Zen and the Litter Box

This morning, I met peace over the litter box.  My younger son, a floor above me, was 15 minutes into a rant about damage to a Nerf sword, and I was working hard to keep my cool.  Not everyone may choose scooping cat poop during these events, but I've yet to find ways to consistently keep my cool during these loud, protracted tantrums, so I gave it a go.  It worked.

My younger's tantrum verge on the legendary.  They're long, loud, aggressive, and sudden.  Eight and a half years of these beauties should have inoculated me against their effects on my heart, but time hasn't helped.  (Okay, they were nonverbal for the first year, but at what age does protracted unexplained screaming morph from colic to tantrum?)  He's inconsolable, angry, and out of control during the events, and they generally just have to run out of fuel on their own.  On my best days, I can keep my cool for the duration, keeping my voice even and expressing what I imagine his feelings are (he doesn't use those confusing feeling words often) while he interrogates me relentlessly, looking for the answer he wants and erupting more when I don't give in.

Until today, ear plugs have been my best defense. I can hold my temper better when my ear drums aren't threatening to explode.  While I wish a hug and open ear helped him, these tactics only fan the flames.  Answering a few questions to assure his understanding then refusing to continue the conversation seems the best tact.  So I often move around the house, cooking, cleaning, and tending to simple tasks while I wait out the storm.

Today, I headed toward the litter box.  With six kittens in my charge, there is no shortage of poop to scoop. Once by the basement box, I search through the sand with my blue scoop.  His voice fades a bit with the distance, and I sift through the box for telltale clumps.  It's oddly soothing, and soon my mind is only on those stinky lumps of clay.  Too soon, the job ends.  After reluctantly setting down my scoop and tossing my findings, I return to the tantrum still in play.  It's easier now to weather the storm.  His raging continues for another 20 minutes or so,  but my storm is past, thanks to the litterbox.

The Middle of the Bed

After years of sleeping on the left side of the bed, last night I tried sleeping in the middle.  I'd like to say this move came from new-found comfort with my single status, but necessity forced my hand.  Quite possibly, my younger's favorite part of having only one parent in each residence is the space it opens up in the parent's bed.  I co-slept for years with my younger, at least for part of most nights.  He was an all-night nurser for more years than I care to tell, and sharing a mattress on the floor of his room for most of each night kept me vertical during the day. 

Until last week, I laid with him until he fell asleep.  Every night.  For eight and a half years. I'd tried to coax him toward independent sleep in the past, but illness, travel, and parental upheaval interruped our plans.  It simply wasn't important enough to me to seriously stress my rather sensitive and volitle younger son, and I believe in choosing my battles.  But this month, he was ready.  It's gone swimmingly.  I read to him as always, snuggle for 10 minutes, and leave.  We're both proud. 

So what's with last night's full bed?  He sometimes uses his blonde, eight-year-old wiles to win his way into my bed for stories and subsequent sleep.  I still leave until my bedtime, but he likes the idea of waking with me in the morning.  Fine by me, especially given nightly lows in single digits.  At least the bed is warmer.  Last night, however, my older needed a bit of mom, too.  Anxiety brought him in for conversation and distraction but overcrowding (here's where I end up in the middle) drove him back to his bed. 

After he left, I tried to stay in the middle, figuring it was time to claim the bed as mine, despite the small, warm addition to my right.  After seven years of two sleepers (and two years of just one) creating dents inthe pillow top mattress, no amount of rotating makes for a flat surface.  The middle is a hill between the valleys, and I prefer level ground when sleeping.  Back to the right side of the bed.

Spider bites to the feet sent my older scurrying back at some obscene hour, so I returned to the middle.  We're all pretty small people, but this load is just a bit much, even for my queen-sized bed.  The night was long.  Finally my younger awoke, earlier than I usually prefer, but at least we could all get out of bed.  Nighttime parenting continues as long as the kids are in the house, but I'm hoping to limit my number of nights in the middle of the bed.  Perhaps I'll celebrate that point with a new mattress.

(Moon image thanks to NASA public domain photos)

Fun: Lost and Found

It seems the fun factor in my older's life is not reaching satisfactory levels.  Lately, my too-soon-to-be teenager announced that he's not having enough fun.  His homeschooling work isn't fun, so it's just impossible to do.  Not too hard (he'd let me know), not too easy (he'd also let me know), but just not fun.  In fact, his whole life is less fun than it was three years ago.

It's a sad day when you break it to your child that no promise of never-ending fun came with the birth certificate.  My reaction to his distress was to let him in on that fact:  no promises of a fun life come with existance.  Just for the record, those were hardly words of comfort to hom.  He proceeded to wail about life being endless work, only for the gain of money, and that life was, therefore, pointless.  Ouch.

