I'm hitting that wall again, the one that makes me think that I may need to up the dose on the happy pills. I'm frustrated, tired, stressed out, and just not good for much of anyone. Hell, I don't even like my own company-I can't imagine what I must be like for everyone else. BabyA is the only one that likes me right now. Just goes to show that when you are someone's sole food source (and pacifier), you have one captive audience. It also helps that she doesn't talk yet.
Son is embracing the terrible twos with gusto. Enough so that I have entertained thoughts of just strapping him to the luggage rack on top of the Jeep and calling it good. The morning went something like this: up waaaaay too early (note the oh-so-fashionable bags under his eyes), whine about juice, whine about breakfast bar, whine about toy that won't open as it should. All before 6:15 AM. Finally finish breakfast, drag (literally) into room to get dressed. "No, no, no, no, don't yike that shirt. Noooooooooooo!" Wrestle with child, showing more patience than I ever thought that I could have, to finally get PJs off, and real clothes on. Fight for 15 more minutes over putting on shoes. "Nooooooo! Too tight!" "No, not too tight. Brand new. These actually fit you." [Screaming] "Nooooooooo!!" [Hysterical sobbing-Son, not me]. Oh, and velcro is not your friend when a two year-old wants to remove his "too tight" shoes. Oh no.
Go down and get BabyA, who actually slept through all of this. Once this kid is asleep, nothing short of nuclear war will wake her up. She actually likes me, even as Son is upstairs banging on the gate and still pitching his fit. Get her dressed, and take her upstairs to feed her the bottle that has been pumped for her. Sit down in the chair, insert bottle, happy baby (thank God, I don't think that I could have handled another unhappy kid). Son still whining, "I want Cars. No, no, no, not in Daddy's car, here." The Cars DVD is in Daddy's car, thank you, and no, you can't watch it my little hellion. Call it parole.
At this point we're pushing 8:30. Shit. I burp BabyA, who is still happy as can be even with the chaos around her, and get her strapped into her carseat. While putting her in, I ask Son to go and get his coat, since we have to leave now. You can guess the reply. By this point, I'm desperate to just get out of the damn house, into a vehicle, and to work, and cursing Husband for not taking any part in this. My sole ambition at this point is just to get to work. I finish getting BabyA strapped in, pack up the daycare bag, and move towards the gate to go downstairs and out the front door. Son is now doing the toddler swandive onto the kitchen floor, his coat is still in the living room, and it's now 8:45. Double shit.
While I may be fostering abandonment issues, I cheerfully wave to Son as I start down the stairs. Ah, finally some movement. The coat is on, but that is it. Son doesn't believe that I'll go out the door without him, and I try to call his bluff. I go outside, put BabyA into the car, feed the dog, and go back for Son. I find him sitting on the stairs with no intent to go anywhere, especially with me. I pull everything out of my bag of parental tricks to get him moving. Nothing.
By this point, the dog is done eating, has had his morning constitutional, and is ready to go inside. BabyA is getting restless, and a look at my watch says 9:00. Good God, where did the time go, AGAIN?!? I finally had to resort to picking Son up like a sack of potatoes, and slinging him over my shoulder, screaming and kicking, closing the door behind me. Oh, and to top it off? Two neighbors are out for their morning walk to witness me giving Son the riot act.
The trip in was more of the same.
Drop-off at daycare sucked as well. BabyA was her normal cheery self. There are perks to having at least one non-speaking child.
Anyone want to trade a day with me?