Tsunami-esque terrible twos

Last week was a helluva long week, courtesy of my youngest Hellraiser who, for the remainder of this article I’ll refer to as Gremlin.

So, Mr Gremlin recently turned two. You hear a lot about the terrible twos. The moodswings, the tantrums, the complete and utter lack of cooperation at the most inconvenient times. It’s all true. (If your child hasn’t shown signs of this in some shape or form, he or she is broken.)

I kid, I’m just seething with jealousy.

I actually thought I had a handle on things, because a) I had survived my eldest’s terrible-two-phase and b) Gremlin’s “ones” weren’t exactly a walk in the park. The ominous ones, as I’d jokingly call them. Haaaa, if I’d only known. How much worse could it get? Well, apparently much, much, MUCH worse.

His screams reached decibels and pitches I’d previously thought his little lungs were incapable of reaching. He somehow managed to transform his 12,5 kg body into a one-man wrecking ball; arms and legs flailing in a blurry fit of anger. You know the term spitting mad. Well, I now know where it comes from; he’d work himself into such a fit that he’d go from screaming to spitting froth in anger. I half expected him to spew vomit and do an Exorcist-headspin a couple of times. 

Oh, he’s just possessed. That I can deal with…

He’s had mood swings since he was a baby

If I had to rate his behaviour on a scale of 1 to 5, 1 being sweet and well behaved, 3 mischievous, and 5 tantrum throwing, I’d say he operated at level 7 all week and at all hours of the day. At night, he’d wake up every two hours and pick up where he had left off: screaming, flapping around the bed like a homicidal fish out of water, willfully inconsolable until he tired himself enough to fall back asleep.

Nothing would calm him. Everything was $#!+. 

If I offer something to drink. WEEEH!

I remove the aforementioned drink. WEEEH!

I remove his soiled diaper. WEEEH!

I try to put on a fresh diaper. WEEEH!

I give him a bath. At first he enjoys it, he’s happy and playing, when out of the blue…WEEEH!

I try to take him out of the tub. WEEEH, WEEEH, WEEEH!

There was just no way to win with him. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t in pain. That I’d confirmed. This was just a battle of wills. Little did he know, I had a few tricks up my sleeve from my battles with his predecessor that are once again helping me weather the tsunami of his mental onslaught. 


Earplugs are a great way to take the edge off the intensity of the tantrum. Especially when he seems stuck in that high-pitched ‘mommy’s killing me’ shriek. (I’m still surprised no one has called the cops yet, on the assumption that bloody murder was being committed next door). The earplugs don’t drown him out completely, but they lower the volume to the point that I no longer feel like my head is slowly splitting in two.

🛑Beware🛑: if you want to test this out, be sure to keep your little banshee (and any other rugrats you may have running around) in your line of sight at all times. Parents’ ears are their nr. one asset in preventing child-initiated disasters, so if those are impaired, the eyes must take over.

Imagine the unspeakable

I don’t like resorting to this one, so I only use this trick if I’m at my wit’s end and my patience is wearing dangerously, freakishly low. I imagine how horibly miserable I would be if he were…I can’t even type the words. The thought alone sends such a powerful surge of sadness, regret, guilt and anxiety through my body, that any shred of anger instantly disappears. I could be steaming at the ears one moment, and the next I’m just utterly grateful to be able to hug and kiss him and that he’s healthy and well, albeit still super mega cranky.

How many times have you read about parents shaking their babies to death, or doing any number of other unspeakable and senseless things to a child and thought how could they and never will I. Even though I still know I never would, I now understand how some, the truly desperate, could, in a moment of weakness, a drugged haze or tired daze do the unspeakable and unforgivable.

There but for the grace of God…


So, if you’re in a bad way (already) and dealing with the onslaught of tantrums is just too much to bear, put some physical distance between you and your little terrorists. No, do not leave them unsupervised and to their own devices. If you can, turn them over to your partner, parents, in-laws, a friend or neighbour you trust. And go somewhere else. Go do some errands or take a shower. Just take break.  

