The Will of a 2 Year-Old vs. The Determination of a Mommy

Is it just me or are 2 year-olds unbelievably strong-willed? I know, I know, everyone says, oh yeah, that's a 2 year-old blahblahblah; but I can't believe their little brains are capable of the maniacal power games that Henry seems to play.
Picture it, nap time today: Henry spent two hours (this is not an exaggeration) jumping out of bed, running down the hall, and then standing in front of me jumping up and down, shrieking, grabbing toilet paper, flushing toilets, and doing anything else he could in what I can only assume were attempts to rile me up. In true "Supernanny" form (I'm a devotee), I did not engage. I ignored for a while (which usually, eventually, works--in that Henry gets tired/bored and eventually just goes to sleep). In the past week, my next step has been to lock him in his room--something I was initially against (what do I do when he can break out? And isn't the point to get him to learn the rules?). But several friends told me this worked for them, so I tried it. However, my little devil learned how to break the baby lock in less than a week. I locked him in today, hoping that he wouldn't bother fiddling with it; and by the time I was down the hall he was running after me, lock in hand. Finally, I began to silently escort him back to his bed. Again, I did not engage: After I put him back in bed the first time, I said "It's time for rest, honey." The next 247 times, I kept silent and made no eye contact. I even tried to make the walk back to his room as boring as possible--walking slowly and quietly so Henry couldn't run. But this went on for two hours, people. TWO HOURS. Henry never got upset, pitched a fit, or cried. He was completely content the entire time.
I find this kind of thing so difficult. As a parent, you start questioning yourself--at least I do. Am I doing the right thing? Is this ever going to work? Even if it works today, am I going to have to start all over with this tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day? It's especially hard when you're alone or (most difficult) when you're with someone who does not support you. My mother, God bless her, is thoroughly, completely, head over heels infatuated with my children; and as a result refuses to enforce anything resembling a rule. She also questions me (that's putting it mildly; it's really more like an active criticism at best and a complete tantrum at worst) when I'm attempting to set limits with Henry. So, when I'm with Grandma Margie, it usually goes something like this:

Me: Henry, it's time for bed.
Henry: Wah!
Grandma Margie (to me): Are you sure he has to go to bed now? He didn't eat enough dinner. He's been sick! This is a new environment! He's excited to see his grandma! Can I go in there and talk to him? The fan is running in his room, and it's keeping him awake! The room is too warm! The room is too cold! Do you think I should go in there and sing to him? He doesn't like the color of the room! Don't you think I should go sit with him? I'm going to go sit with him.

This continues until I either give in or tell her (usually loudly) to STOP, in which case the whole thing starts again within a minute if Henry is continuing to complain. The point is, when you're a new parent (again, at least for me) and you've never done this before, and you're trying to raise your kids right, it really sucks when other adults aren't supporting you.
Anyway, I'm proud of myself today because I stayed calm (deep breathing helps), did not engage, and kept repeating to myself, "I WILL out will this two-year old!" Eventually, Henry got tired and instead of popping up and running down the hall after I put him in bed, he got up at a regular human rate and walked down the hall. Silently celebrating a chink in his armor, I carried him back to bed; and he immediately started to get back up. I put my hand on his belly and quietly said, "We don't have to do this, honey. You can relax. It's okay. It's time to rest now, but we'll play later." He went to sleep.
I'm fucking exhausted but proud of myself.

Pity Party, Interrupted

Just put Henry to bed. He snuggled up to me, put my hands on his cheeks and fell asleep while I quietly sobbed. Like I said to my friend who recently revealed she has a bun in the oven, motherhood is messy and complicated. But ultimately, you just love these damn kids so much it hurts.

