So, I’m feeling a little better about the schools issue since my last entry rant. Nothing has changed but just getting it all out helps, in the same way that filling an A4 side of paper with the word “FUCK!” might provide a cathartic release. What do you mean, that’s essentially what I did? Oh alright, it was a little sweary. And once again I lament my decision not to blog anonymously. It would be so freeing to be able to write whatever I liked without worrying about who was reading it. For the most part that’s exactly what I do but there are some things I can’t tell you, like how frustrating I am finding my job right now, and how yesterday for the first time ever I actually felt like karate chopping one of my own children’s heads off. I didn’t. But I felt like it.
You see Rudy has learnt how to scream. Of course babies are born screaming, if you’re lucky, and they continue to exercise their lungs in this way throughout baby toddler and childhood, but I’m not talking about “waaaaa” I am talking about full-on teen-scream-movie-i-know-what-you-did-last-week-and-now-there’s-an-axe-wielding-known-serial-killer-maniac-approaching-me-up-a-flight-of-stairs screaming. It’s blood curdling, ear-drum-shattering stuff and he does it all the time. ALL THE TIME people. Sometimes it’s born of frustration, he utilises it to alert me to times when his brother may have snatched something from him, or perhaps the dog stole his biscuit, or his juice ran out, or he dropped his toy, or his socks and shoes are on his feet and he doesn’t want them to be or vice versa. But he also does it for fun. Like, you know, in moments of pure joy and giddiness, and also when he’s bored in the back of the car. So yesterday he had done it about 6-10 times per hour from 6am through 6pm and my nerves were shot. I got them both in the bath and poured myself what might be considered a generous serving of red wine and just as my shoulders began to drop and my jaw unclench he started up again, but in the bathroom, so complete with reverb. In a flash I saw myself going kung-fu psycho-mum to make the noise stop. But fortunately I have shreds of sanity left at this point so instead called bathtime to a close (always an unpopular decision) and began the process of getting them both ready for bed chasing them both up and down the landing.
Toby has taken to complaining loudly of things that aren’t actually happening. Like you’ll walk past him and he’ll say “OW YOU KNOCKED ME OVER” Usually still standing at this point, and unable to appreciate the impossibility of his claims. As I gently towel dried his hair he started up with “MUMMY YOU’RE HURTING ME! OWWWW!” so I did what any frazzled-to-fuck mother of two small boys might and suggested he might want to dry himself and get his own pyjamas on if he didn’t like my efforts. This was another unpopular suggestion. It seems I’d grossly under-estimated how over tired he was because I’ll be damned if he didn’t commence the biggest meltdown on planet earth, complete with screeching to give his brother’s a run for it’s money and also, and this is a new one- physical violence, punching me on the arm when I was tidying his brother’s bedroom and therefore not looking and didn’t see it coming.
By this point I didn’t even have the energy for imaginary karate, so I just ploughed on and once they were both asleep I consoled myself with a long shower, more wine, and an evening in bed with my kindle. I even lit candles, which when you consider I’d also washed my hair and shaved my legs makes it almost a date, except that Chris was working. So, a date with myself.
Today is another screechy delight. They’re currently “playing together” (fighting over a hula hoop, not the savoury snack variety) hence me being able to hammer this entry out. Later we’re off to the hospital for my dermatology follow up after my mole removal in January. Then tonight I have work. A notion I feel quite violently opposed to since it will involve me being awake for the next 30 hours at least (Chris is in uni tomorrow so no bed for me until 5pm at the earliest tomorrow).
I keep thinking “I can’t do this anymore” about work and then I get a tiny bit of sleep and it seems more bearable and then I have a week of walking around like a zombie and I’m back to “this isn’t working out” again.
It’s not just the sleep thing, although that does play a huge part, but without anonymity I can’t share too much about work apart apart from to say it’s not the babies, or the families, who for the most part I love and feel honoured to care for, it’s just everything else that comes with it.
Alas, the hula hoop has now been discarded and Rudy is eyeing up the coffee table as climbing apparatus so that concludes this poor excuse for a blog entry.