Morning Musings

DISCLAIMER: This is a testimonial. This isn't a whiney, "take pity on me" post. Any similarity to a "pity party" is purely coincidental. 

A friend posted on facebook how she wasn't feeling well and wished she "had a maid, or a babysitter, or grandma," and it occurred to me that at some point mothers turn into grandma's. I don't mean the obvious graduation from mother to grandmother when one's children have children of their own. I mean the grandma's that are superwomen, totally capable of babysitting and cleaning and organizing and cooking, and doing it all with such grace and aplomb. 

At what point does that happen? 

Because I realized this morning as I lay trying to nap (an exercise in futility, still, as my children seem to enjoy napping like a seesaw - one's up, one's down. One's up, one's down...) that I almost had it. Right before Piglet came on the scene, I almost had a system, a routine, a method for playing and educating and nurturing and disciplining Tigger while still having time to clean and do laundry and cook (sometimes), and have a good time with it. Oh, and wash my hair every day. That was nice.

Sure, I was exhausted, what with my wide load and this unbearable heat, but I felt like I had a pretty good handle on things. I knew that it was going to change drastically, but in the way that someone who's never experienced a car crash knows it's going to hurt if they ever get in one. You know it, you just can't fathom it.

I couldn't fathom it. 

I've only cried from exhaustion twice in my life (as an adult. I can't really speak for my childhood. Pretty sure I threw a lot of tired tantrums then): the second time was just the night before last as I held my beautiful, screaming daughter wishing I could help her quickly because a) it sounded like it hurt (poor, obstinately gassy thing), and b) all I wanted in the world was to get some sleep! 

While in the Blur I've let my Tigger watch far too much Curious George for my taste (which, if I'm completely honest with myself, is any Curious George.), eaten and played alone, and been shuffled off to nap/quiet time earlier than scheduled. All this as I've tried to juggle a fussy little girl whose needs I'm still learning to interpret, while simultaneously trying to figure out how to handle this cranky, but good-hearted little boy who is brilliant but can't seem to understand that he shouldn't step on books and toys (he'll trip and hurt himself and cry in amazement), and he really shouldn't step/sit/crawl on his little sister. Or his mom's feet. She's really starting to hate that. 
(Yes. Hate.) 
Then again, we've never had so many books read on momma's lap, we seem to be making progress in roughly three words (baby, puppy, and car. Maybe even bird) while still digging heels in on others (please and nose), and I've never seen an older sibling take to the younger so quickly. He always wants to sit next to her and give her "kisses" (he leans down and touches foreheads while humming), and when she cries from her bassinet, he alerts me by babbling and pointing, or running to her and gesturing wildly for me to follow.

I've felt like a failure, then lectured myself on such feelings, then justified myself with "it's only until you figure things out"-s and "you'll do so much better once they're sleeping well"-s.

I love my kids. I love what I do. I know I'm not perfect, but at least I'm trying, and I try to remember that that's where the guilt comes from: trying.

And if I keep trying, then at some point I get to add something else to my list of things to love, look forward to, and be grateful for. Someday, I'll have the magic touch.

Someday, I'll be grandma.