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.*

Filed Under "Being Henry's Mom" on January 17, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

It’s always been hard to be Henry’s mom. From the time he was just hours old, we had a hunch this baby wouldn’t be like the rest of them. We also got our first clue in how difficult getting help and empathy in parenting this child would be. In the hospital, he nursed 17 hours straight, all though the night. I finally begged the nurses to take him for a bit so I could get some rest. They very reluctantly agreed with lots of tsking and tut-tutting about how I was giving up already and maybe I should put my needs aside and take care of my precious little baby. They didn’t know what I failure I felt even asking for help. That I wouldn’t have asked unless I was at the end of my rope. I had stopped crying, because the tears had run out hours before. I wasn’t hyperventilating, because I was so far beyond that point (after 20 hours of labor, plus 24 hours with a sleepless newborn) that I was nearly catatonic. For a hospital that prides itself on being intuitive and nurturing, it sure would have been nice if someone had noticed my distress and offered to help instead of shaming me when I finally snapped after a two-day ordeal. (Oh yeah, and they also ruined my bladder, but that’s another story altogether…)

I know those of you who have a child with a “real” disability may get angry for my borrowing your paradigm, but parenting Henry seems to feel a lot like we have a disabled child: This is not what I expected. No matter what I do, I can’t get away from it. It gets better, but not by very much at a time. At least I do have the hope that my child will become a “normal” adult and will eventually leave my home, but the day-to-day feels pretty overwhelming.

Coming back from China has made me aware again of how all-encompassing it is to parent Henry on a regular basis. When I’m in the middle of it, I am always overwhelmed, but in a familiar way. Coming back from spending a week and a half with a “normal” eight-year-old was an eye opener. Henry was irritable with me, moody, and impatient from the second he met me at the baggage claim. From the first hour I was back, I could feel my skin starting to crawl. By hour two, I was doing deep-breathing exercises to keep from hyperventilating and having a full-blown anxiety attack. When the kitten arrived at hour three, I nearly went over the edge. Henry took forever to fall asleep that night and then was up from 2:30-5am. By 9 the next morning, I was nearly ready to book myself a one-way ticket to Anywhere Else.

Part of the frustration is that I feel so trapped. If you hate your job, you can quit. You can’t quit being a mom. And I feel like I didn’t choose this stay-at-home-mom job as much as it chose me. I wanted to stay at home, at least for a while – but by the time Henry was a few months old it became abundantly clear that I had no choice in the matter. Any daycare would have kicked him out or abused him. At the very least, they would’ve resented every time he came in the door, and he would’ve picked up on that. It took everything I had on a regular basis to make it through each minute, each hour with him – how could anyone else put that much effort into a kid they didn’t love with every fiber of their being?

I like to think it’s the intense parenting and huge sacrifices we’ve made that have helped shaped Henry into the boy he is now. I think that without all our work, he’d be the kid at school that everyone groaned when they saw coming; the one that all the staff knew by name. Instead, I’m always amazed at Henry’s reputation of being cooperative and helpful. Of course, in order to be that way he lets out all his frustration on me.

I am still “paying” for being gone. Henry still won’t sleep properly – Dave is now sleeping on his floor at my therapist’s recommendation. (I think she knew that if I had to sleep there, I’d go over the edge and never make it back).

My skin still crawls constantly and I feel like I’m hearing fingernails on a chalkboard, but I’m getting used to the feeling again.

I want to write about this whole experience more – to put bits and pieces up here and sort my thoughts out.

I still love this child with every fiber of my being. It’s just a whole lot harder than I thought it would be.

Filed Under "Being Henry's Mom" on September 09, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)