Too Exhausted to Think of a Title

It's been a shitty week. Four trips to the pediatrician's office, a visit to the ER, a hospital admission (complete with a blood draw that took a four-point restraint), three misdiagnoses, a horrendous rash, a five day fever, and all sorts of antibiotics and antihistamines later, Henry is finally back to baseline. He was supposed to have tubes put in his ears this week, but that was canceled because of all the other medical insanity happening with him. We're so bummed about the tubes because it could be the answer to all of Henry's problems (constant sickness, lack of language skills, incredibly low frustration tolerance-even for a two year old); and it took weeks to schedule the surgery the first time. Now, we're back to square one. On top of it all, at his post-hospitalization check up yesterday his pediatrician brought up in the gentlest way possible that she'd like to refer him to their developmental specialist because "even if he's on the spectrum. . ." Oh, Jesus. My mind went into overload and switched off. One of my biggest fears is that Henry will be "on the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum, as in he will have a life-long, incurable condition that will (among other things) cause him to have difficulty connecting with people. I've worked professionally with people on the spectrum, and I realize it's completely my hang-up, but I have had so much trouble with the people I've met who have had these diagnoses. Connecting with people, finding common ground, empathizing (and being empathized WITH) is so meaningful for me. It's meaningful for everyone, I realize; but this is my blog so I'm talking about me. From the time he was in utero I've been scared shitless that my kid will be autistic.
Anyway, for the past two days, I've been trying to over-compensate for the horrible week Henry has had by doing fun things with him. Yesterday, I took him to an indoor playground; today took him to get cupcakes with a mommy and me group. At both these child-friendly events, Henry had complete meltdowns. Yesterday, after the initial freak-out he sort of kept it in check and just sat on the floor moaning while we waited in line to pay. However, this did not keep a busybody old lady from making a snide comment about my parenting. This has happened probably a dozen times-strangers (almost always old ladies) forcing completely unsolicited parenting advice on me, expressing outrage, or making sarcastic, nasty comments about how I'm dealing with my kid. I hate old ladies and I hope they all die in fires. No, I don't; but it felt good to write that.
Today, mid-walk to the cupcake party Henry collapsed in the street and literally began kicking and screaming. As I was holding Sam (and Henry is 40 pounds) it was physically impossible for me to carry Henry, so I essentially dragged him to the curb like a giant bag filled with wiggling, screeching kittens. A mom from the group saw me and smiled breezily as she gently shepherded her children into the yard where everyone was meeting. "Do you need help?" she asked and didn't wait for my response, just happily slid on her sunglasses and followed her children. I continued to drag Henry closer to the yard, watching a half dozen other moms contentedly chat while their children happily played together, all of them completely oblivious to me and the human tornado at my feet. I got down to Henry's level (a Supernanny suggestion) and firmly said, "Henry, you need to calm down and walk with mommy to our friends, or we're going home." This appeared to make a 0% difference in his attitude, so I said, "Okay, we're going." Frustrated and determined, I struggled to pick him up (still holding Sam, mind you), and fortunately my dear friend Liz showed up and helped me carry a still kicking and screaming Henry to the car.
Basically what I'm saying is, I'm spent. I don't even know what this post is supposed to be about. It was going to be about how old, bitchy ladies who think they know what's best for me and my kids had better step off. But I'm too tired to even get into that. I'm just worn down. And I long for the support of people who understand me, and empathize with me, and get what I'm going through, and can/will say, "I've been there." As in, "I've been in plenty of social situations where I was the only mom with a lunatic toddler, and I've felt embarrassed, and sad, and exhausted, and worried, and fed the hell up."
Honestly, I'm probably going to have to find a support group for parents whose kids are " on the spectrum."

Holy F-ing S!

I'm a parent of two kids. How was that allowed to happen? More later, but I think a description of my current appearance will suffice to describe how it's going: Currently in my underwear, with damp hair, teeth haven't been brushed in days, a fussy 12 pound baby strapped to my chest (his head precariously dangling over the edge of the inappropriately attached Maya wrap; so my left arm is constantly raised to hold said head), running around maniacally trying to find shoes, pack baby items, arouse 2 year old from nap, soothe 2 year old after waking from nap, put children in car relatively unscathed (me, not them--they fight it), and get out of the house so I can only arrive 15 minutes late to my doctor's appointment.
HELLO, motherhood!

