my pink toes

My friend Heidi had a plaque that read “Being a mother is like being pecked to death by chickens”. Even though it was a gift from her grandmother, we convinced her to take it down. Heidi has never described any aspect of motherhood as being like that. Heidi is the person who truly thinks it’s hilarious and charming when one of her children throws up all over her.

I am a lot more like Heidi’s grandmother than I am like Heidi. These days I feel as if I’m being pecked to death. It’s like Chinese water torture, but with “Hey Mom!, Hey Mom!, Hey Mom!” instead of “drip, drip, drip” or “peck, peck, peck”. At this point, I think I’d prefer the water. Or even the chickens. They couldn’t possibly bore a hole in my skull any bigger than the one my kids are creating. My children usually smell better than chickens, though. Usually.

I was coming down with this crud while in the car, driving up to my parents’ house. After 2 “Hey Mom!” hours, I finally had to ask for a break. “Talk to Dad”, I said. After the initial 10 minutes of STILL talking to me and Dave reminding them I couldn’t talk anymore, they then talked to each other or were silent the rest of the way. They didn’t talk to Dave at all. They didn’t ask him a hundred questions. This makes me crazy.

Dave can read a book in the middle of the house and not be bothered. I can’t even pee or brush my teeth without being constantly barraged. Hey Mom! Hey Mom! Hey Mom! “Why don’t they do this to you?” I pleaded. “Why is it never ‘Hey Dad?’” “They know I don’t listen to them”, he replied. And here I thought he just never listened to me.

I am trying to rest my voice and it is nearly impossible. Henry has to talk to me and be near me ALL. THE. TIME. I am so totally not kidding about this. He will lie on the floor, writhing around, causing me to step over him with every move I make. I cannot make dinner without his presence. I cannot blow my nose without his presence. He is always RIGHT THERE. He also used to complain the entire time he was twirling around on the floor. It was a constant diatribe about how he wants me to play with him and I’m not doing enough and I should stop making dinner and drop everything and do his exact bidding RIGHT NOW. Now – I said “NOW!”.

We got a bit of counseling recently and I have finally felt like I can establish more boundaries. I no longer let him complain, but he still lies there. ForEVER. “You have a houseful of toys!” I wail in vain. Nope, he’d rather dust the floor with his backside, staring at the wall, “Hey Mom!”ing me to death.

People say that I’ll be sad when Henry is 12 and no longer wants to play with me every minute. Occasionally I think that’s true, but usually I worry that I’m raising a Buster Bluth.

I have tried to make my children feel like I’m interested in them, want to play with them and am available for them. Has this backfired? I don’t know. I really think it’s a personality difference. Peter will chat with me for a while, will ask for “snuggle time” on the couch, and will climb all over me and my computer in his 3-year-old way. But after he’s satisfied, he’ll wander off and create his own narrative with his king costume and Playmobil pirates. Henry is never ever satisfied. I could spend every waking moment doing exactly what he wants, and it would not be enough. If he had his way, he’d sleep with me too.

Peck, peck, peck. I hate feeling so frustrated by my children. Losing my voice has been frustrating, but not as frustrating as being “Hey Mom!"ed to death.

*I wrote this a couple weeks ago when I was sick, but like so many things, I didn’t get around to posting it! It need to just publish more often. Things are much much better now, but this captured what my mind was like at the moment.*