Tuesdays on The Little Mumma are normally reserved for Harlow. Today's post would be Eight Little Weeks. Has she really been here for so long already?
But I can't write that post tonight. I can't write it because I am too damned tired. The kind of tired that feels like you have grit in your eyes and lead in your bones.
Today was a challenge from the moment my feet hit the ground. Both boys had unspent energy surging through them, two little livewires, crackling with electricity. We were expecting friends for a playdate so I knew that would help burn through some of it. And it did…until the playdate ended and their little friend went home. In the aftermath, we were left with two excited, exhausted kids. A veritable nightmare combination. Especially when you are trying to get an eight week old baby down for a nap.
And me? I wasn't sitting particularly well in the role of the mummy today. Some days, it's an uncomfortable fit. Awkward. Stretched in all the wrong places. Or minus analogy – today I was without patience, grace or empathy. And I said fuck in front of the kids. Well, to clarify, I said it to them. I believe my exact words were, "What the fuck are you doing?" They may or may not have overheard me saying it at other times in a conversation not directed at them….
So all the factors for a truly shitful day were in place but Luca was exercising a particularly infuriating brand of attitude today, not only refusing to do as he was asked but encouraging his little brother to do the very thing I had said not to do. Like run back and forth in the house when Harlow was trying to sleep. Their thunderous footsteps pounding against the floorboards disturbed her on more than one occasion so that getting anything done was virtually impossible as I see-sawed between resettling the baby and screaming at the boys.
Some days, I am calm and reasoned. Today I was just fucking angry. My whole body vibrated with tension. At one point, in an effort to catch the boys in an act of defiance, I whipped around the corner so quickly, I smacked my head into the doorframe. The universe literally put an obstacle in my way but still, it didn't slow me down, didn't remind me to check myself before I let the air of my lungs in a voice designed to frighten my children into submission. The four-year-old was sufficiently scared. The two-year-old mimicked me back to me.
Naturally, I would fold Luca into my arms as he wailed that I was frightening him. I would apologise, he'd nod his head when I asked him to help me out by behaving. I'd feel myself relaxing as I soothed him. But every single time, sensing the point where I was calm again, he would wriggle out of my arms and go directly back to what it was he had been doing before – the thing that had made me lose my shit in the first place.
Brick wall. My head.
I have never wished my children weren't mine. But there are days when I could live without being their full-time, 24/7 carer. I think it might be nice to have a nanny to watch them while I popped out for lunch, to get my nails done….or sit in my car with the stereo turned up to eleven and just fucking sob.