If you’re lucky enough to have a good support network, use it! If you don’t, reach out to your GP and ask what resources are at your disposal. Look, I of all people know it’s hard to ask for help. To me, it felt/ feels like weakness, inadequacy, and failure. But the alternatives, a broken parent or child, are to be avoided at all cost.

Do something unpredictable and silly

I like keeping my boys on their toes, have them wondering what is this crazy mom of mine going to do next, but you know, in a fun way. So, for example, when one of them becomes particularly unbearable, I seek comfort and release in music. I look for the most guitar-laden, drum-drenched rock song I can find on my phone, hook it up to the stereo, crank the volume, and sing and dance my heart out. More often than not, the shock of being ignored and having something be louder than them, shuts them up faster than any soothing words I could ever utter.


I’ve also learned to cut myself some slack. By day four of the tantrum marathon, I was giving my eldest the phone in the morning so I’d have at least one cooperative little person to start my day a tad more easily. I know it’ll cost me MOT (mother of the year) title, but at least I made it through the mornings without wanting to jump out of my skin. And when they went to bed, I rewarded myself with a little chocolate – *cough* half a bar *cough*. (Hey, a year ago it would have been a bar and a half, so I’d say that shows improvement on my part).

All in all, I remind myself that this parenting gig is a long-term deal. No one benefits if I burn out this early in the game. I still have the terrifying threes, fearsome fours, frightening fives…well you get what I have to look forward to. And don’t get me started on puberty. Woohoo. Fun times ahead.😐 *Groan* Yeah… Two is definitely my limit!

No rest for the weary or sick

Where does the time go people? It’s October!🤤

What comes to mind when you think October?

  • …Pumpkins?
  • …Falling, orange leaves?
  • …Halloween?
  • …Almost Christmas?
  • …Almost 2018!!!?

Well, when I think October, I think flus, head colds and laryngitis. What can I say, the past couple of October’s have not been good to me. 

Yes, ’tis the season of coughing and sneezing, fevers and wheezing. If the weather doesn’t get me, or the a-holes in the train who have never heard of covering their mouths when they cough or their noses when they sneeze, I can rest assured my kids will. Because whatever virus my little outbreak monkeys catch at daycare, they are sure to bring it home and share it with me. Frequently.😐 Generously. 😑

Now, throughout the year, 9 out of 10 times the damage is minimal: I get the sniffles, I get the chills, yet I am still able to function at 89% capacity. But every now and again, right around this time, they bring home a whopper that floors me to the point that I long for the sweet release of death. But Death just laughs and says, you’re on your own chica.

Everyone expects business as usual.

The kids still need to be dropped off at daycare. I can barely deal with them when I’m healthy, so yeah, they gots to go. But can’t your husband take them, you ask?


You obviously have not read my other blog posts. My husband, offer to help, lol, you’re funny!

Problem no. 1 there is that he works an early shift. No. 2, me being almost-dead sick does not constitute as a good reason to miss work or go in late in his book. I’ve learned to accept that. As long as I don’t actually keel over, he’s in luck.

The kids still need to be bathed and fed. They still expect you to play with them, endure their rough-housing, and still expect you to have all the patience in the world when their screams are tearing apart the last nerves that weren’t already in searing agony.


Cause that’s just what moms do.

24/7. 365 days a year. Even when we’re sick, we’re still on active mom-duty. I remember having to put in earplugs, cause my inner-mom could not rest if she could hear her babies in need. My impulse was to get up and do something about it, even though I knew that the room would pirouette and karate-chop me to the ground if I were to attempt such a stupid move in my feverish condition.

Don’t get me wrong. My husband does his share, but if I were to award grades for parenting performance, I’d have to send him to remedial school. I’m grateful to be living in a modern society where mothers have a few more liberties than say 60 years ago. But even though we say that men and women divide the burden of parenting equally, we all know that’s bull manure.

