The price of my sanity

This morning at (the new) 5:30 Deaglan sprang awake exclaiming he was starving. A few minutes later Naveen wailed from his bed that he wanted “someping to weat Mama!” For Deaglan I whipped up a two egg omelette with chopped ham and for Naveen a raisin bagel; a cup of apple juice for both.

Ten minutes after they’d eaten, only two sips into my coffee, Deaglan asked if he could have a treat – aka Halloween candy.  “No, have a banana or apple.” I said and explained for the millionth time how bad sugary junk was for his teeth and body. And reluctantly, with a four year-old version of a scowl, he took my advice and grabbed fruit for both himself and his brother.  Two minutes after they’d eaten a banana each, they wanted me to peel them an orange.

Twenty minutes later Deaglan asked if he could have a treat since he’d now eaten something healthy. I refused and poured them both a glass of milk and handed them each a Toy Story chewable vitamin.

Five seconds later, Deaglan said he was hungry.

At this point I may have lost my patience (and mind) and asked him in a yelly (not calm) voice if he thought I was his (frickin) personal servant. Unfazed he insisted that he couldn’t help it if he was hungry. Still hysterical I told him he’d have to eat something bready – when it comes to not eating carbs this kid has the discipline of a monk. I made him half a raisin bagel sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar after he’d warned me that he’d only eat one piece so I shouldn’t even bother toasting both parts. Naturally, after he finished it, he wanted the other half.

I had no words.  

In the name of self-preservation, I walked to the kitchen counter where their trick-or-treat baskets sat out of reach, unwrapped a lollipop and mini bag of M & M’s, let them know it was at the kitchen table and told them not to speak to me again. Ever.

It wasn't even (the new) 10 am.

Repentance

Lately I’ve been struggling to find equilibrium between my ideal self – you know, organized, calm, proactive, loving – and my real self – reactive, irritated, often irrational bordering on CRAZY. It’s not easy to strike the balance.

I yell at the kids when this was never part of my parenting plan. I send them off to bed too often without cracking a book and yet I’m completely pro-reading. I feed them hot dogs and chicken nuggets but I know eating right is essential to their health.  I let them watch Diego instead of taking them outside at the end of the work day so I can enjoy a glass of wine in peace.

Let’s see, what else?

I don’t forgive people when I should. I bicker with my husband in front of the kids. I choose being right instead of happy. I sometimes overuse the F word when I’m angry and tired. Okay I often overuse the F word when I’m tired and angry.

I know this is not a confessional and you certainly aren’t my priest.

But the more I do this parenting gig, the more I feel obligated to be honest. I refuse to let my friends think I’m something I’m not, so I always correct them when they praise me for being an outstanding mom. I gain nothing by projecting an image that doesn’t properly reflect me.

I got carded at the liquor store today. A small thrill raced through me. My ego almost got carried away.  I should tell you though, the cashier was maybe 19 and this was likely his first day on the job. Plus, this was not a large metropolitan LCBO but the tiny side-of-the road stop-by in a tiny town near Shaune’s parents’ house. And the young guy was shaky and nervous. Also, it was hard to ignore the sign behind his head: “We ID everyone under 25.” Even though the legal drinking age here in Ontario is 19.

And also this:

Last week when Deaglan and I were sitting together watching his new favourite show The Octonaughts, Naveen, a few feet away was repeatedly hitting the on switch to his toy workshop. Deaglan elbowed me in the rib, and asked in confidence:

“Does that fucking thing ever shut off?”

Two things. 

The kid at the liquor store thought I was 25! 

And you have to admit it’s impressive how Deaglan was able to properly express his ire with  a complex use of adjective.

We went camping last week for the long weekend in Port Huron at the KOA. It was a lot of fun. 

Meet the teacher

Deaglan's teachers are like an old married couple.

You know how there's always the husband who doesn't say much, sort of nods, smiles, shifts uncomfortably? And the wife who apologetically makes up for the husband's one word answers by offering beautiful flowing sentences full of information, even if you didn't ask?

Or is that just me and Shaune?

At Meet the Teacher Night a few hours ago, the gushing lovely wife told me that our son was sweet, agreeable and the youngest one in their class. (He was born Christmas Eve) He gets tired in the afternoons she said, picks an activity that requires low energy. Today he built a birdhouse with blocks.

Then she explained with great detail how they'd constructed the reading cubby, how she had remnants leftover from when they got new carpet last year, but then a few months ago at Dollarama, the one on Wellington, she noticed that they had peel-and-stick carpet tiles, so she replaced them with those, but did I notice how the edges were coming undone?

And the reserved brief husband-ish one, well, she smiled and nodded, stood close to an exit.

Naveen plowed through the room tiny-tornado-like, stopping to throw down yogurt containers full of crayons,  empty out baskets of doo-dads, rip pictures the kids had drawn off the walls when he could reach them.

And I was overdressed and sweating, still in my work clothes, a scarf accessorizing my dress; carrying my oversized bag, Deaglan's backpack, the kid's jackets and a family pack of pre-ordered Swiss Chalet meals that none of us had had time to eat.

Shaune just walked in a minute ago and asked hopefully if it had gone okay even without him. He works late a few nights a week and had forgotten to book the night off for Meet the Teacher.

I'd get all chatty and wife-ish but I'm beat.

I'm not going to bother explaining to him that while we were in the lunch room with all the other families, me overdressed and melting, opening our dinners, Naveen was running around all wild, grabbing what he could from other families' dinner tables, dipping his grubby (yet adorable) little fingers into their Chalet sauces within his reach.

I don't have it in me to tell him how after we'd waited in line almost twenty minutes to get our pre-ordered Swiss Chalet, found a seat, and were just about ready to eat, Deaglan suddenly had to pee.  And then when we finally made our way back from the other end of the school, having left my purse, the food, and even my scarf with  a room full of strangers, after I'd set out each kid's food, Deaglan announced quite proudly that now he had to poop!

I won't explain to him that I'd been operating all day from the strong belief  it was Thursday.