I sort of feel like a towel that got stuck in the spinny thing inside the wash machine. (One of my towels totally just did that. It’s all wrapped up, stuck, stretched out, and so twisted I don’t suppose even an iron would make it straight again). AND while I took the time and MUCH effort YANKING it free and unwinding it, I said, “YOU, towel, are just a SYMBOL of my LIFE!” (Yes, I talk to towels. I also talk to dishes when they refuse to get clean, hair dryers that suck my hair up when I’ve got my head turned upside down, and I beat appliances that go on the fritz. I am a woman of many issues).

I’ve been reprimanded by many friends (and random people at Wal Mart that I don’t think I know) that I’ve slacked on blogging. Well. It’s because I’ve turned into a soggy, twisted towel!

The week before my children blossomed into the ages 4 and 2 (which took place in one weekend), I decided I was the luckiest person in the world. Brooklyn and Brighton were hugging all over each other, sharing toys, delightfully taking turns, helping one another… Boeing was taking naps quite regularly and perfectly pleasant in his awake hours. AJ and Starling were working sun up until sun down, and I was in a peaceful state. I looked around at my very unfinished house and thought, “What progress we have made! We started with no toilet, no shower, no carpet, no stove, and WA-LA! We are definitely on our way.”

We had birthdays, which were sporadic , but FUN and successful,  AND then that next week started. Brooklyn had dance Monday and AJ had basketball, I coached soccer Tuesday for Brooklyn’s team and AJ had institute, Violin practice Wednesday, Volleyball Thursday, Friday I decorated for my cousin’s wedding reception, Saturday we had Brooklyn’s dance recital  AND my cousin’s wedding reception, and Sunday I got called to be in the Primary Presidency at church. WOWSERS!! But all was well because that week ENDED.

ACCEPT, apparently terrible two’s and Tattle-Tale four’s, do NOT END. EVER. NEVER EVER. Hence me turning into a nervous wreck and acquiring this little twitch that starts in my left eye every time I hear Brooklyn’s voice say the WORD. (A word, mind you, that we spend an entire YEAR coaxing out of our little baby’s mouth, pleading and practicing day in and day out. Just say it! And when they do- FIREWORKS of glory! OH so PROUD! But then they turn 4. And suddenly you want to wash their mouths out with soap and brainwash the word from their little minds. That word is… “MMMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!”)

 Ugh. I know that one day I will like that word again, perhaps even love it. But right now? I HATE. THAT. WORD. With all the passion I have left from cleaning up explosive piles of poop out of baby swings that didn’t even MAKE their mark INSIDE the diaper, (probably, because Daddy put the diaper’s edge in Boeing’s butt-crack instead of its proper position to CATCH the poop), pulling Brighton out of the driver’s seat of the van where he continues to find my keys and crank and/or turn all the lights on and run the battery down,  pick up dirty socks thrown at the BASE of the laundry basket, clean out wash machines where someone got the bright idea to wash rugs, so on and so forth.

You would think I’d have no passion left… but amazingly, when I think I’m all out of juice, ah-hah boiling annoyance at Brooklyn’s constant, continual, only intermediated with four minute time-outs and Brighton’s 2 hour nap time, yelling, “MOOOOO-OOOM!!! You know what?! Brighton JUST-“  And if she could just mix it up a bit! But no. It’s always the same shocking news. “Brighton just took that from me!” “Brighton just hit me with that!” Today she got creative. “Brighton just opened the box and found me!” Pay no mind that she asked him to play Hide and Seek with her.

And Brighton has, in total honesty, become a terd. (Cutest little adorably terd on Earth, but a stinker non-the less). The more Brooklyn rants and raves and tattles, the more energized he becomes and the faster he tries to torment her before I plop him in time-out. I start one project, say lunch, and I’m breaking up fights and arguments and before you know it my 3 minute lunch prep of a PB&J has turned into a 45 minute drama fest. And in 45 minutes no one wants PB&J anymore. They want some other lavish food like cereal or spaghetti-os. And ME eat? Puh-leeeze. By the time I actually get to quickly inhale my fried bologna sandwich, the meat’s cold and the bread is stale. I’d rather shoot up calories than have to face off finding time to feed myself.  

And don’t get me started on my PERFECT Boeing. How is it that in a HUGE living room of carpeted floor where he is placed in the MIDDLE amongst brightly colored toys and noisy things that are supposed to entertain babies, does he always roll his way into some position of STUCK in some pile of wires under the t.v. or up against the fire place or any other perfectly hazardous location? And why, even though he manages to roll ALL over the place, does he roll onto his stomach at random, lift his arms and legs balancing on his stomach, and SCREAM bloody murder until “I” go flip him back over? It’s like him yelling he is drowning in water up to his ankles when I’ve been watching him do back flips in the deep end. I just want him to crawl. Except I don’t. Because, then he might ‘walk’, and I went through Brighton learning to walk at 11 months. I don’t want Boeing to walk until he can talk and understand the meaning of the words, “We do NOT climb on the counter and play in the knife drawer.” My nerves really can’t handle another Brighton. Every time I get Brooklyn and Brighton asleep at the same time, take a deep breath and say, “THANK YOU!! A minute ALL to myself without the “I needs,” Boeing starts. He needs to sit up, stand up, bounced, pacified by yours truly. And don’t give the boy a substitute. He wants his Mama and he’s not afraid to say it. Loudly.

After 6 attempts to bribe our children to GO PLAY so we could indulge ourselves with Sunday afternoon naps, I finally made a ramp in Bry’s room to get them interested enough to STAY -PUT sending toy cars slamming into the floor. I climbed into the bed next to Starling and said, “FINALLY.” And then Boeing became disinterested in Squeaky Head, and started his warning call. I asked, “Do you ever want to thump our kids on the head?” Starling nodded, “They only cry when we want alone time.” I snorted at that. “That’s the only time YOU notice!”

And the OTHER thing a feel like? A Bassett Hound. EVERY time Starling comes into the house during the day, where am I? Laid up with Boeing stuck to my chest. I can’t actually SEE myself, but I imagine I look like an old, worn out hound dog.  Given up, pups mauling her, and too tired to MOVE, she just lays there and takes it. But alas, I got Boeing to sleep, then Brighton to sleep. And then Brooklyn was left to herself which meant she had to have me to entertain her again, and Starling’s alarm went off ending his nap anyway, so we shall TRY again NEXT SUNDAY!   

But the good news is, through each day I am LEARNING what does NOT work in parenting. By the time Boeing is 18 I’m going to be a parenting GENIUS