Sometimes it’s due to circumstances. Sometimes it’s intentional. Sometimes one spouse just cannot comprehend what the other goes through and does every day. Whatever is broke gets fixed so quickly that the other person never even knows it was broke in the first place. You get what I mean?

And that got me thinking about how we divide the physical and mental load (in my opinion, as I’m sure my husband sees things differently). See chart below.

If kids could buy a parent at the store, which one do you think they’d choose based on these specs?

And that led me to think what a review by my son might be like:

Shawty14 | October 24th 2017 | Mom-bot 4K Ultra

“Good battery endurance. Nice speed. Sometimes cranky”

  • 🌟Loving
  • 🌟Kind
  • 🌟Makes me laugh
  • 🌟Plays with me
  • 🌟Well organised
  • 🌟Cooks delicious food
  • 🚨Bossy
  • 🚨Demanding
  • 🚨Prone to viruses

I’ve had the mom-bot ultra 4K for almost 4 years now and despite the cons mentioned above I wouldn’t trade it in. I would have given it a 10 out of 10 if it let me sleep in more. And if it had a mute button.

B.t.w., I’ve been told that if you allow the mom-bot to relax frequently virus resistance increases. But who’s got time for that? I need it on-call at all times. It’s bad enough that its response time to me crying has steadily decreased as I got older.

MischiefIncarnate replied
Lol. Mute button. IKR?! Thanks for the heads up on that crying thing. Thought it was just malfunctioning with me.

You may have noticed I used it and its instead of she and her. That’s because I suspect that my sons don’t see me as the fragile human being that I am. The way they roughhouse with me, climbing over me like I’m some comfy throw pillow if I make the mistake of laying down for even just a second.  The way my youngest once re-fe-used to eat unless he could pick the food out of my hand, thereby basically reducing me to a plate. There’ll come a time when they’ll understand that mommy has feelings too and that they have to take these into account. Until them I’m expected to be operational and available no matter what, like a machine.

So on the one hand, I have a husband who, though affectionate and kind, has in the past displayed the empathy level of a rock, and will undoubtedly do so in the future. It’s in his nature and that is my cross to bear (part of the fine print in the marriage contract, so to speak). On the other hand, I have two kids who don’t yet understand that the world doesn’t revolve around just them. How do I make sure I don’t have a nervous breakdown or start binging on chocolate and what not (again) to get through the day?

Honestly I don’t have a clear answer…yet. I just know I have to seize the little things that make me happy and open the valve on the pressure cooker in my head, and one of the things that helps with that is blogging. And if another distraught and overworked mom (or dad) stumbles upon it and gains even a modicum of comfort or comic relief out of it, well that’s another motivator for me to keep going. Even if I’m only cranking out one blog a month.

The blog is also a monthly reminder of why I quit the babymaking game. This month’s reminder: I’d like to go back to being able to be guiltfree-sick and not have anyone depend on me for the duration of my illness. As long as there are children under the age of 18 under my care, I will always come in second, in sickness and in health. So tie my tubes already. No more delays in my parenting pension plan.😏

Vacation😑 – Not really

For non-parents vacation equals relaxation, “me-time”, and adventure.

I can’t speak for all parents, but my guess is that for the most of you, vacation does not include any of the above, especially if you have young kids. Or it may include adventure in the sense of your kid getting lost at a theme park! Yeah, that happened – more later on. So, no, not the good kind of thrill you might be hoping for.

I’ve just had the most relaxing week in the past three years. Not because I was on vacation, but because my husband (with the aid of his mom) had kid-duty this entire week. My parenting hours were thereby drastically reduced: from dinner time, when I’d get home, to about 21.00 when I’d put one or both to bed, max 3 hours a day. Heaven!

This meant:

No being cried awake by my youngest. 

