Counting the minutes

There are a lot of emails I haven’t responded to and much more interesting posts I’ve written and never finished getting list to and so never posted. There are a million books I could read while I’m nursing, but at this moment, I feel the need to shout publicly that I am going insane!

Yesterday my son and I watched some video from when he was two. I had to cry to see myself getting a such a kick out of every little thing he would say. That’s because now he will not. Shut Up. I’m sorry, but I cannot stand the incessant stream of commentary. He asks questions about any particle of dust that falls or any grunt the baby makes. He offers unsolicited opinions on everything including activities he wants or doesn’t want to do (today or next summer),  food he wants to eat or doesn’t want to eat (now or for his next birthday), musings on when he’ll see again a child he played with for 20 minutes once at a park that is not in our neighborhood.

There are also mini-tantrums of “No!” and “I want it now!” and the regressive “Uppie!” (pick me up), and yes, those are annoying. But it’s the constant barrage of words coupled with his omniscient physical presence that is maddening. He will not leave us alone. All the baby has to do is sigh, and he is up in her grill., kissing her, stroking her head. Scratch that; she doesn’t have to sigh. She just has to be in the vicinity. No, wait; that’s not right either. She just has to be in the house and, like a heat-seeking missile, he must find her. Yes, I know this is sweet. But all good things in moderation, right? Moder-who, my boy would ask? Screw that; he’s all about intensity.

I wish I could chuckle at it all, but I’m tired. The most common phrase around here lately is “I’m just going to look at her” said with a faux-reassuring tone and raised eyebrows for added innocence factor. He also likes to state reality a lot, as in, “Oh, she’s (fill-in-the-verb)ing.” Other less intelligible sounds include “Bleah!” “Vrroom!” and “Raarr!” accompanied by scary faces and claw hands. This is where I start to remember being a little girl and thinking that boys were kind of bizarre creatures. When you’re holding a crying being who weighs less than 10 pounds, and a 40-pound freak comes charging at you with rival volume, well, it’s a little hard for this mama to remember what she learned in Playful Parenting.

So can I be blamed for counting the minutes until preschool starts on Thursday? My very social kid has a mom who, though extroverted, too, has a strong need for quiet thinking time. And since I am now a nursing mom of a baby that is getting increasingly awake, the minutes I have of quiet that do not also involve me leaning forward to offer my breast or my body supporting baby weight in a sling are numbered. The fact that those minutes are supposed to serve multiple purposes of house chores and cooking and anything-more-than-tolerating my son is posing a challenge for me.

His afternoon playdate just picked him up! Quick! Back to the laptop, Bat-mommy! Strap on the Breast Friend pillow again and nurse the baby into a milky coma, then go get the diapers from the washer that just beeped and hang them out in the sun. Then try in vain to do some of cleaning that the preschooler is so good at quickly undoing when I attempt it in his presence… Okay, forget getting the baby to sleep and instead change a newly poopy diaper while fantasizing about re-posting the stuff that didn’t go the first time on Craigslist or Freecycle or just putting it in my husband’s car to go to Goodwill. At some point — maybe after successfully initiating a sling-induced nap and then setting the baby down with crossed fingers that she’ll stay asleep — take a shower and get ready to pick up aforementioned loud boy-creature to take him to friend’s BBQ where I thoroughly expect to feel small and jealous in the presence of real working moms.

Add clean up baby’s first puke to that list and that takes us up to the present!