) So I do what any sane person with a tent in the middle of their living room does, I sit on the couch and ponder my next move.
While I am debating how to manage cleaning this house, I think, “I’m going to workout.” I get up, go get my gear, as my terrible twoster (who has been literally crying since he got home) is standing in the pantry yelling/ crying/ demanding that he has a SNACK!!!!!! So I offer him some semi-healthies, since I will be cooking a legitimate supper of Tony’s pizza. He took the bag of veggie straws (which are really potatoes, FYI) and chucked it. Thanks, little man. I go to pick it up. No big deal, we’ve danced this dance a time or two.
Then, my son yells TREAT!!!! And since I’ve been putting up with his ridiculousness for about 7 minutes I say okay. Just to give myself a minute of no screaming, crying, or yelling. He wants a chocolate egg. I give it to him, because I’m a terrible mom. I start to unwrap it, but he screams “I DO IT!!!!!!” Ok. As I watch him eat the aluminum wrapper, I take over. He screams, hits me, I unwrap it and give it to him, he throws it back at me all while yelling & crying. Dear God, where is this child’s father?
He yells “TREAT!!!!!” and of course I oblige because he is in charge of this whole operation. His credentials are striking at age two. So I lift him and he points to Pez. My style.
“You know what little man? I hear you. Want me to open it for you?”
“I DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Alright dude, let me know if you need help.”
*Little man struggles with wrapper for about 73 seconds, screaming and crying the whole time. I sit and watch. Eventually, he walks over to me.*
*I open wrapper and hand it to my now smiling terrible twoster.*
It was quiet for about 7 seconds. Pure euphoria. Then. SCREAMS. I look over and he had dropped one little Pez on the ground. So I, in all my infinite wisdom, walk over, pick up the Pez and offer it to him. The throws the remaining Pez at me, throws himself on the floor screaming. So, I ate the Pez. It wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be, since it was lemon.
Terrible twoster cries for what seems like 17 hours, but it was probably actually 3 minutes. I pick him up to cuddle him. I’m a good mom.
WARNING: IF YOU ARE NOT A PARENT & CAN’T HANDLE GROSS STUFF, SKIP THIS NEXT PARAGRAPH.
Then he gags releasing this pleasant stream of mucous down my shirt. Awesome, get it out little man. Then another stream comes out, which he sucks back up. Oh. No. Gags. Throws up in my lap. Okay. I bring him carefully into the kitchen where he proceeds to projectile vomit. I’m covered in vomit. He’s covered in vomit. My couch is covered in vomit. Husband’s tent covered in vomit. These are the times that I’m impressed with my quick thinking. I spray the spots on the carpet and couch and strip little man down, leaving his clothes in a heaping pile on the kitchen floor to cover up one pool of vomit, leave my vomit soaked clothing in the kitchen, take a moment to text my husband, “VOMIT EVERYWHERE!!!!” and we go take a bath.
This all worked out until I had the audacity to try and wash the vomit off of him. Screaming “OWWWWW!!!!!!!” every time I poured water on him. This went on for about 10 minutes. I get out of the tub and take the terrible twoster out who screams “I DO IT!!!!!!!!!!” He climbs back in the tub, and climbs back out. Eye roll number 637 happens.
I get his diaper and pj bottoms without issue. Nice. I was not as successful with the shirt, so he went topless. Whatevs. I put on sweats. I now realize that I’m NOT working out anytime today.
I come downstairs and clean the puke. No big issue. Terrible twoster is standing at the door in his sister’s pink boots screaming “SIDE!!!!” So I think, yeah, let’s just escape this house and go outside. Great plan.
He trips over the dog (and because the pink boots are a little two big) and falls. Cries. I pray to God that he gives me the strength for my next breath.
I hear the cooler parent pull up and I think, “OH THANK YOU GOD!!” He really does answer prayers. We go outside and the terrible twoster climbs in the car while I proceed to tell the husband everything that went down in the 45 minutes I was left alone to fend for myself in the wild. Meanwhile, the terrible twoster thinks he’s cool and pretends to drive. So this is happening while I’m explaining the texture of the throw up and the terrible twoster hits the 9-1-1 button. Oh. Dear. God.
The cooler parent had to talk to the operator. Explained that we don’t watch our children while they play in the car and our son pressed the button. She laughed. Sent the cops anyway.
I ordered out at this point.
Cop shows up. We laugh, he laughs, terrible twoster cries. It was a great time.
So, two days later, on a dreary Sunday, I look around at my house and think: If anyone comes in my house and judges me, they don’t know what I’ve been through. Well, if they read this, they do, but that’s besides the point. And when my husband and I fight about the house or the kids, I’ll remind him that they are the enemy, not me.
Being a working mom is stressful, but being a stay at home mom? Impossible. I commend all the women who choose to spend all their waking hours with their spawn. Parenting is messy and so is my house. I’ve come to terms. Now I have to go clean up the crushed up Goldfish on my carpet, remind the terrible twoster to get off his sister & to stop hitting her for the 84th time since 7, tell my four year old that she can wait longer than 2 milliseconds before she gets juice, do some dishes, put away some laundry, complete the building an online course, clean and organize the boxes in my room, stop my kids from committing felonies, prep food for the week and workout. No. Big. Deal. Right?