Mother’s Curse

It is lucky for my children that I am somewhat defeatist because instead of throttling them, I mostly just give up and try to lie down somewhere until they stop driving me crazy.  I sort of go numb, putting myself into this zone where I can almost not hear their screaming or whining or see their kicking or sulking.  It would be an effective method of punishment, this stony silence and glazed eyes thing I’ve got going except that THEY DON’T FUCKING CARE.  I can only hope that when they’re older they’ll come to understand that the moment mom goes silent is the moment they’ve crossed the line.

 

It’s been one of those days where I could honestly have screamed, to the world at large, at any point, “I’ve had it up to HERE!”  It’s the God-awful combination of children who respond only to spanking but know that mom does not spank and a severe lack of sleep, seasoned with the knowledge that things aren’t going to get better for awhile.  I have to be back at work WITH my six-week-old at the office, I have to do mornings and school drop-off with my bigger kids, I have to run the household, and I have to make sure that Tony gets enough sleep to do the job that pays the bills and has enough time to study for the super difficult master’s class he’s taking from now until December.  I get to bed around 12:30 AM, feed Freddie around 4:30 AM and 6:30 AM and then get up for the day.  If I’m lucky, I get an hour-long nap on the couch in the afternoon.

 

The most positive aspect of this new normal of being out-of-my-ever-loving-mind busy is that I am unable to obsess as much (which I totally do when I am getting enough sleep) over the fact that in a month Tony and I will have been married for nine years and I currently weight FIFTY POUNDS more than I did when we got married.  I swore I would never let myself go, but lo, it has happened anyway, despite my crazed exercise regime and healthy eating.  Instead of obsessing over the size of my ass, I’m more likely to (as I did today) break out into snotty, weepy tears while gazing at my baby and blubbering, “I love you so much!  You are perfect!  Please, God, let me live long enough to see this baby grow up.  Please, God, let this baby and ALL my babies live long, healthy, fruitful lives.  Waaaaah!”  It’s pathetic.

 

Hey, want to invite me to a party?  I’m a real hoot.

 

But then, as much as I love that chubby little face, my other two kids come home and I hardly have time to look in their beautiful eyes before I’m screaming at them to “Get. BUCKLED!” and “Stop throwing things at your brother!”

 

I ask you this: How many time-outs does it take to raise a child?  I’m afraid I’ll be institutionalized before I know the answer.

 

This:

 

 

My parents were laughing to this video when I was small.  I’d like to know what they did to make me turn out so well.  Surely, I couldn’t have been as infuriating as my own children are.