Things I Couldn’t Do

A person whom I follow on Twitter is currently mothering both a little one and a new baby, and it is giving me serious flashbacks. It is so hard! And no one realizes that it’s hard until they’re doing it. People quibble about whether that’s because parents act like it’s easy as part of a Vast Conspiracy or whether people are in denial because when they hear “it’s hard” from other people, they secretly believe that they will be Naturally Excellent Parents of Effortlessly And Uncommonly Gifted, Attractive, Well-Behaved Children. Or, another favorite, people who have babysat or taught or nannied or uncled or aunted children and think that that gives them a good idea of what parenting is like. That is like saying, “I jogged around the block, so I am fully prepared to run an ultramarathon through Rattlesnake Desert” or “I’ve been skipping the bread and butter at restaurants, so fasting for 30 days while working at a bakery is basically the same thing.” Well. Maybe it isn’t hard for all parents, either because their kids are the kind who eat and sleep and cooperate, or perhaps because the parents view parenting as a not-particularly-compelling side hobby to their real lives, or most likely, a little of both. But my kids were a challenge, and I was (usually) putting in my best efforts.

I said recently that I wish that I’d appreciated, back then, that “bathing and snuggling and loving was sufficient for a day’s work,” but I was always trying to do things.

And failing. Miserably.

Which had me thinking of some of my most tragic trying-to-also-live-while-parenting failures.

For me, attempting to work out was a massive struggle when the kids were little. I’ve written about it a couple of times (here and here). Part of it was my own body — between nursing and giving birth, any attempt to bounce around at that time was thwarted by massive milk jugs and a propensity to wet my pants at the slightest provocation. Part of it was my deeply uncooperative first baby, who was adamantly opposed to the jogging stroller for more than a few minutes and, really, preferred that I carry her at all times. So, yes, I took walks with her in the baby carrier, but that doesn’t quite work up a sweat. Also, she’d get tired of the baby carrier, and at the time, my neighborhood was not super-awesome for long walks. It was a quiet street bookended by two busy, narrow, and twisty roads. I would try joining gyms, but each time I attempted to leave baby M in their babysitting room, she’d inevitably start screaming so loudly that they’d hunt me down to retrieve the child who was bringing all the other kids down. I have distinct memories of low points: the time that I got lost while walking in a nature preserve, wandering for more than an hour with a heavy, sleeping baby in my arms (she’d cried her way out of the Baby Bjorn earlier) before knocking on a stranger’s house to call Cute W for a ride home. The time I tearfully left another possible new gym, strapped M into her seat, and then spent ten minutes in the parking lot, both of us sobbing, until I could compose myself enough to drive away. It was. . . not awesome.

Or, hey, I don’t think I ever told you about the time that Cute W and I thought it would be a good idea to bring our 1-year-old with us to the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival for a weekend of music and (gulp!) camping. A band we really liked was playing and they had kids’ activities, so we thought it was entirely possible. And maybe it would have been, if it weren’t for the fact that approximately as we left for our weekend away, M began a nursing strike that signaled the end of our Adventures in Breastfeeding. She had bitten me, and I told her not to, and she was basically like, “Screw this! I don’t need you, woman. I’ve got rice cereal and bananas now,” and out of sheer spite, she refused to indulge in what had hitherto been her main source of sustenance since birth. Which would have been fine if I were at home, where my breast pump was, but I was not. I was in and out of a tent, in a crowd of people, with very little in the way of shower facilities. And, as I recall, it was super-hot. I really tried to stay and enjoy myself, but I was sweating like crazy and my boobs were swelling like Violet in that scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I even went to the first aid tent to see if they could help. They shrugged sympathetically and handed me an icepack. I spent a couple hours of wandering around the festival with a massive ice pack on top of my huge-and-rapidly-expanding chest. It was not my cutest look ever. And the ice pack was inadequate for the challenge at hand. Shortly thereafter we aborted the mission.

Oh! Which reminds me of another concert I missed due to parenting! Cute W and I had a full-on date night planned, complete with a booked high school babysitter, dinner reservations, and tickets to a concert we’d been looking forward to. And then, the babysitter was late. And then she was later. And then she appeared not be showing up. We texted and we called the babysitter, but we couldn’t get through. We texted and called the babysitter’s mom, but again we couldn’t get through. As time ticked on and we’d missed dinner, we posted our quandary on Facebook, still hoping to make it in time for the music, at least. At that point, friends of ours very kindly offered to host our kiddos so we could make it in time for the main act. SO lovely of them. But now, one of my kiddos was reporting a bad stomach ache. Chances were very good that the stomach ache was because I had been a deeply cranky stress monster all evening, and now she’d be going to an unfamiliar house. I would have left her with a babysitter, for sure. But my friends’ kids were home, and if my kid was actually sick, I’d be repaying our friends’ kindness by giving their household a stomach bug. We just couldn’t do it. Turns out the babysitter had forgotten all about us, and she was performing in a concert that night, which her parents were attending, of course, so their phones were all on do not disturb until they got home later that evening.

Of course, the list goes on. There was the time Cute W and I were alone upstairs enjoying our alone time when one daughter sent the other daughter to “check on” us and put an end to any attempt at hanky-panky. The many times a daughter needed comfort more than I needed a full night’s sleep. The weekends entirely taken over by soccer tournaments and volleyball tournaments and track meets and other obligation. And yes, I miss the late-night cuddle puddles and family dinners and all of the fun of watching my kids compete. But I’m also enjoying my uninterrupted sleep and workouts and our easy date nights. And I sure appreciate them more than I did pre-kids!