Baby Loves TV

It never dawned on me that I wasn’t a good enough mother, until I started reading parenting books.

But as I become more weathered by this thing called parenting, I have learned to cut myself a little slack. I have learned to trust my gut and my instinct, and in turn live happier as a Mom.

I have discovered that each child brings a new set of firsts that need wrangling and understanding; each bringing a unique parenting challenge to the table. Thankfully as more kids have come along, I have learned to worry about doing it right less, and doing what I know is best, more.

My first baby couldn’t latch on to nurse properly. Turns out she was tongue-tied, and our pediatrician refused to do anything about it. For weeks she and I cried through every feeding. I hated nursing, and began to hate being my baby’s mother. Eventually I pumped and bottle fed her, and though there were far fewer tears and significantly less pain, I hated pumping too. Against expert advice, I eventually formula fed my baby, and as soon as I did, I loved her in a way I hadn’t before. As soon as I did, I wish I had listened to my mother and my gut sooner. She was happier and I was happier.

My second baby liked to wake in the middle of the night and behave like a belligerent drunk. He would stay awake for several hours at a time, often thrashing or crying. I do not remember half of 2005 and most of 2006 due to sleep deprivation. Against expert advice we began co-sleeping in order to survive. This bugger still likes to be in my room when he sleeps…but I’m pretty sure he’s not going to want me rooming with him in college. Instincts (and common sense) say it’s okay to let him ride out his nighttime issues on his own time.

 

With my third we thought we’d hit the baby jackpot. Until around 6 months when she decided to start screaming in restaurants. Blood curdling, mind bending screams. For fun. Except it was only fun for her. It was startling and deafening for the rest of us. I have never had so many nasty comments from strangers as I did in the three or four months she practiced her freedom of speech when out to eat. So I started drinking a lot when we’d go out to dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.  Against expert advice of course.

Our fourth baby was pure joy for the first two weeks of his life. Then we discovered rather abruptly that he hates the car. He too possesses the ear piercing screaming gene. Yay for us. There is not much worse than needing to run three kids in multiple directions five, six or sometimes seven days a week with a shrieking newborn in the car. Even though he is now better at controlling his emotions, I still break into a cold sweat every time I buckle him into his car seat. Of course, against expert advice, around this time I rekindled my romance with speeding. And listening to the car radio a leeeetle too loudly. It was kinda like being in high school again. ‘Cept for that screaming newborn in the backseat.

 

With baby number one I was doing everything by the book, and my baby and I were pretty miserable. I thought my baby had to sleep in her own bed. And therefore no one slept. I thought my baby had to be breastfed. And therefore she was starving for the first four months of her life. I thought my baby had to learn to fall asleep on her own and self-soothe. And therefore I drink drank a lot of wine at bedtime. And she cried a lot of tears. And it sucked. And I swore I would never put myself or one of my children through that hell again.

By baby number four, I refuse to read a parenting magazine or book. I figure thanks to my intuition I’ve got this good-enough parenting thing figured out. It helps that I now realize there’s no way I’ll ever get it all right, and frankly I’ve quit trying.

 

So the baby watches TV while I make dinner and the big kids do homework. Hell yes he does. He takes one for the team so I don’t stab someone with a fork or cry over my inability to understand third or fifth grade math. It also means I don’t have to wear him steam pressed to my saggy chest…again! And I’m a good-enough mother because of it.

So my preschooler spends time playing on my phone. Will she get kicked out of preschool? Will she feel neglected and unloved? Will she drop out of high school?  I think not. When she is engrossed in a good game of Pocket Edition (read free!) Minecraft, I get a reprieve from her complete inability to sit-freaking-still. I don’t have to answer the same damn question five thousand, three hundred and six times. In five minutes. And I’m a more focused mother because of it.

So summer vacation, winter vacation, spring vacation, half days, sick days, snow days, any day that ends in day may involve a movie. Usually my only stipulation is that it is longer than 90 minutes. Movie days don’t mean my kids will end up dull minded. It simply means that I’m not constantly looking at this: (and I’m a better mother because of it).

Yeah, my baby watches TV. But I think he’ll be okay.

I screw up a lot as a mother and I love my kids more than anything. I know that someday my kids will be parents, and they’ll be screwing up too. And that will make me love them even more.



Night Life

During nights like last night, when I'm up every 20 minutes soothing, bouncing, burping, or nursing a very uncomfortable baby, I like to catch up on my laundry.

Usually I am at peace with the fact that I am up. This middle of the night work, these measuring doses of gas drops and Tylenol, this running to the garage to retrieve medicine from the diaper bag, stopping only to sop up water from a leaky dishwasher, is part of the job. And of course, between longing glances at the clock, diapers and pajamas are changed, and there is hope that at some point during the night the baby’s whimpering will cease, and even he and I will settle into a deep and comfortable sleep.

