The Terrible (Thirty-)Twos
We spent three hours today in and out of the crisp December weather as we partook of the Neenah Community Christmas festivities. We discussed whether or not we'd participate over pancakes this morning.
It didn't take much to sell the kids. I asked our wheel-loving preschooler, "How would you like to go watch Santa Claus hang a wreath on the clock tower near church by climbing up the ladder of a fire truck?"
He gasped, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening. "We get to see Santa Claus AND a fire truck?! We can't miss THAT!" he responded.
Our family time on the town was fun (what's not fun about live reindeer, roasted marshmallows, a gift bag of junky toys from Santa, and all the cookies you can eat?), but we were all hungry and exhausted when we got back home shortly after noon. I started fixing lunch and, in between heating leftovers in the microwave, did the laundry shuffle--clothes from dryer to basket, from washer to dryer, from sorted heap to washer.
I carried the basket upstairs and set it down in the living room next to its sibling, which contained two clean loads of laundry from the previous day. In another hour, two more loads had joined the throng. Soon, seven loads of clothing (was there anything left in our closets?) awaited my attention.
They didn't get my attention until after the lunch dishes were done and the younger child was down for a nap. Now it was midafternoon on a Saturday and I hadn't had but 10 minutes or so of rest. I was growing bitter.
Forty-five minutes later, triumphant after having tackled the mountain of folding and sock-pairing, I sat down on the sofa with a magazine. Enter our son asking me to play cars and trucks. I put on my Dutiful Mother hat and flopped to the floor to join him.
Not long after that, my beloved made me a perfect cup of tea and began preparing dinner. He had a 6 PM social outing and was making a point of pitching in before he disappeared. But the washerwoman was not satisfied by this effort. And she was tired.
After the blood-pressure-raising process of getting the kids to put their toys away, I asked them to head upstairs to pick out their pajamas (this is an important thing to them). When they kept giggling as though they hadn't heard me, I thundered, "WORDS ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH BUT NO ONE IS LISTENING TO THEM! THESE ARE THE STAIRS, AND 'UP' IS THAT WAY!"
That got some hustle out of them. But in short order, the dawdling recommenced. Bedtime always goes this way, but I'm not always the howling hag I was tonight.
"Get your pajamas on or we're not going to read books!" I shouted. Why was I shouting?
I tried to soften my blustery speech. "I'm sorry, kids," I said. "Mommy's been really shouty tonight, hasn't she?"
"Yes," said our son. "Why are you so shouty?"
Good question.
"Well, because everyone else got to play and rest today, and Mommy wanted to play and rest, too. But I don't feel like I got to relax," I said. Wah wah wah.
In his infinite wisdom, my boy responded, "You're going to get to relax in just a couple minutes, Mama."
We moved on to brushing teeth. The practice in our home is that the kids brush on their own first, and then one of us gives them a once-over just to be sure.
"Let me have a little turn now," I said to our two-year-old, who was mostly sucking on the bristles of her toothbrush.
Seems the kids were giving me a little wider berth at this point, because she responded, "You can have a big one if you want to, Mama."
Even that didn't keep me from launching into a tantrum when our son refused the stitched-up-chin ointment I'd brought into his room on my finger, insisting that he wanted to squeeze it out of the tube himself. In an attempt at compromise, I transferred the stuff I had onto his finger. When he defiantly reached to wipe it on his sheets, I grabbed his wrist, looked at him with fire in my eyes, and stormed off to the bathroom to get the tube. Wails of indignity ensued.
When I came back with the ointment, I snuggled him and apologized, telling him I was sorry I had been mean but that I didn't like wasting things. Then I asked him to forgive me. We cleared up what forgiveness was, and I repeated my request for it.
"I'll forgive you in 24...weeks," he said. "When will that be?"
"Umm...it'll be about May," I responded. "Just before summer starts."
"Well," he said, "maybe in 14 weeks, then." Guess that will have to do.
It didn't take much to sell the kids. I asked our wheel-loving preschooler, "How would you like to go watch Santa Claus hang a wreath on the clock tower near church by climbing up the ladder of a fire truck?"
He gasped, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening. "We get to see Santa Claus AND a fire truck?! We can't miss THAT!" he responded.
Our family time on the town was fun (what's not fun about live reindeer, roasted marshmallows, a gift bag of junky toys from Santa, and all the cookies you can eat?), but we were all hungry and exhausted when we got back home shortly after noon. I started fixing lunch and, in between heating leftovers in the microwave, did the laundry shuffle--clothes from dryer to basket, from washer to dryer, from sorted heap to washer.
I carried the basket upstairs and set it down in the living room next to its sibling, which contained two clean loads of laundry from the previous day. In another hour, two more loads had joined the throng. Soon, seven loads of clothing (was there anything left in our closets?) awaited my attention.
They didn't get my attention until after the lunch dishes were done and the younger child was down for a nap. Now it was midafternoon on a Saturday and I hadn't had but 10 minutes or so of rest. I was growing bitter.
Forty-five minutes later, triumphant after having tackled the mountain of folding and sock-pairing, I sat down on the sofa with a magazine. Enter our son asking me to play cars and trucks. I put on my Dutiful Mother hat and flopped to the floor to join him.
Not long after that, my beloved made me a perfect cup of tea and began preparing dinner. He had a 6 PM social outing and was making a point of pitching in before he disappeared. But the washerwoman was not satisfied by this effort. And she was tired.
After the blood-pressure-raising process of getting the kids to put their toys away, I asked them to head upstairs to pick out their pajamas (this is an important thing to them). When they kept giggling as though they hadn't heard me, I thundered, "WORDS ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH BUT NO ONE IS LISTENING TO THEM! THESE ARE THE STAIRS, AND 'UP' IS THAT WAY!"
That got some hustle out of them. But in short order, the dawdling recommenced. Bedtime always goes this way, but I'm not always the howling hag I was tonight.
"Get your pajamas on or we're not going to read books!" I shouted. Why was I shouting?
I tried to soften my blustery speech. "I'm sorry, kids," I said. "Mommy's been really shouty tonight, hasn't she?"
"Yes," said our son. "Why are you so shouty?"
Good question.
"Well, because everyone else got to play and rest today, and Mommy wanted to play and rest, too. But I don't feel like I got to relax," I said. Wah wah wah.
In his infinite wisdom, my boy responded, "You're going to get to relax in just a couple minutes, Mama."
We moved on to brushing teeth. The practice in our home is that the kids brush on their own first, and then one of us gives them a once-over just to be sure.
"Let me have a little turn now," I said to our two-year-old, who was mostly sucking on the bristles of her toothbrush.
Seems the kids were giving me a little wider berth at this point, because she responded, "You can have a big one if you want to, Mama."
Even that didn't keep me from launching into a tantrum when our son refused the stitched-up-chin ointment I'd brought into his room on my finger, insisting that he wanted to squeeze it out of the tube himself. In an attempt at compromise, I transferred the stuff I had onto his finger. When he defiantly reached to wipe it on his sheets, I grabbed his wrist, looked at him with fire in my eyes, and stormed off to the bathroom to get the tube. Wails of indignity ensued.
When I came back with the ointment, I snuggled him and apologized, telling him I was sorry I had been mean but that I didn't like wasting things. Then I asked him to forgive me. We cleared up what forgiveness was, and I repeated my request for it.
"I'll forgive you in 24...weeks," he said. "When will that be?"
"Umm...it'll be about May," I responded. "Just before summer starts."
"Well," he said, "maybe in 14 weeks, then." Guess that will have to do.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 9:24 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home