This time, I tried recalling the hunter/gatherer lifestyle and my opinion at surely that wasn't fun 24/7.  No dice.  His life is not fun enough, and, as an adult, he'll work for money and fun will have no part.  Could happen, I admit, but I've often discussed creating a career around what you love.  I reminded him that my work as a physician assistant is, while not always fun, deeply satisfying to me.  Yeah, there are difficult patients and too much documenting.  But supporting people through illness and teaching them how to maintain their health brings me meaning.  Not fun, but something better. I encouraged him to search for what gave him satisfaction and a sense of meaning (beyond playing computer games and provoking his brother).  No response.

His pain is real, and I don't mean to mock my older at all, but please permit me a deep parental sigh and a bit of an eye-roll (out of his sight, of course).  I admit I didn't manage to bite my tongue before regaling him with what's not fun for me:  toilet cleaning, meal preparation, vacuum belt replacing -- I'd better stop before I'm in tears.  It pains me to hear his genuine angst at the reality of life.  Plenty of life isn't fun, and that message kicks everyone in the pants at some point.  Life is often challenging, frustrating, disappointing, and even downright sad, but in and from those moments can come satisfaction, meaning, and growth.  And knowing you've grown and made one life a better place for someone?  That's what I call fun.

Mom Interrupted

For this post, I'm logging the kids' interruptions (1 - Older implied younger was a geek. He is. They both are, but younger doesn't want to be called that) in real time  (2 -Younger sticks duct tape in older's hair. At older's request.) during a single blogging session.  Good luck reading this (3-Younger brings kitten to me, asking a question the kitten has.).

Sometimes my most burning question (4-Younger complains about his brother's answer to a simple question he asked.) is whether I'll ever be able to carry a thought longer than 20 seconds long while the boys are in the house (5-"Mom, did you notice the present under the tree?" asks older), not including any time they spend playing computer games or sleeping.  I worry if my older's ADD is contagious, and I wonder if I've caught it. 

I'd like to say I'm reassured by my longer periods of concentration when they're not here, that I notice an ability to sit for hours, writing, reading, or just thinking.  I'd be lying, however.  (6- "He won't accept a free wedgie, Mom!  It's only five dollars!" my younger illogically notifies me.)  Even when alone, I have trouble settling into the quiet needed to allow myself submersion into a thoughtful activity.  I may write a paragraph or two only to urgently need to find a snack, warm my coffee, check on the kittens, or move the laundry.  (7- Some nonsensical notification of the pain of "Korean burns" from my younger.  I have no idea.) (8-Ditto number seven, but now "Canadian burns".)  I'm seriously concerned that I'll never focus again.

My meditation attempts are at least as scattered as my other stabs at prolonged attention (read: longer than 43 seconds).  I try but generally find my mind wandering off, a few breaths into the process.  Gently, I bring it back, but the wanderings far outnumber the breaths spent in quietude.  It's worse than monkey mind.  It's two-kids-at-home mind.  Yikes.  (9- More weird comments from younger -- seems I'm a "momafant."  I don't know, and I'm not asking.) (10- Broken icemaker triggered by older -- stern reminder from mom to leave it alone.)  Now where was I? 

Flu Blues

Two kids, nine consecutive days of fevers and coughs, and one mom losing her mind.  It's the flu.  The real McCoy, no "severe cold" or other such beast.  It's pretty nasty, too. The fevers are high and the chills are bone shaking.  Their coughs are gut-wrenching.  They've had achy bodies and touchy tummies.  I really feel bad for them.  And I feel bad for me.


Don't get me wrong. My empathy for the boys runs deep.  But right now, I'm having a pity party for me. I've had too little adult contact, even less sleep, and way too much whining exposure to be healthy for anyone. Almost every night for over a week, I've shared a bed with a sweaty child, moaning, coughing, and waking early as his body battled the viral villain.  I'm tired and rather cranky.


These are the times that try this mom's soul.  The internal push-pull between the mom-me and that me-me part.  As an attachment parenting type with five cumulative years breastfeeding two kids who has been homeschooling these offspring for the last five years, I'm wholly committed to mothering and family.  I chose to have these amazing creatures, and I believe in deep, impassioned, committed motherhood.  Some would say I drank the Kool Aid, giving up my own identity to parent my kids, but I'd wholly disagree.  It's a new dimension to me, and I've grown in ways I don't believe I would have without it.  It's also exhausted me, frustrated me, and sucked me dry at times.  Like now.

I need some regular time to just meet my own needs, not in a way that neglects the real needs of children but that respects that my own mental and physical health is essential to the well being of this family.  If I swallow the message that all should be about my children, 24/7, I miss some essentials to being a healthy woman.  This often is referred to as putting on one's own oxygen mask first, but that creates a sense of "emergency only" self care and consideration.  Ask any person who relies on the ER for all her medical care and you'll quickly realize most emergencies wouldn't exist if it weren't for neglect of routine care.  Regular nurturing of me keeps the oxygen mask need to a minimum.

So I'm feeling sorry for me.  With barely a breath without interruption for the past week and a half, I've missed that time to attend to me-me, and that portion of me screams for attention when neglected for long. It's all been oxygen masks for awhile, and I'm in need of some routine care, just enough to restore and strengthen this weary woman.  It's coming.