And then he slammed the toilet lid shut on Andy's arms, and sat down on top, trapping Andy's hands in the toilet bowl. After he had used the toilet. Perfect (and after some of the messes I've cleaned up lately, I DID breathe a sigh of relief that at least he had used the toilet; it's perhaps a sad commentary that I'm breathing a sigh of relief about Andy eating poop out of the toilet, instead of off the floor).
If I'm gone from the room for longer than 3o seconds (truly, I can't even visit the bathroom without taking one or the other with me), Baby Roo will be screaming, and the Big One will be responsible.
Sometimes I think TJ is trying to do Andy in. Missing the only-child life, that sort of thing.
Other times I hope he's not just mean.
Then I remember that he's only 3 and a handful of change. It will be okay.
Andy is a picky eater. I used to think that a parent could help their children not be picky eaters. And maybe they can, to a point. Andy was born picky. He has challenged my concept of how babies are to be fed. Everything that went in TJ without comment seems to elicit screams and hunger strikes from Baby Roo. Avocado? Forget it, mom. Baked yams? See ya later. Banana? Ah... on good days. Maybe. So I frantically rush about the kitchen looking for more options, while Andy sits in his throne on high, I mean highchair, yammering in displeasure and throwing everything I've tried on the floor. Tyrant. But it will be okay. Other kids have survived on little more than rice and processed peaches and flavored milk. Mine can, too.
I've read some really excellent articles/blog posts lately about the joys and pains (and pain and pain and pain and PAIN) of mothering tiny ones.
Like this one . The Don't Carpe Diem article.
And this one, To the Mother With Only One Child.
And I take comfort in knowing it's normal, this second-guessing, overwhelmed, am-I-doing-it-right-panic. And it will be okay. My life is on hold. It's okay. My blog never gets updated. It's okay. I haven't been able to sit down, REALLY sit down, and create and design at my sewing machine in... let's see, 1o months? Yes, Andy is 1o months old. 1o months. It makes me crazy. And it will be okay. If I am very clever and organize my day very carefully, I can usually get in a workout and a shower. That's the only "me" time. But it is enough. These days feel endless. They start at 7am, often with a bang. Or a poop-fest. Or a crib full of vomit. Or worse. Or, like today, half a can of PAM spray in fine, wispy baby hair and all over surrounding tile and cabinets and carpet. Sometimes I'm ready to put them both to bed by 9am. 6:30pm can't come fast enough. Yes, these days are endless.
But they are numbered. My babies will grow up. Are already growing up. All I have to do is look at TJ to know it is true. And that's okay, too.
These endless days will come to an end. It's okay. These endless days truly are numbered.