i can't handle the heat. it's a little like frying bacon naked.
you're right. no one could have prepared me for this. all of us - ALL of us - go into it with our own preconceived ideas of how it will be different in OUR lives. we have ALL the answers way ahead of time. those other people are just too stupid to know that they're doing a bum job and wallowing in the consequences. poor lost souls, we think. we'll show 'em, we think.
that last laugh business is rearing it's maniacal donkey faced head.
so now, i have come to PA and i am saying, hi my name is cian and i don't know how to raise my son. (your turn to listlessly respond: hi cian.)
i know i know i know. everyone is trying to figure out what my problem is. why can't i just stfu and do my job? because so few other women are saying these things i feel i must. i'll take the hit for being the mom who doesn't know what to do - it seems - a LOT of the time.
in talking to N this morning, i think i kind of had a mini epiphany. a seeing through the glass less darkly kind of moment. i think my boy is so intense and so alert and so HERE that he never really winds down. he doesn't have Mellow Moments. there is no fade to black with ryan. just bright shiny pictures that sometimes turn into retina searing bright sunlight and then back to pictures again. no black. no dark. no off.
what about when he's sleeping?
even then. even that. which is what led me to the mini epiphany. i keep hearing the echo of a friend's voice as we were chatting one summer afternoon two years ago. (and yes, you can picture any random cheesy soap opera scene of the character staring off into space with the voice bouncing around in their presumably empty heads).
"if you wean him, there's still no guarantee he'll sleep through the night." he said.
damn you D. you were so bleeding right.
and so... we are now awakened with excruciating regularity by the sound of ryan crying that he can't sleep. he can't sleep. he can't sleep. he can't sleep. he can't sleep.
i realize at this point that good old Attitude of Gratitude might help. after all, at least he's well. he's here. he can speak. he is not dead. (if these are offending you, then perhaps you may need to consider looking away.)
at least i'm honest.
my point being that even in sleep he is too (wired is the best word i can come up with but i don't like the negative connotations so maybe i should say) Alert to sleep very deeply or very long. which is why he has been sleeping in underwear since he figured toilet learning out. (in contrast his sister, 5, still sleeps in pullups 2 years after daytime learning because she sleeps as deep as the night is long.)
so what am i to do? how can i stop being the awful evil yelling shouting pushing shoving hitting (yes. yes. yes.) mom? i do these things out of moldy, rotting frustration. the bad terrible frustration that causes me to act like a ... well, like ryan. look here people i'm not proud. and i am not ashamed. i just recognize my very short comings and i need help to figure out how to lengthen the bastards.
of course i know it's a complete idiot who fries bacon in their underwear (i learned my lesson!) and i know i need some clothes or an apron. following that metaphor, i can't find the store that sells either of those things.
you know the history. i keep making peace. but that's never it. as if i keep thinking the kitchen towel can protect me. but it's not enough. i need the whole getup.