No wrestling my eldest out of bed. He’s not a morning person; he gets that from the both of us. 

No trying to get everyone clothed, fed, and out the door by a certain time. 

No biking in the morning.

No tantrums at school when I drop them off. 

No guilty feelings for having to leave them there.

No guilty feelings for being secretly happy to be rid of them for a few hours.

No stressing about “making my train or risk reaching too late for pick-up”.

No fighting to get them ready to go home at pick-up. 

No embarrassment from hearing how my neuroatypical eldest had an episode and pushed a kid, or had a meltdown for no apparent reason; it’s an ongoing process trying to figure out his triggers.

No stress in trying to distract them long enough to cook.

No guilt when I finally give in and let them have screen time for much too long.

In addition to that, no endless diaper changes, no repeating myself incessantly, or constantly anticipating the next blowout. 

None of the above. It’s been pure bliss. Well I needed it, because the week before that was hell on earth, physically and emotionally (I’m partly to blame for the physical part).

Although they’re too young to remember much of what goes on in their daily lives, I wanted to do fun stuff with them so I could create digital memories for them. So Monday we went to a theme park for young kids (I’d say ages 10 and under): Oud Valkeveen

That meant getting up early to make breakfast and pack lunches for four people (technically three, cause the kids don’t eat that much). I prepped as much as I could the night before, but I always end up forgetting stuff.

Pack extra clothes in case of poo-namies (thats when the poo escapes the boundaries of the diaper) or if we decided to go swimming. 

Get the kids up, fed, dressed and everyone out the door by a certain time so we could catch the bus, train, another bus, and finally a 30 minute hike to our destination.  (Don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but we don’t have a car, and since grandma doesn’t bike, we had to rely on public transportation and our feet to get where we needed to be.)

I’m getting exhausted again just thinking about it.

Lots more walking. Fighting with my eldest to get on the rides, followed by more fighting to get him off after 3 turns so we can go on the next one. Thankfully there was an enclosed part where the littlest could run free without getting lost, so we went there for lunch.

As I turn my back for one minute to clean up I hear crying. Instinctively I turn, as it’s coming from the direction I last saw my eldest. He’s not the one crying, but there’s a smaller kid next to him who is, and an angry dad picking him up. “Uh, no” I think. As I start walking over, the dad taps my son on the back and asks why he pushed his son. Not hard, just to get his attention. Still, lucky for the dad that my husband wasn’t there, or he would have had a broken arm and I’d have a spouse in jail.

Of course my son doesn’t react, because 1) he doesn’t understand what the dad is saying and 2) he doesn’t understand what he did wrong(?), or doesn’t care(?). I added the question marks, because I have no idea what goes in in that little head of his. 

So I do what I always do, stay calm, apologise on his behalf, and “make” him sign an apology (hoping someday he’ll actually get what that means). I explained to the dad, that although he may look big (like a five year-old), he isn’t as mentally developed as he should be by age 3,5. The dad was appeased and they went on their way, but of course that left a sour feeling in my heart the rest of the day and a blemish on what should have been a happy memory. 

I shift back into hawk mode: watching his every move and anticipating situations that may be a danger to him or may lead to a confrontation with others. So in addition to being physically tired from all the walking, running-after, dragging-along, I am now also mentally exhausted from running the various scenarios in my head and dealing with the actual ones. 

By 17.00 I call it quits and we start preparing to head home. Last round of diaper changes, coats on and toilet breaks for grandma and me. Thing 2 is strapped into his buggy, so I give my eldest, Thing 1, my phone as an extra distraction and leave him with grandma. I couldn’t have been gone more than 5 minutes, but when I get back grandma is walking with the buggy and my eldest is nowhere to be found. He dropped the phone, made a dash for it and slipped right through grandma’s fingers.

Panick !!!

