This is Harper, doing what she does when she doesn’t like me. Which is often.
She just goes either full nonverbal or she’s extremely vocal without actually using words.
She also struggles with focus and transition, so mornings are a daily test of my patience, and at the time of day when I’m my very least patient – pre-caffienation. I’m not a pleasant woman between contacts in and makeup on. It takes me some time to recover my humanity in the morning.
I, too, struggle with transition and focus.
Anyhow, we did not have an excellent morning this morning. After repeatedly telling the girls to do the things we need to do every morning I found myself with three minutes to the bus showing up still waiting for her to get her shoes, coat, and glasses in order.
She, on the other hand, felt that the last three minutes before the bus literally left the station would be to make sure all of her Hatchimals were accounted for and properly bid farewell to. In case you don’t know, this is one small fraction of the Hatchimal population in my home:
It’s not a three minute process. Because part of what I mean, when I say she struggles with focus and transition, is that she struggles at times (really fucking inopportune times) with hyperfocus, and transitioning away from that upon which she is hyperfocused.
Plus, she’d decided to take her stickers to school to make sure that she had a tangible way to let others know when they were being kind.
I love the shit out of this kid you guys. But hot damn.
Anyhow, I’ve spent the majority of my time since they were born worrying about their attachment.
Because attachment is important in not becoming a drug addict or a serial killer or a general sociopath.
You know. The biggies.
And mornings like this morning, that push my patience past its limits, in which I lose my shit and behave more like a five-year-old than the five-year-olds, always leave me second-guessing myself.
They were spending the night with my mom tonight, as it’s the next to last no yoga Wednesday for a while. Just for fun. I stayed a little late at work to develop this year’s birthday party strategy.
And, at about 8:30 p.m., the phone rang.
“Momma, goodnight,” I heard between sniffles and clogged, phlegmy gurgling.
I couldn’t even tell for sure which girl I was speaking to, so thick with tears was her voice. It’s not often at all, since the day they were born, that I can’t tell you with my eyes closed based on their voice alone who’s talking to me.
“What’s wrong,” I asked. Grandma nights don’t tend to end in tears, to the best of my knowledge.
“I just want to be at your house,” she wept into the phone.
You guys? Seriously the greatest words out of my kid’s mouth.
I was at Grandma’s door in five minutes.
I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know that she seeks me out when she needs to be comforted. That she even misses me at all is a significant compliment. That she misses me enough to want to leave the rule-free wonderland of milk and honey that is Grandma’s house?
It’s a relief I can’t even begin to explain.
I have no idea how I’ve managed to parent as well as I have. I do not have a lot of the mom genes. The ones that make you not swear, and have a Kitty Foreman voice, and smell like chocolate chip cookies literally all of the time.
I’m not the gentlest, sweetest mom in the world. Im kinda like if George Carlin and Louis C.K. had a love child baked in a lab that was born a 35-year-old adult woman who didn’t masturbate in front of strangers. And I worry that I will look back and realize that I should have been softer.
And then I get confirmation that I’m doing alright and it just…like my chest stops hurting in the bad way and hurts really, really good for a while, for a change.
That’s my Wednesday.
As you were.