Who Said Moving Can Be Stressful?

After all, I am a pro.

Not only will this be my 10th state to move to, I've probably moved a couple of times in half of those states. So you get rid of the excess, debate with your husband on what is worthy of getting rid of (select precious newborn outfits from when our babies were so new or his 20-year-old microwave from college that has several groovy stickers on it), pack it all up and load it into a truck.  In a way, this is one way to really "spring clean."  Otherwise, I don't think I would've found the energy to sort through all of our closets and drawers in an effort to simplify.

So what does make moving so stressful?  Is it the money?  You have to cancel your cable and electric and while you're waiting 6-8 weeks for those deposits to be returned; we're paying deposits on our new cable and electric.    Then we're trying to eat up all the perishables in the house.  But doesn't that mean when we get there, we'll have to stock our fridge again with our usual salad dressings, ketchup, honey mustard, butter, and pina colada mixer?

And then there are all of the questions.  How quickly do I want to find work?  And where?  How soon will I start the boys in preschool? And where?  When can I get them into swim lessons?  Where will I grocery shop?  Get gas?  Can I start new routines right off the bat?  New bedtime routines?  New expectations? We

Our dog is tweaking out.  With each box packed he's looking at us for reassurance that we are indeed bringing him (and we wouldn't have it any other way!).  Our kids, especially Luke, says things like "I can't wait to move to Florida! Does Batman live in Florida?" one minute; "I don't want to move to Florida, I want Florida to go away" the next.

As I get closer to the move, there is the rush of sadness in realizing I am leaving behind good friends.  Picture this movie-style...as I drive by (rain pouring down my window) the parks we've played at, the beaches we swam at and the libraries we read - I can hear a little Natalie Merchant playing in the background as I hear the echoes of laughter with my friends as we talked about the crazy things our kids are always doing. In the excitement of the big move, the "we'll see you soon" disclaimer always seemed to make me feel better.  At least I go with a great feeling that I have great friends here!  And there have been so many great times here!

No wonder I snapped at the hubster the other night when the DVR forced him into choosing between Intervention and Smash.  Just about to climb into bed for a good night's sleep, excited about catching Smash the very next morning; I saw the DVR message light up the screen asking him the question "Zac, which one will you delete?" - I darted out to the living room, jumping over the couch - well, almost - "what are you doing, which one are you about to delete?!"  He looked at me stunned, most likely thinking this is just TV.  I grabbed the remote and swiftly cancelled Intervention.  And I stormed off to bed.

The next morning we chalked it up to unusual behavior based by stress from our move.  I've seen a few of these moments like these.  And I wondered why I could get so worked up.  How can I possibly be "stressed."  This is a good thing, overall, this move. So I made a list, I'm going to stick by it and enjoy my last week here in Charleston.  Taking time to breathe and just live in the day.  One day at a time.  Nothing crazy.  It's just a move.  No stress here.  And if you believe me, you should try it sometime!   

Bedtime Battles Continued

I’m sure there will be a time when I look back and appreciate the endearing moments of tortured screaming at bedtime.  Maybe when they’re thirteen and they don’t want anything to do with me.  Or when they’re sixteen and sleeping until noon (or maybe it’s the other way around and I don’t know it yet because my boys are 19 months and 33 months-or do I just say almost 3?).

Today, however, it’s the greatest thing in this insane world of motherhood that can get my anxiety to a level I’ve never felt.   The cries, screaming, pleading and bargaining.

During this madness, I’ve got the caring and firm mommy conflicting within me.

The caring and sensitive side of me wants to jump at every cry out and rush to their aide.

“I need my mommy!”  I’m there in a second!

“I have to go potty!”  We were so successful in potty training, how could I betray his trust of the system.

“I need more water!”  It’s summer.  He could be thirsty.  What if he’s dehydrated…I MUST check on him.

“Mommy!  Don’t. Do. This. To. Meeeeee!”  My heart is shattering.  I’m clearly setting him up for emotional disaster. 

And I return to his aide once again.

But then…the curtain falls, the precipitous silence envelopes crowd, the spotlight shining on the other half of me; exhausted, confused, frustrated.

Duped. 

I know I’m being manipulated and I question my reasoning in my coddling moves.   How can it be wrong when it seems so natural and motherly?  I need to be firm.

Yet each afternoon and each night for as long as I can remember, it’s a battle.  My husband, my mother, my best friends all think I should handle it in a different way.  I’ve always been labeled as too sensitive.  Being a firm and consistent mother has no room for the overly sensitive.  And now I feel outplayed.  I need to be stern.  I need to be more consistent. 

I know this is a phase or at least I’m pretty sure they won’t be crying and screaming like this when they’re home visiting us from college.  It’s got to end.  I just hope I can figure it out and do the right* thing along the way.  In the meantime, I’ll just battle my inner Jekyll & Hyde…which is appropriate since it’s my favorite Broadway musical. 