Immediately, the worst case scenarios flood my mind and they are only magnified by the fact that his communication skills are so weak. If called, he won’t answer. If asked questions, he won’t answer. He was wearing a wristband with my telephone number, but I’d just put on his coat, so that wasn’t immediately visible. I end up retracing my steps to the last ride we’d been to and that he had enjoyed, the bumper cars. 

The ride attendant was great; she radioed it in and kept me calm in the meantime. The only thing is, I had to stay put to hear back from whoever was on that other line on the radio. Another mom (wearing a bright pink jacket) seeing my distress left her husband and child (!) and went to look for my son. ❤ That selfless gesture helped, but as the scenarios in my head shifted from what my son might be getting up to, to what someone with less than wholesome intentions might try to do to him, it all became too much and I started crying.

Thankfully, they found him not too much later, perhaps 5 minutes, although it felt like 60. He was on a ride not five feet away from where I’d left him with grandma. We’d been on it like six times already, but he apparently couldn’t get enough. He had gotten on and subsequently refused to get off. In that moment, I was thankfull for his ‘obsessive’ nature.

I could’ve gotten angry. Just like the dad from earlier, I could have asked why. I could’ve threatened him with a thousand different types of punishment, but didn’t because he just doesn’t understand. And that makes parenting him hard. Because I know I can’t give up on trying. He’s learning, just at his own pace. And while he may not get it today, some day the penny will drop. Probably when I least expect it. 

In the end, I was just grateful to have my son back in my arms, alive, happy, and unharmed. So I let it all go, all the tears, resentment, anger. My son remembers none of it. Well, I assume he doesn’t, because he’s just as carefree as ever.

We went home and rested. Tuesday we stayed home. If you think that meant resting, think again. Especially with my tiny attention seeker

Wednesday, a repeat of all the prep stress. Bus, train, bus, hike, this time to Duinrell. Nothing noteworthy happened there, thank God. Needless to say, I limitted the amount of bathroom breaks I took. If I couldn’t take him with me, I strapped him in to the buggy (which he’s too big for, which meant I had to strap one leg in). The youngest would be free, but grandma can catch him if he runs. 

Thursday we stayed home, see Tuesday.

Friday I had a trip planned to an indoor playground we’d never been to before, but since that involved a thirty minute hike, I decided “Ah, NO”. I allowed myself one lazy decision and went to the indoor playground nearest us. The only thing easy about that day was getting there. I split up guard duties: grandma with Thing 2 in the toddler section. That left Thing 1 over to me to flank in the bigger kids’ section, because the toddler section hasn’t been a challenge for/ entertaining to him since he was 2.5. Mister has the energy of a team of young puppies, the speed of a cheetah and the stealth of a ninja. Keeping up with his play for four hours felt like a nine hour bootcamp session.

So thats why, the following week I was happy, nay eager to hand over the baton to team hubby and relax at work. All in all, my vacation week was stressfull, exhausting, even depressing at times. 

And yet…rewarding. 

Carousels. They never get old. Even the really, really old ones.

At night, I’d recall the smiles, the hugs, the kisses and the laughter. The laughter is what warms my heart the most. It’s what keeps me in the game and no matter how many figurative  (and literal) punches I have to take in the parenting ring, their laughter and happiness is what keeps me going back for more. When they’d go to sleep at night, tired but happy, I’d go to sleep, exhausted and satisfied. They might not remember any of it, the good or the bad, but I will. I just choose to focus on the good. And so, I resign myself to the fact that, for the next decade or so, vacations will not equal relaxation. What doesnt kill me, will only make me stronger.😏💪🏽💪🏽💪🏽

Battle of the baby bulges

If you had told me that this would be the year I’d start exercising again, I’d have laughed in your face. Before my first pregnancy, I had finally reached a weight (low 80s) and size I was happy with. Then my husband went and messed it all up. Yes, I know I’m just as guilty, but I like laying the blame at his feet.

