Sweet Little Leeches

I was impressed with myself this morning: I put away a load of Kid Laundry and made Michael's lunch before anyone else woke up.  Before I could give myself too much credit, though, Charlie woke up, demanding that he have a bottle absolutely immediately, thank you very much.  This meant my shower was going to have to wait.  Which meant that after he was fed, burped, and dressed, I had to creatively intersperse baby-talk and ridiculous dance routines in between showering, drying, and finding my own clothes to wear so he would stay happy ( = quiet) enough to not wake Oliver up early.  I began to perspire with effort.

My hair brushed and sopping wet, which is as good as it ever gets before I head out the door, I headed down the hall to get Oliver ready.  I opened the door.  Oliver was up, having turned on the light, and was standing by his train table.  He grabbed his butt.  "Good morning, buddy," I said cheerily.  He stared at me with a look of deer-in-headlights.  Still waking up, no doubt.  "Good morning," I repeated.  He furrowed his brow and scowled at me, still grabbing his butt.  "Nothin'!" he muttered angrily.  "Huh?" I replied.  "I said good morning, not what are you doing."  He intensified his gaze.  "NOTHIN'!  Shut the door!  SHUT THE DOOR!"  Yikes. I complied. Teen preview 2012.

I would just flip my tasks and take the trash out first, I decided.  I shook out the fifth trash can, which was under the bathroom sink downstairs- only to discover that a colony of ants (yes, another) had been feasting on bathroom garbage.  Seriously?   I threw the trash can outside and sprayed poison on the bathroom floor, grateful that Charlie does not yet crawl.  But my cat does.  I tossed her downstairs and continued to spray.  I am now officially really sweaty.  I. Don't. Have. Time for this!!!

I waited until most of the ants, who had hit the jackpot with a floor belonging to young children who drop edible things, stopped dead in their busy tracks.  Jackpot over, fellas.  I wiped up the carcasses, washed the floor, then let the cat out as I dialed into work for a conference call and put them on mute. 

Back upstairs, I attempted to get Oliver ready again.  "No," he said decisively when I told him we had to get ready to go to daycare.  "No. No no no no no no no no. No!"

"Okay," I said.  "Would you like a cereal bar?"

Anyone who has ever shunned a parent for bribing their child with food for good behavior has never met a toddler.

"Yyyyyes!" Oliver said and sprung to life.

"Awesome, hurryupandsitonthepottysowecanhaveone, yaaaayy!!!!" I cried.

My tactic worked.  I helped Oliver take off his diaper, which I discovered contained something akin to really, really old beef stew.  I recalled the image of Oliver grabbing his butt earlier.  Eighty-seven wipes later, sweat was now literally dripping off my face. 

I pulled into daycare at 8:29, one minute before breakfast cut-off.  But instead of feeling accomplished in the face of crazed adversity this morning, I felt absolutely and utterly defeated.  Kids are so much freaking work.  It simply doesn't seem fair that they can kick my butt in all kinds of ways until I feel as if I've been run over by a Hummer - all before I actually start my day.

My good friend Liz validated my exhaustion today, after I recounted my tale to her.  "They are totally dependent right now," she pointed out.  "You have to do everything for them.  It's really, really hard."  Yeah, she's right- part of what makes parenting so hard is that your kids need absolutely everything done for them, from butt-wiping to meal-making to washing their clothes.  They're like sweet little leeches.

"But you know what?" Good Friend Liz continued.

"Hmm," I grunted.

"There will come a day when you can say, 'hey, make your own sandwich.'"

Now that is very, very good news.  I will tell them to make their own sandwich, and while they're at it, they can  make me one too.  It'll be great...until I end up cleaning up the crumbs, putting the peanut butter back in the pantry and washing their dishes.