*If you know the right thing, please leave a comment or post on our Facebook page!  Luke, Zealand, (aka...my two little stinkers) if you’re reading this…I’m onto your games and I WILL win this challenge! 


*Leah

 

Speaking of Sleep...

I know you all have heard Samuel L. Jackson’s narration of Adam Mansbach’s Go the F*ck to Sleep, a vertible transcript of many a parent in the midst of their child’s bedtime idiocy. 

The very clip fell into my hands on the first eve of a new bedtime routine.  At no other point could I have related more.  Unless that point is now.  Several weeks later. 

But let’s flash back a moment.  In June, I took my first, very much earned and needed, trip away from all of my boys to spend a blissful weekend at a lake house in Tennessee with ten girlfriends, many of whom I hadn’t even seen since before I had Luke, almost 3 years ago.  The weekend was a mirror of the good ol’ college days… full of vivacious laughter, too much beer, gossip and reminiscence of a time when Hootie and the Blowfish dominated the air waves, everyone wondered if Ross and Rachel would end up together, and Drink & Drown was every Wednesday night at Mainstreet. 

With the precision of an anesthesiologist arriving just when you’re about to tussle with your husband in that “tranquil” birthing suite; I welcomed Sunday relaxed and ready to return to my family.   I’m sure I must’ve had some thoughts that their sleep would be disrupted with the brief change in our home.  I didn’t realize it was going to be a lasting change.  Night after night following my return, my 2 ½ year old refused bed.  He screamed and cried and kicked behind his secured door.  Then suddenly, one night it hit me; he wants freedom.  It occurred to me that my daytime-potty-trained son was becoming too independent to not have the freedom at night. 

Easy enough.  I’ve smuggly watched this one hundred times on Supernanny.  I was better than all of those moms.  I’ve got this under control, I thought.  I shared my master plan with my husband:  tonight, we set him free.  If he comes out, we simply put him back in his bed without a word.  He’ll get bored and we’ll win.

Excitedly, I share with my big boy that we have officially removed his safety lock.

“Honey, when you have to go potty, just come on out and we’ll make sure you go and then you just go right back to bed.” 

He seized the opportunity.  The freedom.  Immediately.  And five minutes later, he did again.  And again.  Each time, I did as I had studied and without a word, I returned him to his bed.  Before I knew it, almost two hours had gone by and I had lost my “me time” for that night. 

This continued.  Night after frustrating night, I felt myself losing.  I was no longer in control.  He was flat out manipulating me and my husband knew it.  Why wasn’t this working, I questioned my process wishing that Brit nanny was sitting with me, coaching me.  But she wasn’t.  I couldn’t process the situation any longer. 

I talked to my friends.  I talked to my mom.  Even now, I don’t exactly have an answer.  But we have found a compromise.  He gets three chances (and that is way too many chances!) to use the potty from the time we start our bedtime stories.  By the third chance, he gets to use the potty but the gate on his door.  For over a week now, he’s just been playing the game.   He will repeat our deal verbatim. 

“Three times and I get the gate.”  He recites.

“Yes, son.  But you don’t want the gate up.  You just want to stay in your room after the second time.”  I smile, encouragingly.

He’s playing the game.  He will reach the third potty break and say, “Okay, that was three.”  He hops back into bed, I have to tuck him in, put the gate up and then…finally…quiet.

I may not be able to actually use the F-word to enhance my wishes at bedtime, but you know as I picture my cushy couch and that empty wine glass awaiting me in the next room; I sure am thinking it.

While They Dream

Some of the most endearing moments in a life filled with children are when it is so quiet.  Sometimes during an ever-frenzied day, it's hard to imagine such calm.  I had a beautiful moment just last week as I checked in on my sleeping boy...

The entire house is quiet except for the white noise of his small fan, his little lips are allowing such sweetness of small breaths to exit his dreaming body.  His blue satin blanket is laced between his fingers and propped across the side of his face.  His long legs which seem to be growing faster than ever, are stretched almost the length of his mattress.  The strands of his curiously blonde hair highlight a frame around his 18-month-old face.

The three meltdowns from earlier and the spilled juice on our newly steamed carpet—almost a distant memory.  The endless account of “no’s” heard throughout the day seem less frustrating now when I look down on my sleeping son.

Who is this little person?  Who is this being that my husband and I lovingly created?  In the madness of a day, it’s so hard to take the time to visit those questions…to really take it in.  The magnitude of what it is to be a mother or a father.  Every lesson taught, every kiss sealed onto their forehead.   Every “I love you” realized. 

You are shaping who they are with every second of the day.  And isn’t it amazing the love that can rise above all the chaos and stress of each day and make it all so very right? 

When looking at my son, I see his body snuggled comfortably in his bed after he’s exerted all of that energy; I see the depth and the magic of his being. 

A child in slumber enhances the mystic delight of being a mom.