After baby #1, I made several attempts to pick back up my exercise regime, with no success. Thing 1 was so demanding of my time, day and night, that I was left with no energy or desire to move unless absolutely necessary. Somehow, despite the lack of movement and all the stress eating I was doing, I still managed to lose weight. Slooooooooooowly.

Just as I thought, “O.k., I can do this. Let’s turn it up a notch, and really start burning the fat”, what does my idiot husband do? Yep, goes and sticks another baby in me. (It’s almost as if he wants to keep me fat!)

Since I was nowhere near my pre-baby weight by the time I got started on #2, I knew I was fighting an uphill battle. If I couldn’t exercise with one, how would I ever manage with two, tiny humans consuming all of my time and energy?!

Baby bulge #2

I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way I made an unconscious decision to not even try to lose weight this time around. Round two’s post-pregnany weight (when I finally gathered enough courage to step on the scale) was in the high 90s. And it’s been like that ever since. 

Baby #2 exited its host (me) late 2015. When I saw my weight, I put away the scale for good. The path to my exercise machines in the attic grew more and more cluttered, but I couldn’t be bothered to clear it. No time or energy to use them anyhow. About a year and a half passed, in this mind set. 

And then something clicked. I don’t know what it was. I’d like to think some part of me never gave up hope. But probably it was just the superficial inner-me becoming evermore dissatisfied with my wardrobe and throwing a b-fit because I refuse to buy new clothes based on my size rather than my taste. 

Whatever it was, it started compensating for all the stress eating I was still doing. As the days got hotter, I started biking more rather than taking the bus, dragging my two coaches along with me, if only to make the ride harder due to all the extra weight. And runnig after two, superfast, tiny persons – human cheetahs is what I call them – takes its toll on you, not only mentally, but physically as well. The weight started going down again. Sloooooowly. Still, I didn’t cheer, get my hopes up, or make plans to hop aboard the slim train again. Que sera, sera, I thought.

Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera, sera

There, now the song is properly stuck in your head. Sorry…not sorry.-

And then, a sign. A gentle nudge, if you will. It started with something I totally was not expecting. I won a Samsung Gear Fit watch at work. And that started the ball rolling again. With a lump in my throat, I dug up the scale and stepped on it to see what the damage was. 91. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The 80s were in sight again. Woohoo

I started a food journal, no calory counting, just jotting down what I stuff into my mouth. The idea being that I shouldn’t eat it if I don’t want to have to write it down. I must admit, it’s confronting seeing what you eat in black and white. And I quickly noticed I’d think twice before reaching for a chocolate bar. Because I knew I’d re-read the words “chocolate bar” as “had yet another momentary lapse in judgement”. “Slice of cake” would translate to “seriously woman?” And “half a bag of chips” equals “child, you know better than that!” I did NOT want the numbers to go back up, not when my target was closer than it’s been in years.

The watch was showing me the data I needed to keep me motivated. So imagine my mood when, after a week, I stepped on the scale again and the difference was…ZILCH. It took a lot of self control not to spiral into a chocolate-binge fest. I managed to keep it together and the cynic in me was expecting no difference again this week. But guess what, down 1.5 kg. I think the scale might be messing with me as payback for all those months stuck in a stuffy attic.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do when the winter months roll around. The path to the exercise machines is clear again, but I probably won’t get a chance to use them until the boys go to college. I usually don’t touch my bike when the weather gets below 10°C. But never say never. Except in the sentence “I never want to pass 90kg again”. I’m pretty sure I am now willing to do just about anything to keep those numbers going down and the weight off. Even if it means getting a divorce, since I don’t think my husband would agree to a life of celibacy. Or you know, I could tie my tubes. That’s probably cheaper than a divorce. Right?😊

And the Oscar goes to…

I don’t know how I managed it, but I actually ended up with less spare time than usual during the last two long-break weekends. At the end, I was so tired, I looked forward to going to work on Tuesday. But then again, no wonder, because work is where I go to relax: my two little freeloading moochers ride me harder than any paying employer ever has.

