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Rubbed Raw

It is late, and I am tired.  And discouraged. And I kind of hate myself.

As I write this, it is Tuesday.  The day I published this post.  About the wonder of motherhood.

And of course it was a terrible day with my kids.

The morning was more potty training, a very cranky Sophie, some missed opportunities by me to teach her.  Discouragement.  At one point I yelled at her so loud to be heard over her yelling that pain instantly shot through my throat and instead of scolding her, I launched into a coughing fit.

In the afternoon I had made arrangements for Joshua to have a fun time with his Aunt Bethie and cousin James.  Special for Joshua, who has basically been prisoner in this house the past ten days due to potty training.  And I needed to have some alone time with Sophie do work on potty.  Because some of the missed opportunities I have with her, are because I am tending to my other child.

But not much was accomplished during our time together.  Then finally at 3, I put her down for a nap, because she was exhausted and cranky and I needed a break.  She went right to sleep. PERHAPS because she had gotten up at 6 am with wet pants.  She used to sleep til 7:30 before potty hell began.

Then my nephew James came home with Joshua. MORE special fun for Joshua.  He was thrilled.

Until James left and daddy wasn’t coming home before bedtime because he had to fix his car, and then he threw a huge crying fit, and I lost it. And of course right before this, Sophie peed her pants.  Good times.

I marched him up to bed.  I threatened him.  He calmed down.  I read him his chapter of Chronicles of Narnia and I cried the whole time.  He asked me what was wrong and I told him I was sad because he had thrown a fit, and Sophie had peed her pants.  Then I finished reading and cried some more.  Then when it was time to pray, and I asked him what he was thankful for, he said, “Daddy, James, and Lucas.”  His dad, his cousin, his friend.  That’s it.

I tucked him in and went to get Sophie for bed.  She was less than cooperative.  I let her nap too long and now she’s up in her room running around at 10 pm and I’m starving because I haven’t been to the grocery because I’ve been chained to this house POTTY TRAINING and there’s not much to eat and I’m not going to cook a meal for myself at 10 pm especially when there is no husband to help me eat it.

I would like, for a week, for someone competent to come in and take over my life,  put it in order for me, and then I’ll come back, and maybe by some miracle, someone will have missed me.

But at this point, vacation and appreciation seem pretty far off.

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Immersion

I do not remember a time when I did not want to be a mother.  As a child it was something I expected would happen, as a teen it was something I dreamed would happen, and as an adult it was something I desperately wanted to happen.

But of course, I had no idea what being a mother was really about.  Babysitting and even a very hands-on aunthood could not prepare me for being the giver of life, the protector, the comforter, the security blanket to my own child.

No book written then or since could ever prepare me for the wonder of seeing my firstborn for the first time.  For the way I would be able to distinguish his cry from the other babies at the hospital within hours of his birth.  For the way I’d crave the scent of his little sweet head.

No one could tell me how afraid I would be, when carrying my daughter, that my son would feel abandoned by me.  That I would feel guilty, like I was cheating on him, because my heart had begun to knit to another.  No one told me I might feel afraid that I wouldn’t love my second child as fiercely and completely as I’d loved my first.

Other mothers could tell me, but not truly make me understand, that my love for her would be instant and strong and just what it was supposed to be. This was such a joyful relief to understand and feel the instant I laid eyes on her.

And alas there was no way to know before I experienced it, that motherhood would be filled with not only endless joys but countless fears and frustrations.  No way to know the instant and constant guilt that was coming, the feeling of isolation, the longing to just go an hour or two without someone touching me.

And oh I was amazed to find how proud I was of every movement, how exhilarated I’d be every time I heard my baby laugh, how mesmerized I’d become by each new word that came from their sweet little mouths.

Each of these things was a discovery I had to make for myself.

And now, I know.

They say you can only truly learn a foreign language by immersion.  By surrounding yourself completely and exclusively in that tongue.

And so it is with motherhood.  Dive in, be engulfed, and discover what you are truly capable of. Struggle, scream, kick, laugh, cry, grow, strengthen, love, and learn.

And every once in awhile, don’t forget to breathe.

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My thoughts on motherhood were inspired by thankyoumom.com – Now it is time for you to join in- You are invited to log onto www.thankyoumom.com and enter to win a travel voucher to help cover the cost of a special reunion with their mom or mom figure in their life.  Contest entrants must submit a 100 word essay describing why they’d like to be united with their mom.  Approximately 15 winners will be chosen every month through the Thanksgiving holiday.

Be sure to vote on your favorite entries for the Thank You Mom Reunions here.

This post is part of the P&G Thank You Mom Reunion Campaign through Blissful Media Group.

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The Simmering Brew

This past week of intense potty training with Sophie has been one of the worst weeks of my life.  Which, REALLY, means I need to suck it up and get some real problems.  But it has honestly and undeniably been a time when I have felt frustration, anger, and worthlessness like no other.

My feelings over the larger situation have led me to be completely intolerate of the little things: a loudly buzzing fly in the kitchen, people driving like idiots, and ummm, washing a DIAPER in my brand new washing machine with the latest of the innumerable loads of pee-pee laundry.

So this past week what I’ve become is a shrew, a hag, who snaps at her children for everything, curses herself at each clumsy mishap, and seethes with anger 24 hours a day.

This isn’t who or how I want to be.

Why can’t I do this thing? Why can’t I make my very bright three-and-a-half year old use the FREAKING POTTY?  What the %#!& is wrong with me?

And why can’t I do it, or not do it,  without completely losing my shizzle?

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Photo by markybon on flickr

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