Tuesday, May 1, 2012

The Years Are Short. The Days Are Long.

Today's post is my journal entry from a year and a half ago.  I am sharing it today because a friend of mine picked up my little 3-year-old Wyatt yesterday (she doesn't have any grandkids, so she has adopted mine) and I haven't seen him in almost 24 hours.  He'll be back this afternoon, but I miss him!  The following list of "Things I hate" seems so pale in comparison to the "things I love".

Dear God, Thank you for toddlers (and children of all ages).  Thank you for letting them grow up.  Thank you for giving us this sure means to sanctity.  Thank you for friends who give me a chance to miss my kids.  Thank you for giving us so many chances to get it right.  Thank you for the gift of time.  Amen.

December 8, 2010  - 8:42am 

Just put Wyatt down.  Walker is watching Wall-E.  I feel like I need to purge my brain of all of the things I hate about having a toddler, so I can embrace the things I love and focus on them instead.  I hate being screamed at first thing in the morning, over and over, and over…Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy.  Quiet and peacefulness seem to evade me at every turn.  I long for quietude.  I hate it when I’ve stapled something and laid it on the desk to return minutes later to find it ripped apart already.  I hate it that whenever the garage door is unlocked, he is outside in a New York minute.  I hate it when he says a word over and over and over again, and when I finally offer it to him (juice, milk, cucumber, cracker, bear, etc.) he screams “no” and turns his head the other way.  I hate it when I give him something to eat and he squishes it up in his fingers (bananas seem to be perfect for this), or takes a few bites and spits it out (cucumbers and carrots seem to be perfect for this).  I hate it that he says get out “gout” over and over and over in his car seat and from his booster at the kitchen table, only to climb up in another seat and reach for something he’s not supposed to have.  I hate it that I put him in the van with 2 minutes until departure and he spilled altoids everywhere, buried the garage door remote control, and locked us out of the van.  Thank God for spare keys!  As Walker so brilliantly pointed out “I wonder how he got in there?”  Good point.  I hate it when I’ve just put all of the books in the bookshelf, and he pulls them right back out again.  I hate it when he won’t eat or stay in his high chair, especially at a restaurant.  I hate it when I give him something and he throws it on the ground or hits it out of my hand.  I hate pacing the house, looking for his bear at bedtime, when I’m already tired.  I hate having to leave Brayton’s field trip early, because he runs off or gets into trouble when he’s put down and wriggles and resists when held.  I hate the way he pulls at his hat and says “off” when it is 32 degrees outside and I need him to leave it on.  I hate the way his hands freeze on the bike ride to school because he won’t leave his mittens on.  I hate the constant messes.  Ahhhh.  That feels better. 

I love holding him on my lap in the morning when he eats his cereal from a cup and drinks his milk.  He sits so still.  I love it when he says “Amen” when we sit down to eat.  I love rocking him at naptime and bedtime, reading him stories.  I love it when he is chasing Walker around the house.  I love it when he points at my face and says “eyes, mouth, nose.”  I love to hear him say new words.  I love it when he says “Thank you” for EVERYTHING.  (Thank you, juice.  Thank you, milk.  Thank you, cracker.)  I love it when he says “What are you doing?”  I love watching him play in the bathtub.  I love watching him run, when I am not fearing for his safety (these times are rare – he is usually heading for the street, curb, or some other lurking danger).  I love watching him read books in his room or playing with a train saying “Chugga, chugga” or “choo-choo”, I love the ways he dances to almost any kind of music.  I love it when he whispers “okay” to everything when asked a question, instead of “yes”.  I love it when we tell knock-knock jokes, and he says “Who’s there?”  I love it when he laughs, just because everyone else is laughing.  I love going in to get him out of his bed (except that first time in the morning when he has been screaming my name, repeatedly), and looking at that big smile on his face.  I love the way he nestles in, after just waking up.  I love watching his little hands put a helmet on a LEGO guy.  I love the way he totes his little bear around and kisses it constantly (until it is my job to look for it).  I love the way he says “Boo!” when he walks into a room or to the stranger in the grocery aisle.  I love the way he says “What’s that?!!” in an excited whisper when he hears a strange sound.  I love the way we rush outside to see the trash truck doing its thing (who else cares about that?). 

When I find myself fantasizing about “turning him over” to a Mother’s Day Out program for a reprieve, I always return to the thing that keeps me from it…No one loves him as much as I do.  As crazy as he can make me, no one is as concerned about meeting his needs as I am.  The reminders that “This too shall pass” and “Enjoy it, it goes quickly” are often of little comfort in the span of a seemingly endless day.  However, what they say is true.  I shall “begin again” today.  Here we go…

1 comment:

  1. I love this post! Makes me feel more "normal"!