The last holiday weekend was especially taxing. My boys were amusing themselves with a riveting game of tag-pooping.


A game in which babies take turn filling their diapers with the stinkiest, most stomach-turning mush they can produce. Points are based on volume of content, stench, and they get bonus points for frequency per hour.

We went about 6 rounds…in 2 hours…I wanted to sever my nose. I was so done with all the kaka, I blurted out:

O.k., by matriarchal decree, I hereby order a cease-poop for the next 24 hours. 

I’d like to say they understood and complied, but I think they just ran out of ammunition. 

I’d also like to say that that is the silliest thing I’ve ever said or done, but it isn’t. I’ve tried reasoning with them on why I need to take a toilet break, saying: 

Mommy doesn’t wear diapers like you, so every now and then mommy has to go to the toilet. Preferably alone.

I can count the amount of times I’ve managed to go to the toilet without an audience – or subsequent incident for having left them by themselves for 10 seconds – on one hand. And I am now an expert in speed-peeing. If that were an Olympic sport, I’d win the gold medal. (No pun intended).

And in the category of most childish things I’ve done, imagine this scenario:

Thing 2, my telenovela king, is crying at the top of his lungs: Weeeeeh, weh, weeeh


Why, mama!! Why won’t you let me eat the bread I found in the folds of the couch!! I much prefer it to the fresh and delicious sandwhich that you have placed before me

But I can’t read the subtitles because my eyes are closed since my head hurts as a result of him screaming so loudly. I’ve tried everything to sooth him, but he seems determined to deafen me. So what do I do? I chime in, a few decibels louder: WEEEEH, WEEEH, WEEEEH! 

(And the Oscar goes to…Mommy! Translation omitted due to adult content.)

My Oscar’s in the mail.

At which point, he stops crying, probably because he’s trying to figure out whether I’m being serious or whether I’ve just lost it. (It’s a little of both.

I’ve done and said loads of stupid things since becoming a mom. I just can’t remember it all, mostly due to lack of sleep. So, if I’m still blogging in ten years (by which time I hope I will have regained something resembling a healthy sleep pattern), I’ll be sure to post them.

Until then, my mantra is “sleep is for the weak”.

Tie my tubes already!

Anniversary presents

So yesterday was my 5-year anniversary. As you may have gathered from my previous post, my husband is not big on gifts, and I’m not really bound by occassion. This year, however, I decided to get a gift for the men who do appreciate me, my boys.

The idea came to me one morning. I had just woken up and was laying in bed watching my youngest. He had cried himself awake sometime in the dead of night, and per usual refused to stay asleep unless next to me, and so he ended up in bed with me.

So I’m laying there, examining his face by the early morning light, overcome by love and all the sappy motherly emotions you hope could last all day. Then he wakes up and gives me the cutest smiles and sweetest hugs, I feel so blessed and I realize, this tiny human being, this is my gift. Every year, him and his brother are my anniversary gifts, and I love and cherish them so much I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Then, in his loving play, he whacks me in the eye and I think, maybe I should have saved the receipt, hrmpff.

I bought them a wooden picnic table for kids with built-in basins for water or sand. My eldest is hypersensitive, so it was recommended he play in/ with sand to help him desensitize a bit. I didn’t know when I bought it that the gift for a 5-year anniversary was wood, but that was a fun coincidence. And we had fun using it, the four of us sitting at the table messing around in the sand. So in the end, our bonus gift was quality family time. No fighting, just fun and laughter.

Until it was naptime. 

Five years of fun times and headaches, happiness  and heartache. And I honestly don’t know how the next five will be, only that I’m in it for the long haul. You know the expression, you made your bed, now you have to lie in it. Well, the first year of marriage was like sleeping in a nice, cozy, new bed. But as the years go by, there’s some wear and tear, and then the lumps appear. My bed’s a little more lumpy than I thought it would be (figuratively, but also literally because of the tiny bodies that keep appearing in it). 