Updates

Sheesh, I last wrote in September? What a slacker I've been. Here's the quick and dirty: We haven't sold our house yet. After a brief burst of inspiration to sell it myself (and being tantalized and tormented for months by a seemingly kind and benign but truly deceptive and maniacal retired couple who only wore track suits in our presence), I completely lost steam and became dejected/certain this place was never going to sell; and while we're on the subject (here is where I snowball into my angst-cycle) we can't afford to buy a bigger house, we can't afford to move, we don't know where we want to live, what if Tripp gets a new job and we have to relocate two days after we move, we're going to be poor, and what's the point?
After weeks of this, I finally got fed up driving myself crazy. Call it Taoism, the Secret, or a reference to the old Alcoholics Anonymous saying, "Let go and let God", I'm giving it up to the universe. So, we hired a Realtor, she's going to try to sell it, and if it sells, great. If it doesn't, fine. In the meantime, I've decided I'm going to do the things I love: Namely, hang out with my family and friends and enjoy my life. Sometimes I need to get over myself and remember I'm, literally, the gabillionth person in the world to have more than one kid; and most people in the world are lucky to have a roof over their heads. . .let alone a relatively new, well-functioning roof attached to a lovely little home in an assisted living community.

Wait. . .Two Year Olds are Destructive?

As noted in earlier posts, our ultimate goal for this year is to sell our current house for the smallest loss possible and move into a larger house so we have room for Baby 2 (from here on, referred to as SS for "Sammy Sweetheart") and the grandparents who will God-willing stay and help us as we make the adjustment from a 3 to a 4-person household (adjustment is scheduled to be complete when Henry turns thirty-nine or I'm dead, whichever comes last). Anyway, as you might imagine, BEFORE we can do any of this, we must make our current home presentable; and there begins the first problem. I always heard about two year-olds being mischievous and temperamental; and now that I own one I want to empathize with everyone who has had one and let everyone else know: IT'S SO TRUE. Henry is a personified hurricane, moving through our house in a path of destruction. Before 9 am today, Henry had: emptied the kitchen pantry, emptied the full kitchen garbage can and spread its contents across the floor, upended two hampers of dirty clothes, torn an entire new roll of toilet paper to shreds (Tripp and I foolishly thought we were past this phase and began storing the toilet paper rolls close to the toilets--MISTAKE), and repeatedly pulled clothing hanging in closets from hangers. All of this while I was in the room with him or in the next room. It feels hopeless to try to keep the house clean, and I'm struggling not to go down the rabbit hole of despair: Is this completely pointless? We're never going to be able to keep our home clean enough to show to company, let alone potential buyers.
Think it's time to take a lesson from Sesame Street's Mrs. Sparklenose: Do fairies say never? SOMETIMES!
But this isn't going to be one of them.

Newsflash: Having No Money Sucks

Four months pregnant with Lil' Bean and having trouble getting a handle on this. On the one hand, I'm super excited for this newest addition to our family. I think of how Henry has changed our lives for the better, and it's awe-inspiring. Now there's another little person on the way to mix things up again. I'm so excited and feel so lucky. Okay, enough mush, onto the bitching.
I'm scared shitless, people. SCARED. Henry had a full on nuclear meltdown at Panera Bread earlier this week when I wouldn't let him run through the restaurant and open all the doors. I'm talking screaming, limbs-flailing, head-banging, full-body writhing, rolling on the floor the entire three minutes during which I ordered and waited while the staff triple-teamed filling it in order to get us the hell out of there asap. Fortunately, the place was mostly empty, but the few patrons (all adults with no children present) each gave me a tight smile/eyebrow raise as if to indicate, "Would you please DO SOMETHING about that?" All I could think was, "What am I going to do with two? I can barely physically contain the one I have (a 35 pound almost two year-old is surprisingly strong)."
We live in a two bedroom house which is already about to bust at the seams. Now Lil' BowWow is on his way (I'm certain it's a boy), and we're faced with the timeless question, "Where are we going to put him?" Clearly, the most logical answer is to move, but then the other big question, "Where?" There are several areas in Roanoke that I like; but frankly, we can't afford to live in any of them. And do we buy or rent? Can we even sell the house we're in? Then there's childcare. We have a sweet deal with an awesome sitter who Henry loves now; but I've avoided asking her how she feels about watching a newborn in addition to Henry because I'm pretty sure she's not crazy about the idea. Also, childcare (even the sweet deal we have now) is expensive! Can I afford to work part-time when I'm paying so much for childcare? I really want my mother to quit her job and come live with us a few days/week; but she works and needs the money, and we can't afford to pay her a comparable amount. In times when I feel a lack of control (such as now) I tend to want to focus on little things I can control. Decorating Henry and the baby's rooms when we finally do move is my immediate instinct. But I'm trying not to do that because we don't have any freaking money and we're looking for a house! (I'm sure the fact that in the last month we replaced a wonky washer/dryer and had to shell out several thousand dollars to resurface our driveway is playing into my desire NOT to spend money). So, basically, I'm reminded on many levels that having no money sucks. I'm sure no one can relate to this. Sarcasm, the lowest form of humor, is my defense mechanism. Share your stories of poverty and help me feel better, please.

