A Day in the Life

I think toddlers should come with an owner's manual. And a lifetime warranty. Nobody told me what having two 3-year-old boys would be like. If someone had told me this when they were babies, I probably would have laughed and taken them to the nearest bar, my treat. Being a parent, especially a single parent, has taught me a lot. Yes, I've learned much in the past three years. Pregnancy is great because you still have your life and don't really need to do much except plan for the arrival and make sure you eat right and stay in shape, and plus it's the only time in a woman's life when not only can she flaunt a large stomach, but she can go to a store geared specifically to choosing clothing that will accentuate a huge belly. I miss this. In my case, the eating right and staying in shape were optional, because I was under the (grossly mistaken) impression that I would shed the extra baby weight effortlessly after the boys were born. I spent my pregnancy reading everything I could get my hands on about being pregnant with twins and what would happen after the babies were born. I entertained rosy dreams about feeding my babies organic, unprocessed baby food that I made myself from raw ingredients purchased at Whole Foods, and how they would sleep through the night after we got home from the hospital, and how much I would enjoy breast-feeding and the bonding that comes with it. I firmly decided that my children's fragile minds would not be polluted with such trash as is mass produced on TV for kids, and that they wouldn't even watch TV at all, but would sit and read Chaucer, Tennyson, and Dostoyevsky, perhaps with an infant-sized ascot and smoking jacket. We would play educational games and take nature walks, and I would proudly show off my intellectually superior offspring at family gatherings, malls, and grocery stores while watching other, less evolved children throw temper tantrums in the check-out lines.

Yeah. Not so much.

All these beautiful ideas vanished along with my waistline and any hope of being able to wear a two-piece bathing suit ever again just a few short months after the boys were born. And now, with the boys at 3 years old, I think back on those days before they were born and figure I must have been sleepwalking to the local crack house and scoring some 8-balls, or smoking some other sort of illegal controlled substance.

This is what a typical day looks like in my house. I wake up around 7:00 a.m. I don't need an alarm clock because I can rely, like clockwork, on the sounds of things crashing, creaking, and breaking. This is bewildering to me because the only things in their room are their big-boy beds with no headboard or footboard, no pictures, nothing on the walls, electric outlets covered, doorknobs childproofed, baby gate in the doorway wedged tight enough to stand in for the Hoover Dam. I even took the blinds down out of the windows because I've had to replace all of them twice in the boys' room since I moved here. Who needs all the million and one toys and books we've bought when one has blinds from the Home Depot that have cords with which to garrote one's brother? Or the wands that open and close the blinds to break off and threaten to spank one's brother with? Or the plastic slats to chew off and throw around the room because you're "making sugar"? Come on, people. GET WITH THE PROGRAM HERE. So I wake up at 7 a.m. to the sounds of things breaking and crashing to the floor. I immediately pray for patience and calmness. Then I take my psych meds and a shot of bourbon. Then I pull on some clothes, usually ones I've worn for three days and always made of some form of Spandex. Then I trip over the baby gate crammed across the door because Jonathan cannot abide an actual closed door but tolerates a baby gate, and untangle Elijah from the blinds while trying not to slip and break any bones on the tangled mess of Spiderman sheets on the floor that used to be on their beds. Jonathan, either by electoral vote or in the spirit of Adolf Hitler, is the spokesperson for the two of them. He immediately demands supper (an all-encompassing word for food) for the both of them because "Jonafan and Jijah are hungwy!!". So we change diapers (yes, we're still in diapers) and go into the kitchen where I proceed to throw together bowls of cereal and Pop Tarts. That I made from raw ingredients purchased at Whole Foods. Jonathan prefers to throw his food on the floor under the table and inhale his food through his nose while lying on his stomach on the floor. Elijah sits in his chair, carefully selects one single Froot Loop (he is a connoiseur) and lick it until it's gone, and then chooses another one, a different color, and repeats. After breakfast, we get dressed so the boys can go outside if it's a nice day. If it isn't, we turn on Noggin or watch Shrek 2 for at least the 500th time. The boys play outside all day. I keep a window open by my computer desk because Jonathan, as mentioned, cannot tolerate a closed window regardless of the temperature outside and insists that I can only see him if the window is open. All the way. Glass does not factor into his equation. Only insect screens, apparently, are valid for seeing through. About ten minutes after breakfast the demands for snacks start. Apparently during gestation some neural connection was made as their brains developed that being outside is synonymous with eating. The entire time they are outside. Outside is just not cool without snacks, many and varied. So they park themselves by the open window and yell for snacks while I try desperately to work on my computer six inches away from the open window. There are many tears and histrionics, with both boys falling on the ground in paroxysms of grief, shaking, moaning, and much wailing and gnashing of teeth. There are fights over the yellow Tonka dump truck, of which we bought two that are exactly the same, but for some reason they fight over one in particular. I haven't been able to find any visible difference between the two. Maybe the suspension is better on that one, I don't know. So eventually we come inside to take a quiet time, which is almost never quiet and almost always involves someone getting injured. We eat lunch after Jonathan finishes foaming at the mouth because he doesn't understand why he can't have salt and vinegar chips and chewable vitamins exclusively.

You get the idea. Nighttime is my favorite time of the day because I'm unreasonably excited to watch America's Next Top Model or American Idol, and I can put my boys to bed. I'm tired, and grumpy, and wonder when I'll have time to take a shower, go to the gym, or do the eighteen loads of laundry that are waiting for me. The bathroom is waiting to be cleaned, the kitchen needs to be cleaned up, typing needs to get done for work, and the ants have decided to take up permanent residence under the breakfast table. Then I read Rebecca's blog and feel instantly guilty about being grumpy after my day, and I resolve to be a better person and a better mom tomorrow. I go in and say goodnight to my boys, give them "snuggle kisses" and sing them a goodnight song they especially like, "Eye of the Tiger" from Rocky.

Then, as I go to each one in turn to say goodnight, they throw their little arms around my neck and give me "a stinks on the cheek", which is basically blowing a big, wet raspberry on my face, and they say, "Wuv you, Mommy. See you in the mornin' for supper, Mommy."

And that makes everything worth it a million times over.