But what do you do with a lumpy bed? You change the mattress, you don’t throw out the whole frame. And even though at times I get so frustrated with my husband that the only thing that helps me through the long hours of the day is fantasizing about being a divorcé (or widow), I think of the commitment we made and what that means to me. 

I search deep and usually come up with a reason to stay in the game. Sometimes it’s a speck of love hidden away in the deep crevices of my heart. Other times, it’s a panick attack like fear of having to raise two small boys on my own. In any case, I usually find a good enough reason to stay married, is what I’m saying.

But after five years, it’s time for a new mattress, a new mindset – time to keep reminding myself and my husband of the reasons we married each other. And since no mattress stays new forever, I just hope the lumps take a little longer to develop this time. The figurative lumps. No more literal ones for me. 

Thing 2 managed to dump a cup full of sand in his diaper

Happy (so-so) mother’s day

Sunday, May 14th. 2017. 7:05 AM. My alarm goes off – my 1,5 yr old son, henceforth to be referred to as Thing 2. I can barely open my eyes, I’m so tired. Perhaps because this is my second unsolicited wake-up call for the day. The first was sometime after 3 AM. This has been going on for the past two weeks and I’ve basically given up on the fact that he’ll go back to sleeping through the night. Sleeping in hasn’t been a thing for me since 2013 anyhow, so I have grown accustomed to minimal rest , I’m sad to say.

So I wake up and go through the morning rituals. Chromecast Thing 2’s favourite YouTube videos to the tv so I get 15 more minutes of shut-eye (that’s just me with my eyes shut listening to his every move), until he decides I’ve lazied about long enough. Then it’s a quick diaper change, and we go down to get him some milk and play until Thing 1 (big bro – 3+ years) wakes up and decides to join the chaos, or better said, bring the chaos, because he is just all over the place.

Breakfast, play, diaper change, play, more diaper change, fight, play, meltdown (everyone gets a turn) and more play. I say play, but it’s more like ‘mess up whatever mom is trying to put away/ clean up’, which seems to bring them loads of joy and entertainment, much to my chagrin.

Eventually, around 11, my husband of five years graces us with his presence. He gives each of the boys a kiss on the forehead, and, almost as an afterthought, he gives me one as well. I resist the tremendous urge to punch him in the throat, seeing as how him being awake and present gives me a little more leeway to tidy up.

After doing the dishes, I step out to throw away the biohazardous waste that my two little captors have produced since waking up. “Happy Mother’s Day”.  That’s my cheery neighbour. I’ve just spent four hours in the trenches doing battle with my two little terrors, and already preparing myself mentally for when I have to go back in, so I don’t really register what she says. I hear myself auto-replying “You too”, hoping it sounded at least half as cheery as she did, because I just dont have it in me to go full-blown-fake happy at the moment. Then it dawns on me, oh yeah, it’s mother’s day. Too late. “Did you forget?”, she asks. “Yeah, just another regular Sunday here”, I say laughingly as I rush back inside, hoping that didn’t come off as bitter, but then again, not having the energy to really care whether it did or not.
As I make my way to the kitchen, I avoid making eye contact with my husband, for fear I won’t be able to stop myself from throttling him with one of the many stuffed animals laying about. I also neglect to mention that our neighbour just gave me another reason to be mad at him. Not that I was expecting gifts: I knew what I was getting into when I married him. And the kids are still too young to guilt into pampering me. But the least he could have done was give me one day – 1 DAY – to sleep in. I think I’ve earned it after all the sleepless nights, all the breastfeeding, all the refereeing. Not asking for much, just one extra hour. Not an afterthought kiss on the forehead. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. Till death do us part. Till death do us part. Thats my go-to mantra when I’m particularly upset. It calms me for some reason.

Tie my tubes already!

Oh yeah, happy mother’s day. MumbleMumbleGrumbleGrumble

Mama Grinch