Home Shopping

I love real estate, people. Seriously. Growing up, on any given weekend my Mom and I would go to open houses and take note of what we liked and didn't. Instead of doodling, I often visit one of the big real estate web-sites: homes, realestate, zillow, trulia, etc. and window shop, see what's out there. No joke, I do that for fun. But now that we're gearing up for Baby 2 and we live in a rather small house that feels like it's shrinking, we're under the gun so to speak to find another dwelling. What was once fun has become incredibly stressful; and I want nothing more than to avoid the whole thing. Adding kids to the mix complicates it. And adding the whole, "we might be here a while" thing is something I'm totally unfamiliar with. Since age 21, I've never lived in a place longer than 2 years. Until now. Knowing that we'll probably be somewhere short-term allows a certain amount of freedom: Who really cares if the neighbors are cooking meth when we'll be gone in a few months? Now we're talking about potentially living in a place long-term and having two kids we're responsible for who we want to go to a good school and have safe places to play and people to play with. Being responsible is a buzz kill. I miss the meth heads.

Movie Review 8: Michael Cera Can Do No Wrong

Listen here, Nick Twisp fans: The Youth in Revolt movie is surprisingly good and thoughtfully done. I had my doubts about Michael Cera playing what I considered to be the nerdy if slightly sociopathic lead; but he did a great job! The story isn't completely true to the book, but it captures the essence. And a great cast including Fred Willard, Jean Smart, and as noted earlier the eternally adorable Michael Cera. 26 Stars!

Apologies, Reader.

I have been super-slack about updating my blog, which I find alternately completely unacceptable and completely understandable. Such is the mind-weather of a pregnant woman. That's right, PREGNANT. I'm sure whoever reads this already knows I'm with child, but just to log it, here are the facts. Due mid-January, so far little bitta nausea and extreme fatigue, but no puking so far (fingers crossed), craving canned ravioli, Indian food, and peaches. Feeling very excited and blessed, but also scared shitless. One baby I can handle. Sort of. With the exception of his nuclear meltdown moods, in a given day Henry and I can generally run a few errands, straighten up, play, visit friends, and have an all-around pleasant day. But two? I don't know about two. I think my fear partly stems from me being an only child. I really don't understand the dynamics of having more than one child. What do you do if they both need you? What do you do if they both need you and you're about to tear your own hair out because you haven't slept, bathed, changed clothes, brushed your hair, or had four consecutive minutes to yourself in three days? (I've already experienced this with one.) As I've mentioned, Henry has been a wonderful, awesome kid and I would never change anything about him. BUT, he was a couple dozen handfuls when he was an infant. Can I survive another intense newborn and a fairly intense toddler?
I realize all of these things are problems of a lucky person. I feel incredibly grateful that I had a healthy pregnancy with Henry and that now we have this awesome, spirited kid. And we absolutely, knowingly made the choice to have Henry and to have Lil' Tadpole. So, in conclusion, I'm feeling scared, excited, happy, exhausted, hungry, nauseated, worried, and mostly grateful.