What an awful, failure of a day.
By noon, I had already washed three loads of diarrhea-covered crib sheets (in addition to the puke loads) By early afternoon, I had gone through a handful of Hall's drops for my own throat (did nothing for my sinuses). By dinnertime, I had hung up the phone realizing that Matt's ten hour day was turning into closer to fifteen (the last five hours unpaid). Bathtime came early. Bedtime was exhausting.
With jammas on and hair brushed, I sent Paige into bed. I bent down to deal with Tyler. Half a second later, I see Paige prancing back into the corner of the room. No, she shouldn't be there. Yes, she knows she shouldn't be there. Yes, she knows I am at my wits end. "Come here, Paige!" I loudly insist. She does. Grabbing her with both hands, I firmly shook her twice and yelled, "Go to bed. Your head should be on your pillow! You should not be out here. I am too tired!!" {insert other ranting words and that evil eye that you know you shouldn't be giving because it will damage their esteem permanently} By this point I have lost it. I know I have lost it. My poor kids are standing in the wake of my breaking point. Paige and Meg both rush into bed. Paige wailing about a hurt arm. Meg terrified.
Awful.
I turn to scoop up Tyler. With huge alligator eyes he mimics my hands. He looks towards the girls' bedroom and listens to Paige's tears. He looks back at me, questioning why I would have done what he just witnessed. "I know...I hurt Paige. That was bad of Mommy." He nods his head in agreement. He looks back towards Paige's room, unsure if he should go and console her. How awful for him to be confused by my actions. How easily I am setting him up to copy.
I get him upstairs and into pajamas. After calmly rocking him and laying him in bed, guilt returns me to the girls' room with a sincere apology. "Please help mommy, and go to bed. Please close.your.mouths!" was my almost-going-to-lose-it-and-start-crying plea. Both girls claimed they would roll over and be quiet.
The bedroom door was closed.
Instantly, the whispers began.
Seriously?!?
I have no more patience to be tested, girls!
I reopen the door.
I yell a second "be quiet!"
I close the door.
Sure, I could and should just walk away. But, I remain.
A minute later, the talking returns.
I open the door and demand that the instigator come sit on the stairs.
"Fold your arms, Paige, and just think about quietly going to sleep!" She sits. She folds her arms. She dramatically slumps her shoulders. She begins to rock. Together we pass a few moments of silence. Neither one wanting to make eye contact.
Finally, she looks at me with sad eyes and begins, "Mommy..." {insert an audible sigh from me. Really?!? You have something to say? Something I have to respond to? Right now?} "Mommy," she continues, "Why don't you rock me anymore? Why don't you rock me like you used to?"
Ugh.
Caught off-guard, my response was, "You have to learn to go to sleep like a big girl."
She thought that was a lame cope-out. A responsibility she didn't want to grow into.
"Do you want me to rock you? Then would you go to sleep?"
"Yes."
Although doubting that she'd hold up her end of the promise of returning to bed in silence, I agreed to scoop her up. I knew I'd stubbornly remain eavesdropping at their door, anyways. I knew I was too upset to go anywhere else and get something productive done. I might as well take a breather. Plus, with my head above hers I figured I could cry and not be seen.
So, I picked her up and sat on the bottom stair. My four (four and a big half!) year-old daughter. I began to rock. I thought of how I had patiently rocked my babe upstairs. In contrast, I thought of how I just expected my oldest to roll over and behave. I wondered at what age one suddenly changes from being rocked to just being expected to help?
Peeking down at the blond head of hair, I thought of how quickly this girl in the middle had forgiven my shaking hands and requested those same hands to hold her. How lucky a mom is to get that second, and third, and hundredth chance. On good days and especially on these bad days.
Within minutes, Paige was out. Her breathe deepened. Her body became dead weight. I could have plopped her into bed. Her sleeping body would have served as the perfect example to older sister laying in the bed across the room.
But, I remained. I rocked. Now, more for myself than for her.
I heard the youngest begin stirring upstairs. I heard the oldest messing with her sheets. I knew the next round of shushing was still ahead of me.
But, I remained. I rocked until the light through the small basement window faded. I rocked until my warm tears were gone. I rocked until all circulation in my legs was gone. I rocked until my tailbone felt broken from the hard surface of the stair...
This buck up and be a great Mom with all the patience and answers is a hard thing. REALLY HARD.
My cousin, Amy, and I have an on-going understanding of "rocking." When we find ourselves up against something we don't want to face, we encourage each other to "rock" until it is over or at least better understood. When we are in a room of random comments, we "rock" rather than focus on unwanted judgements. When our husbands make no sense, we "rock." When we miss family support, or feel all alone, we "rock." Sometimes such "rocking" is really the literal physical motion when laughing across the room from each other. Sometimes it is just the typed words in a long-distant email. Either form, the meaning is the same: "I'm going to rock myself to a 'Happy Place!' " OR "Find a 'Happy Place,' you'll be alright."
Tonight, I realized (AGAIN!) that there really are those times when the child, regardless of age, needs to be scooped up for some quality rocking. The forgiving kid needs the chance of familiar comfort - even if the parent is exhausted and feels unworthy of being forgiven.
I, also, realized (AGAIN!) that just like a pint-sized body, THE MOM has moments of needing to rock. This realization doesn't come as a shock. "Rocking" is something I often claim to need. But sometimes it takes more than just a claim or just thinking of going through the motion. Sometimes it is the real rhythm of rocking that reminds me that things will calm down. Night comes. And, tomorrow offers a fresh start.
We'll see how many times I rock tomorrow...
