I do a lot of solo parenting. I mean A LOT. And not the kind where I’m home
alone with the kids until dinnertime, when my husband comes home to take
over. I don’t have the luxury of
retiring to my room to take painkillers and watch Netflix at 5pm when I get a
migraine. I can’t often hand off
bathtime on a day that I JUST CAN’T anymore.
At minimum, it’s 24 straight hours. Lots of times it’s more.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew that going in. It’s a choice I made, as I am sure someone is
thinking right now. (Because that’s
totally how falling in love works. Make sure he works a 9-5 and makes enough
money so I can stay home. Priorities.) I
chose to assume this role in parenting the kids, and keep my career going,
etc. But the choice I struggle with all
too often is how much of the day to day stress I should share with my husband.
Yesterday was rough. A decided that the only suitable
activity for her was to launch herself off the couch in the playroom onto a
pile of blankets. (Thanks, Clover, for teaching my child the concept of a “soft landing”.) Liam is a toddler terror, made worse by the fact that he is huge for
his age and smart way beyond his almost two years. He wanted a still undetermined item from a
cabinet above my desk, and was prepared to stand there and scream until I
retrieved said item. A chose that moment
to start bouncing off of the living room furniture, which is strictly
forbidden. And then the phone started going off with work stuff. So I did what any solo parent would do. I pretty much lost it. Spun out.
I’ve had worse days.
I mean, there was the day that Liam stole a full used coffee filter from
the trash can and took off into the living room. And the time that he got a
full container of cocoa powder out of the pantry. And the time that A found a lip gloss and
went nuts in her room. Oh, and don’t
forget the time she found the purple marker, but no paper, and thought the
walls were a suitable substitute. But in
the context of the moment, yesterday was pretty bad. I had plans for it to be a screen time free
day, filled with art and activities and stories and such. Turns out I made it until 10:30.
So then when Bill texted me around 11 to see how the day was going, I had to make a
decision. Do I tell him that I am
literally a step away from the edge? That would make him feel helpless, because
there was nothing he could do. And maybe guilty, because he wasn’t there to
back me up. It’s his job, it’s what he does. But I know he’d rather be home
with us on any given day. Is he having a bad day? Hearing that things are
falling apart on the homefront might make it worse. What if he’s having an awesome day? Do I want
to bring him down?
But if I don’t want to tell him about the struggles of the
day, isn’t that like lying? Do I want to lie, and tell him that the day is just
great, and we’ve having so much fun? Isn’t
it best to be honest, and tell him that things are out of control? He has bad
days with the kids too, when he’s home.
Fortunately after nap time, things seemed to calm down. Liam was excited to play Expedition, where we
set up Base Camp in the playroom, then a series of other camps throughout the
house until summiting the “mountain” in my room. We watched some movies, had
some dinner, and everyone made it to bed at a reasonable time. But still, even now, I’m not sure how much of
yesterday’s drama I need to share. I’ll
probably do what I’ve been doing, which is downplay it a bit.
Until the next time A and Liam decide to make potions with
the baby shampoo and bubble bath again.
There’s no holding me back on that one.
Liam poses at Camps 2 and 3.
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