I was going to get up at 5:30. I was going to have the time to drink my coffee, peruse Facebook and the news, check my email, do some work. When Junior got up, we were going to get dressed. And by "dressed," I mean more than clean yoga pants for me, more than clean underwear for him. I mean pants and shirts - you know, fancy. We were going to eat breakfast at the table. Fruit would be encouraged, pretzels would have no part of the conversation, and we would discuss plans. I was going to surprise him with making sock puppets. We were going to make the best sock puppets ever. We were going to craft. Teeth would be brushed and hair would be combed and we would work a few pages from one of the many pre-school workbooks that are collecting dust on top of my microwave and we would sing. When Dad came home from his early morning shift at 12:30, he would find us eating a healthy lunch, our morning's work proudly displayed. His heart would swell with pride at my effort and our son's obvious superiority. We would go for a walk, as a family. We would discuss nature. Our son would not poop his pants.
But if my phone alarm went off, it was muffled under my mound of pillows. Because what wakes me up at 8:45 is my son manually opening my eyelid and saying, "Something is wrong with my butt, Mom."
Nothing is technically wrong with his butt - it is just that his pants are filled with poop. "Don't let me gag, Mom. Just don't," he begs. "I will look this way, and so I won't gag." And then it becomes a game to him - no, I will look this way, and now I will look that way - and you know, normally I love a good game, but not when I have only been awake for 32 seconds and the person who wants to play the game has pooped their pants and I have to clean it up. I snap at him.
I need coffee. Real clothes could wait a minute - clothes will be a battle and I am not ready. He could have that healthy breakfast while I had coffee. I could still do fruit.
Coffee started. I go to gather laundry. Beginning, naturally, with the living room - because both Justins in this house eschew such confinements like laundry baskets. They are, by God, free spirits. And I see, then, that Junior has been up awhile and gotten himself breakfast. Saltines - or, as he calls them, white crackers. As in, "MOM! THIS STORE HAS SO MANY WHITE CRACKERS!" at the top of his lungs when we are in the cracker and bread aisle at the store.
"We need to vacuum," my son says, but I can't. Not right then. I snap at him again - he knows better than to get in the cabinets. Yes, he agrees, he does. He is sorry. He tells me to be happy.
"Let's get real breakfast," I say, and he says no. He says he ate all the white crackers. He says he "ate the whole sleeve of them. Really, I just need milk." I give him milk. I give myself coffee. And against my best intentions, I turn on the TV for him so I can check my email. I hammer back replies to my current client. I send off samples to another. In between, I manage to get a shower in, my teeth brushed, my son's teeth brushed. Sort of. We vacuum up the cracker mess, we start laundry, we unload the dishwasher. He is being needy this morning- whining when I sit back down to write. I tell him Mommy is trying to work. He cries and threatens to burn my work down. I wonder if he's showing early signs of violent behavior, and refrain from googling terms like "youngest arsonist ever" and "10 signs your toddler is a budding psychopath." It is hard to concentrate - hell, it is hard to type - with a 3 year old literally trying to swing from my arm. I snap at him. Again.
It's 10:45 now. Morning almost gone, and I haven't even opened up the blinds. That's part of our morning ritual - to open up the house and say "Good morning, world!" I say it wrong this morning. I know this because I'm good at detecting the subtle changes in my son's mood, and also because he throws himself down on the floor and sobs that I have said it all wrong. He hates the blinds. He hates the windows. He hates the world. He's all temper and fury and three-year-old injustice. I snap. His howls come to a startled finish - and then he begins to cry. "Monster voice," he sobs. "I don't like the monster voice."
I don't either. I decide to try again, to start over. Today was supposed to be a good day. I can still salvage it. But all I manage to do is kick it hard enough to get it limping along; it doesn't skip. There's no singing, and the workbooks collect more dust. I keep thinking about how, if I don't get some time to write, I will be up until 2 a.m. Again. It stresses me out, and even though I am with my son, I am not really with him. This isn't the day I wanted.
Justin comes home, and we are not at the table eating lunch. We're on the couch, still not dressed, eating fruit snacks instead of fruit, watching Mickey Mouse, because today has been hard. And it's raining. I hate today.
