My plans for this evening were to retire early to my bed with my freshly bathed baby boy and write out my emotions from the last month or so while he slept peacefully beside me.
But instead, he is fussy and restless, and all the words and sentences and feelings that have been building up in my mind have turned to mush. I can't even remember the funny thing Zimrie said this afternoon that I thought was worthy of writing down. So now I type with one hand, fishing for letters, anxious to bring forth something.
*
Last night ended there, as I shut my computer with my foot, too afraid to nudge the sleeping-at-last baby in my arms. And tonight I have what I wanted--my boy sleeping on my chest, both hands free to tell a story. But still, the words are lost, floating somewhere behind the to-do list and the sore shoulders and the desire to do nothing.
This morning I held a still sleepy Jonah in my arms while I tried to get those last few remnants of half-sleep. I had heard the boys stir in the room behind me, and I knew if I moved any length or laid Jonah down that he would wake up. I closed my eyes and heard the sharp sound of the spray of an aerosol can. It took me only a couple of seconds before I jumped out of bed. There they are--simultaneously spraying each other with my Dermoplast spray and eating peanut butter out of the jar. With their fingers.
Some days, I just can't even.
Or the other morning where I woke up to silence, and I was so grateful. And then immediately suspicious. And sure enough, there they were, on the kitchen counter, whispering to each other as they poured baking powder all over the watermelon and the countertops and poured drop after drop of food coloring onto the mess. They had blue hands for days.
And today when Jonah is screaming and crying and I'm pretty sure he's just tired, but he only wants to sleep in the sling I wear and I try over and over to lay him down because I really need to pump. Doctor's orders. Mastitis is no joke. And he just wakes, so I try to nurse him, but he screams. And it takes the boys about 90 seconds to take every kitchen utensil out of the drawer and scatter them throughout the house. And then they uncover the box of art projects from preschool that I can't bear to throw away, and those come out, too. bringing with them the dreaded glitter. And they are so loud, yelling over Jonah's screams, and I bang my coffee cup down on the nightstand. And we all feel bad.
Any mother of preschoolers could write a similar story.
But things got better. We went to Target. I bribed all of us with the anticipation of picking out a prize in exchange for a better attitude. It worked. Jonah got to sleep in his sling and the boys got their toys and I got dark chocolate. And a little change of scenery worked wonders.
Some days are so stressful. But, really, if I really take time to think about it. there's so many good things.
Like snuggling so close to Jonah that I can feel his eyelashes brush my face, and getting to see his smile. And hearing the boys talk to him, and tell them they love him. And the hilarious things they say all the time. And holding Zimrie. And laughing with Asher on the couch. And how I said, "Woops, I forgot the wipes," and Asher goes to get them, unrequested. And Zimrie says he wants to grow up to be "...a Library-ator, and I will CUT BOOKS. And then I will throw them in the fire!" (Hilarious, right? All that aggression. I don't know, man. But bonus: we learned the word "librarian" today.) And Ash says he wants to build a house made out of centipedes. "Will they be alive?" I ask him. "Well, they will be. Until I put nails in them to make a house. Then they'll be dead." Like I said, a lot of aggression around here.
I had hoped to write something akin to a birth story or to flesh out my thoughts since Jonah's been born. But, not today. Tonight I will be going to sleep.
But instead, he is fussy and restless, and all the words and sentences and feelings that have been building up in my mind have turned to mush. I can't even remember the funny thing Zimrie said this afternoon that I thought was worthy of writing down. So now I type with one hand, fishing for letters, anxious to bring forth something.
*
Last night ended there, as I shut my computer with my foot, too afraid to nudge the sleeping-at-last baby in my arms. And tonight I have what I wanted--my boy sleeping on my chest, both hands free to tell a story. But still, the words are lost, floating somewhere behind the to-do list and the sore shoulders and the desire to do nothing.
This morning I held a still sleepy Jonah in my arms while I tried to get those last few remnants of half-sleep. I had heard the boys stir in the room behind me, and I knew if I moved any length or laid Jonah down that he would wake up. I closed my eyes and heard the sharp sound of the spray of an aerosol can. It took me only a couple of seconds before I jumped out of bed. There they are--simultaneously spraying each other with my Dermoplast spray and eating peanut butter out of the jar. With their fingers.
Some days, I just can't even.
Or the other morning where I woke up to silence, and I was so grateful. And then immediately suspicious. And sure enough, there they were, on the kitchen counter, whispering to each other as they poured baking powder all over the watermelon and the countertops and poured drop after drop of food coloring onto the mess. They had blue hands for days.
And today when Jonah is screaming and crying and I'm pretty sure he's just tired, but he only wants to sleep in the sling I wear and I try over and over to lay him down because I really need to pump. Doctor's orders. Mastitis is no joke. And he just wakes, so I try to nurse him, but he screams. And it takes the boys about 90 seconds to take every kitchen utensil out of the drawer and scatter them throughout the house. And then they uncover the box of art projects from preschool that I can't bear to throw away, and those come out, too. bringing with them the dreaded glitter. And they are so loud, yelling over Jonah's screams, and I bang my coffee cup down on the nightstand. And we all feel bad.
Any mother of preschoolers could write a similar story.
But things got better. We went to Target. I bribed all of us with the anticipation of picking out a prize in exchange for a better attitude. It worked. Jonah got to sleep in his sling and the boys got their toys and I got dark chocolate. And a little change of scenery worked wonders.
Some days are so stressful. But, really, if I really take time to think about it. there's so many good things.
Like snuggling so close to Jonah that I can feel his eyelashes brush my face, and getting to see his smile. And hearing the boys talk to him, and tell them they love him. And the hilarious things they say all the time. And holding Zimrie. And laughing with Asher on the couch. And how I said, "Woops, I forgot the wipes," and Asher goes to get them, unrequested. And Zimrie says he wants to grow up to be "...a Library-ator, and I will CUT BOOKS. And then I will throw them in the fire!" (Hilarious, right? All that aggression. I don't know, man. But bonus: we learned the word "librarian" today.) And Ash says he wants to build a house made out of centipedes. "Will they be alive?" I ask him. "Well, they will be. Until I put nails in them to make a house. Then they'll be dead." Like I said, a lot of aggression around here.
I had hoped to write something akin to a birth story or to flesh out my thoughts since Jonah's been born. But, not today. Tonight I will be going to sleep.
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