I’m so groovy with these nights that at first, when I quietly walk up to my husband’s side of the bed I only gently nudge him in the gut with my knee, just briefly interrupting his sleep. At first, I just want the snoring (think herd of large animals engaging in group flatulation) to stop so that I can think.  Or hear the TV. Or concentrate on Instagram. And in the beginning, say the first hour or so, I truly appreciate my husband groggily picking his head up off the pillow, as if to ask if I need his help or a break, and then laying it gently back down again without saying a word. I think he thinks I don’t see him. Initially I really don’t mind when he scowls at me through sleepy eyes, disgruntled because the hallway light is on, or, heaven forbid, I flushed the toilet. But in the spirit of honesty folks, it gets old. After three or four hours, it gets really old.

Thankfully great clarity comes to me during nights like last night. When I am up. And exhausted. And my husband is, well….not up or exhausted. I am able to plan my day; get a jump start on my list of things to do. I make a mental checklist and settle on laundry. Laundry is perfect.

Since the baby and I are in this together, we pad down the dark and quiet hallway. I survey the laundry room, assessing each pile and settle on towels. Filling the washer I make sure to use the hottest of the hot water settings. And I smile as I set the delay start, knowing that this is where the magic happens. Because the one thing that sleeping through the night will allow my husband to do, is roll out of bed when his alarm chimes, and go about his very predictable weekday routine.  Alarm. Pee. Shower. 5:30, 5:31, and 5:32. Monday through Friday.

Coincidentally I am loading my washer at 2:30 in the morning. And not coincidentally I am setting the washing machine to start in three beautiful hours. Thinking of our inadequate well filling the machine with lots of hot, hot water at just about the time my husband attempts to take a hot, hot shower will undoubtedly bring me a deep sense of peace. And make my four hours of sleep some of the best four hours of sleep I’ve had in a long time.

There wasn’t a whole lotta this going on last night…



Opening Day

Game one for the Cubs is in the books…

 

As Opening Day commenced, I had every intention of capturing just one snapshot of father and son together on the field, as this is the first time my husband has coached one of our kids. I dutifully clutched my phone for the first ten minutes of warm ups. Well, no, that is a lie. For the first ten minutes of warm ups I spread blankets, positioned a stroller, a chair and a shade umbrella. I readied toys, rattled off available snacks and started to sweat. Like a lot. Looking back I realize I should have called it a day when my shins started sweating. Damn capris.

 

So, let’s say that for the next 10 minutes after the first ten minutes, I diligently clutched my phone waiting for the perfect shot: Dad and son side by side. One learning from the other; each searing these moments into their infinitely inadequate man-child memory. But in those first few minutes, as shin sweat puddled at my feet and back sweat zinged down my spine, their smiling faces, pats on the back, and all that camaraderie crap blurred.

It coulda been the sweat dripping into my eyes. Or it coulda been that I began bouncing a fussy baby. And then attempted to discreetly nurse a screaming baby.  Surely the realization that I had to put my phone down had nothing to do with an awkward mixture of exposed breast, squawking baby and uncontrolled milk spillage.

The game hadn’t even started and I had already changed two poopy diapers, sopped gobs of spit up out of my tank top, bought a stroller full of snacks and water for the girls (even though I brought from home a van full of snacks and waters for the girls), made at least one pilgrimage to the van to feed a baby, and changed said baby’s outfit cause he peed on himself.

To be fair to the baby, the part where he peed on himself was totally my fault.  I had been hot-shotting the diaper change and momentarily forgot that the baby was in fact a boy with a pretty solid track record of peeing or pooping all over the van, not to mention his impressive range-of-stream. Temporarily forgetting that I was not in fact at the game to say...enjoy myself...I took my eyes off the diaper region to chat, and was swiftly put back in my place by my three month old.

New outfit for baby, myself soiled from boobs to ankles; I mustered all my strength and dragged my soggy self, the girls and the baby back to the field. And I left my phone alone, giving up hope of making any moment a Kodak/Facebook/Instagram one. But I watched (and doled out quarters for sugar, and bounced a baby, and chatted a little with myself). I focused on my boy and my husband and the fun they were having.  And I will remember. Their smiles. The pats on the back. And all that camaraderie crap.

And if I worried about missing a moment of the game, I shouldn’t have. Because in the cool tranquility of the van on the ride home…I got the play by play. In great detail. Twice.

I volunteered my husband as a Coach this season. And even though I had clearly been drinking heavily when that idea seeped into my pickled brain, I am happy for them. They will remember.