But we do make it. We always do. Dad helps him make a fort. I furnish it for them, bring them snacks, feel guilty about sneaking away to finish my writing, but I don't feel like working until the wee hours of the morning. My husband makes dinner and bathes our son - I feel guilty about that, as well. He's been up since 1:30 this morning - we passed each other with a kiss in the hallway as I went off to bed and he was getting up. I know he is tired. He must be. I am exhausted. I send him to bed, promising I won't stay up too late again. It's 6:30. An hour until Junior's bedtime. I say something horrible, like "An hour before bedtime," and a monstrous tantrum ensues. I manage not to snap. I leave him to it, go to the kitchen and load the dishwasher. I feel his little hand slide up the back of my shirt and he asks if I will lay down with him. He says please.
Pajamas off, potty, pull-ups, pajamas back on, teeth brushed...I carry him to his bed even though he is getting big. He hooks his arm around my shoulder and leans into me, and I rock him for a minute before laying him down. "Please, right here," he says, patting his bed, and I lay down next to him, and he sighs a deep, watery sigh that upsets me far more than any of his tantrums or whining did.
"I love you," I say, and he meows. I meow back. We meow for awhile, but his eyelids are drooping. He asks me to do the tummy-thing, and so I rub his tummy in circles until his eyes finally close. I carefully slide off his bed.
I go back to the living room and sit on the couch. I think about all the ways I failed today. All the ways I could have handled things better. And I know people would say "Don't beat yourself up about it." I would say it, too. And I'm not - not really. But mistakes should be examined, I think. And that's what I do. I examine mine. I poke at them, get to learn their shapes, their causes, recognize the repeat offenders and the quick triggers. I think about how to avoid them. I worry if avoiding them is robbing my son of opportunities to learn how to deal with frustrations. I worry he has enough frustrations to deal with already. I worry.
I know, too, that any day that ends with my son, safely asleep in bed, breathing deeply and with a full stomach, is a technical win. And I know that some days, a technical win is about the best any of us can do. But it's not what I hope for. It's not what I am okay with. I want a day that is a victory. A triumph. I want a day that I can be proud of. This is my job. I didn't give up my job and 50% of our income to be okay with a string of days that are passable. That's admitting defeat before the day even begins.
I know bad days will happen. That days where getting dressed, with make-up, simply won't happen, that keeping tears and tantrums at bay is the best I can do, days when he refuses to even lick a piece of fruit and when he goes to bed I realize he has eaten nothing but 3 pretzels and a great quantity of milk. Days that were full of too much Netflix and not enough creative, active play. Days that I spent too much time on social media networks instead of using that screen time to work. Laundry will get left to wrinkle in the dryer, and dinner will be PB & J. Days where I don't even pretend to offer him something new and nutritious to eat but am simply grateful that he will at least eat what he does.
But I don't want to be okay with those days. I don't want to beat myself up, but I don't want to dismiss them, excuse them, expect them. I will accept them, but I don't want to be made cynical by them, to adopt this attitude that bad days, or mediocre days, are good enough for us. They aren't. When my son was born, I didn't think, "I hope I'm okay at this." With that being said, I'm not unrealistic; I don't look at Pinterest and castigate myself for lack of effort and unoriginality and inability to provide organic snacks that my son will eat. I measure our success by things like "Did we play in the sunshine? Did we laugh a lot? Did we do something? Did we interact? Did he get good and dirty doing something fun? Were there stories told and discussions held? Did I correct him when necessary, and did I provide positive feedback when deserved? Did we learn something?" They aren't unrealistic standards.
But tonight, after I examine it all, I do let it go. Because it isn't a pattern. It isn't a trend. And as long as I continue to give my failures - and there are many - an honest look, I feel I am doing the best job that I can. I don't want to stop worrying. I don't want a string of technical wins. I want good days, fun days, triumphant days...days that end with me thinking about what I did right instead of what I did wrong. Days where I don't wonder if I should go back to work full-time because I am certain that staying at home is the right choice.
And I will set two alarms tonight. Because tomorrow will be better. The best laid plans may often go awry, but it won't stop me from planning.
perfect
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