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If this doesn’t have you popping the Pill I don’t know what will March 31, 2010

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Being a mama.
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I don’t lose it with Alice. I didn’t when she was a colicky, awful baby. I don’t now, especially because she’s pleasant to be around 98 percent of the time.

But, see … Wednesday night didn’t fit into one of those 98-percent-of-the-time times.

I’m setting the scene not as an excuse, but as an explanation: Picture ankles the size of large oranges. A chubby woman at 35 weeks pregnant with the kind of cramps and I’m-going-to-fall-over-and-die top-heaviness that two years ago had her swearing adoption was THE way to go for child No. 2. Picture the kind of tired that feels as if you’re wearing 40 extra pounds (because you are, surprise!) and have just spent all day at a desk (because you did, surprise!).

Insert a dog at the back door that won’t stop barking at the neighbors, who are outside piecing together a trampoline in their yard that’s, by the way, juuuust big enough to hold exactly one trampoline and no doubt their impending collection of rare and abundant dandelions.

My pants are too small and give me muffin top. I just need to lay down. I will die before five more weeks pass because I can’t imagine this going on for another month. Is it bedtime yet? I feel like crying, because I’m so stuck. AND SERIOUSLY, DOES THIS DOG SHUT UP, EVER? Ever?

And then there’s Alice.

Alice, who tonight only wants the opposite of what I have to offer — no matter the offer. Alice, who won’t comply with my request to get dressed, who won’t agree to listen to her bedtime books, who screams when that ugly word — “toothbrush” — passes my lips.

Yes, I know: She’s almost 2, and she’s just reminding me of that.

But the whining. The incessant whining is what does it. Any other night, she calmly goes along with bedtime routines: We read two books, then she gets to keep one while I back out of the doorway, saying “night, night.” This time, she wouldn’t stay in bed. What? She wanted a book, but not the ones I gave her — and the whining. THIS is not my Alice.

So all these emotions and hair-pulling moments culminate in one big crescendo of I’m Really Not That Kind of Mother: “THEN WHAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT,” I mom-yelled. “ALICE. GET IN BED. NOW.” She froze. Then screamed.

Oh God.

I never mom-yell. Not at Alice.

The dog, all the time. But not Alice.

Alice cried harder. GREAT. EMOTIONAL, SWOLLEN PREGNANT LADY SCARES BEJEEZUS OUT OF OWN KID.

GREAT.

And then I started to tear up because I am not the scary-yelling-at-her-kid type. Because I hate that Dave was working and I was alone and had no one but the incessantly barking idiot DOG to provide any sort of back-up.

But mostly because I know this will only get harder in five weeks. And Dave still won’t be here, and Big will still be the maniac he is. And I’ll still be wearing these muffin-top pants. Oh, like that doesn’t make you want to claw your skin off.

I don’t want to be this mom. Arrghhh.

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Comments»

1. Nicole - April 2, 2010

Hun… We are ALWAYS your back-ups. If you ever have a night like that again call me and I’ll come over. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help with anything – BUT I can bring NA wine (for the next five weeks) or the real deal anytime after that. I’m totally serious. Call me, cause I know exactly what you’re feeling!


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