Cynthia 718
Writing from Brooklyn, New York about urban parenting.Archive for On motherhood
The end of the line
I sometimes complain that I don’t get any special treatment during this pregnancy. It’s true that a lot of the the hype and excitement of being pregnant is just not there the second time around. And I do have to try to keep up my end of the household duties this time. But seriously, I haven’t done the nighttime routine with Diego since last Tuesday, and that’s only because that’s soccer night for Matt. I vacuumed the living room today but I wouldn’t bother checking the corners. The bottom line is I’m only going to be pregnant for a few more weeks and then it’s back to sleeplessness… and my vacation from responsibility will be officially over.
Book club– on being a bad mother one time
With the help of a book entitled Writing Motherhood, by Lisa Garrigues, I write this post.
Jeez, he’s only 2 years old what could I really have done, what outrageous act, or one of omission, could I really be accused of? He punched me in the chest tonight, right below my neck, as I dragged him to his bed for the thousandth time. And I plopped him in, again, for the 15th time in the past minute. Yes, I read to him about dinosaurs. Not just about tricerotops and the mighty T-rex but about the apatosaurus and iguanadon, diplodocus and parasaurolophus.
I can’t always reconcile my fake nice self with how I really feel but he doesn’t experience that so much. He doesn’t know about sarcasm. He’s not aware of the way I roll my eyes and walk away while people are still talking to me. But kids are intuitive. They sense tension and they pick up more than we initially give them credit for even at an early age.
Crying in front of him and fighting with my husband in front of him are my gravest concerns. Eventually, it will be slightly more okay, at least the crying, because he should understand that I’m human and not a rock. But my self control seems very important to his stability and it plays into the consistency, boundaries, and routine that make his days predictable and safe so that he can be the one to test limits, push boundaries, and explore.
The last time I brought him into bed tonight I said, “enough is enough.” I threw in white bear and big brown bear and jammed his blanket in the corner of the bed. He pulled his pillow over himself and said, “goodnight daddy,” still goofing around.
I’m pregnant (my standby excuse) and I wasn’t nice to him after an hour and a half of in and out of bed. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s night trained for bathroom use, he’d be in his crib. Be careful what you wish for.
If I take responsibility, I want to take credit, too
I need to express the minor injustice that I have experienced of late. I get a lot of positive feedback regarding my son who turned 2 yesterday. Mostly I hear that he’s “an angel,” “a saint,” followed by “you don’t know how lucky you are.” Guess what? I do. I’m no dummy, as Diego would say. But when he pushes someone off of a slide at tot shabbat, I’m there to make things right. Doesn’t it stand to reason that I should be allowed a pat on the back for some of the good stuff, too?
He doesn’t exist in a vaccuum and he’s made up of half of my genes. I’m the one who feeds him peanut butter out of the jar now and cleverly placed the exersaucer behind the loveseat so he couldn’t watch The Golden Girls as an infant. These are crucial, delicate decisions and I nailed them. I’ll end my self-praise there. Just know that I share a small part of Diego’s successes along with his not-so-successes.
