Birthing Beautiful Ideas

Have you ever read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day?

It’s about this little boy who wakes up one morning and goes on to have (you guessed it) a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  His brothers treat him like crap, his mom forgets to put dessert in his lunch, his best friend relegates him to “third best friend,” and his entire day reeks of the sort of one-damn-thing-after-another suckitude that dooce  talks about when she bemoans Ben Stiller movies.

My day started off by taking a page right out of that book.

Both boys were up before 5 a.m. (CURSES to the paper guy who hurled the blasted newspaper into the front door!)  With M in our bed with me, and Tim in the bed next to A’s crib, we were hoping against hope that the kids would at least sleep until 6.

But then M started kicking me, and when I kindly asked him to stop, he began kicking me more, and when I sternly told him to stop, he started kicking me and giggling, and then the pre-dawn erupted into a mommy-and-preschooler-tizzy, which ended with both M and A wide awake and ready to roll.

And oh the crankiness.

There was a bath attempt.  An attempt at “calmness.”  Except that as I removed A’s diaper on the bathroom floor, I discovered a SURPRISE poo, which meant that I had to chase A around the house with a wet wipe, all the while hoping that he wouldn’t sit down and smear brown stink onto his grandmother’s carpet.

Then when I wrangled him, wiped him, and whisked him back to the bathroom, he peed all over the floor just as I set him down on the linoleum.

It was something a 6 p.m. brain could handle.  But not my 6 a.m. brain.

Then during breakfast there were Cheerios strewn across the kitchen floor, and then teeny angry feet stomping said Cheerios into oblivion.

There were sippy cups chucked at Mommy’s head, and bits of cheese launched onto the stove.

There were screams and whines and alternating demands for more juice and more milk and a banana and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and where’s that milk already and hurry it up with the sandwich would’ja, and after about an hour I wanted to shout, “When are you kids going to be old enough to make your own damn sandwiches?  In fact, why don’t you both get me a drink, a warm meal, and then tuck me into bed while you clean up the kitchen and write my dissertation?  Mmmkay?”

I didn’t really say those things.

But I sure was thinking them as I walked my cranky boys back to their bedrooms for an 8:50 a.m. nap. 

I was thinking about how nice it would be when they weren’t so dependent on me for their health and safety and well-being.  I was thinking about how much I look forward to “sleeping in” until 7 a.m. some day.  I was thinking about a future in which I could let A run off into the next room without me worrying about whether he’s about to hurt or poison or otherwise harm himself.  I was thinking about a future in which M could, yes, make his own damn sandwich.

I was wishing away the days.  Wishing away the next few years until raising kids could get “easier.”

(I know parents of teenagers are out there going, “Just you wait, Kristen.  Just you wait.“)

After both boys fell asleep within minutes (evidence for God’s existence?), I had the chance–a precious sliver of time–to review some of the pictures I had taken during a recent outing to the playground.

And my attention was immediately drawn toward a particularly sweet photo of M and A.

There was my almost-four-year-old M at the bottom of the slide.  That little boy who just earlier this summer trembled at the mere sight of a slide.  The little boy who once refused to go down the slide even on his parents’ laps.  The little boy whose independence and confidence is blossoming each day.

From where did this new-found bravery come?  Who is this big boy now anxious to slip down the giant twisty slide fifteen times in one park visit?  What happened to that little guy who always needed Mommy’s reassuring hand in his hand on the playground?

And then there is A, M’s 16-month-old brother, at the top of the slide.  No prompting.  No positioning.  He just turned around at the top of the slide and slid down to the bottom, all by himself.  As if it were no big deal.  So nonchalant.  So cool.

From where did this new-found independence come?  Who is this toddler who can now navigate the playground equipment all by himself?  What happened to the snuggly baby who used to spend each park outing in the comfort of his sling?

In fact, it seems like just yesterday that both boys were tiny, squishy newborns.

And though I cannot soon forget the sleepless nights and marathon nursing sessions and the ear-piercing cries of their infancy, I also cannot soon forget their sweet baby smells and their small, helpless bodies pressed against my own as I held them.

And I now treasure those moments that they still want my reassuring hand in their hand, in which they still need me to help them cross the street or to read them a bedtime story…or even to make them a sandwich.

These moments slide by far too quickly for me to want to wish them away.

Even if I have to trudge through a few terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.