Oh toddlers.

They’re so much fun when they’re not screaming in your face.

Unfortunately, we’ve been having a lot of in your face moments for the past few weeks. Evan’s favorite word is NO and he uses it every chance he gets. Even if he means “Yes please, that would be lovely Mother” he says NO.

Would you like some juice? NO JUICE! Would you like an apple? NO APPLE! Do you want to watch tv? NO TV! Do you want to go to the park and see our friends? NO FRIENDS! NO! NOOOOOO!!! *sobbing hysterics* *tears* *throws self on floor*

Evan, what’s wrong? JUICE! APPLE! TV! FRIENDS!! *sob sob sob sob*

Blarg.

Thank God for our new best friends, Nick Jr and Sprout and whatever other channel is planning something vaguely child appropriate that perhaps also includes a catchy song I will find myself singing later as I vacuum up pretzel crumbs (We got a green light! We’re gonna take a ride! Come on! What are you waiting foo-oo-or? It’s time to move it! It’s time to groove it! Are you ready? Cause here we goo-oo-oo!) Honestly, in the scheme of “things that get stuck in my head” the Fresh Beat Band is NOT THAT BAD. I may in fact actually…like that song. Don’t tell anyone.

I don’t feel even a teeny tiny little bit bad about letting Little Evan watch TV if it means no one gets smacked in the face, buried under a mountain of dirty laundry, or left at the fire station under the child surrender laws. (Not that I’VE ever Googled those in the midst of a meltdown. Nope.)

In the long run, my toddler learns to speak Chinese and I am a better parent. I see no problems.

Sometimes, even all the happy songs and Blue’s Clues on the planet can’t solve the huge, life destroying problems my toddler faces – such as “Why can’t I eat fourteen lollipops for breakfast?” or “Why did I get yelled at for punching my sister in the head?” Life’s mysteries are SO MYSTERIOUS when you are 2. And when you lack the words to explain why you are so upset, the only way to express yourself is flinging your body on the ground and hitting anything that comes within reach. Obviously.

I have learned the suggestion that one “take a deep breath and count to ten” when one is faced with those kinds of meltdowns isn’t just an expression or a general way saying “chill out”. For it to work, you have to ACTUALLY STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING, close your eyes, take several deep breaths in…and…out…and count to 10 VERY SLOWLY. It’s not going to stop the toddler’s behavior, but it will stop you from throwing your own tantrum in return.

Because that is my biggest parenting challenge: not responding like a toddler when faced with a toddler. Which sounds totally ridiculous – I am a GROWN ASS ADULT. I have leveled up appropriately and unlocked all the adult life achievements (college +1, apartment +1, marriage +1, mortgage +1, credit card + a zillion) and yet when someone screams in my face and lashes out it takes every ounce of my strength not to react in kind. It’s stupid and childish and makes me feel like I truly have absolutely no idea what I am doing when it comes to this parenting gig.

WHY ISN’T THERE A TEST? Or a LICENSE? Some sort of oversight program or home visit or preparedness class I had to attend before I was allowed to get pregnant? Why wasn’t I given some sort of practice training child I couldn’t screw up before I got the final draft? Terrible planning, mother nature. Terrible.

But despite all the toddlering going on, I am taking my deep breaths and learning to be patient. I remind myself (over and over and over and over)(and over and over and over) that this too shall pass. I refuse to argue with a 2 year old and pick my battles much more carefully – is it worth losing my cool over pajama shirts or hair washing or sandals or 3 more bites of dinner or keeping the cushions on the couch or how many blankets to bring downstairs or sharing the red truck instead of the blue truck or the five billion other things Little Evan wants to fight about every single day?

No. No it is not.

At the end of the day, he’s a wonderful boy (Especially at the literal end of the day – bedtime is one thing we’ve got worked out). Smart and funny and kind and generous and joyful and friendly. I look forward to spending time with him and seeing the world as the Super! Awesome! Exciting! Place! he thinks it is. We have such GOOD good times that it makes the bad days seem so much worse. I want to just grab him by the shoulders mid-meltdown and shout “WE COULD BE HAVING FUN! WHY AREN’T WE HAVING FUN?!”

But that’s not very grown-up of me.

When I was newly pregnant with Little Evan, I spent a lot of time complaining about how tiny clothes and baby swings and car seats only came in PINK or BLUE and how SEXIST that was and how no child of mine was going to be forced into traditional societal gender roles, No Sirree Bob. Long live feminism! Down with patriarchy! Damn the man!

But once my inside baby became an outside baby that had needs – CONSTANT NEEDS – I no longer cared if he was dressed exclusively in gender neutral patterns and played only with organic wooden black and white patterned developmental toys. I was just happy to find a clean “Boys Will Be Boys” onesie while Evan quietly chewed on Baby’s First Football so I could brush my teeth for the first time in three days. I was too focused on survival parenting to bother labeling my parenting.

I’m not saying it’s IMPOSSIBLE to raise a child without some boys=blue and girls=pink mentality slipping in. More power to those who prioritize gender neutrality in their every day lives. But for me it took a back seat to breastfeeding struggles, poopsplosions, sleepless nights and just hoping I was doing a good job.

But then I look at my kids and realize I’m doing pretty well.

I DARE you to tell me I can't play with this stroller.

In our house, we never say “Don’t play with that, it’s for girls”. We never say “Boys don’t cry”. We don’t call things “sissy” or “wimpy” or “manly” or “tough”. We are just as likely to hand Caroline a truck to chew on as a flower shaped teether. If Little Evan asked for (another) doll for his birthday we would buy him (another) doll. If Caroline decides she wasn’t a blue tricycle she will get a blue tricycle (and I would thank my lucky stars she didn’t ask for the Disney Princess one that cost twice as much). They play with what they want, when they want, and nothing is expected of them besides good manners, sharing and putting things away when they are done.

That’s the kind of parenting I believe in.

Because it is a Monday and it is not raining, I have exactly 90 minutes between the moment E walks in the door and the moment he leaves again for hockey practice. 90 glorious free minutes during which I can take a shower unassisted by a toddler (“Mama, BOOBS!”) or fold laundry using both arms or sweep the front porch without anyone running through the piles of dirt and tracking it straight into the house. 90 precious minutes to fit in all the chores and errands that are a struggle to do with two kids but should really be done sooner rather than later.

“I’m just going to run to the post office”, I said to E as I grabbed my keys. “Caroline just woke up so she probably needs a diaper [I throw a diaper and a clean outfit in his direction]. You don’t have to get her dressed though, if you want to give her some of this watermelon I cut up she’ll get all messy anyway. Just put her in the high chair. And there are apples in the bowl if you want to put some in her meshie, although it might be in the dishwasher but those dishes are clean so you could get it out.”

E looks up from the remote. “How long are you going to be GONE?”

And that, right there, is the cause of 99% of our fights. I think taking care of the babies is a full time, active job that involves fruits and vegetables and songs and flashcards and cute outfits and playgroups and tummy time. E thinks it involves making sure everyone is breathing and relatively non-poop encrusted.

In the end, we are both right. There are plenty of parenting moments that are nothing more than sitting on the floor with the kids, playing “how big is the baby?” or “where’s your belly button?” or “how hard can you whack daddy in the nuts while trying to climb on him?” But as the primary childcare provider*, more of my time is spent feeding, changing, dressing, rocking, nursing, chasing, holding, and disciplining children. My default mode is to PROVIDE.

So when I hand over the parenting reins for a few minutes I expect my husband to stay just as busy. No, Caroline isn’t going to STARVE if he doesn’t give her some watermelon during the twelve minutes I’m gone. But I was the parent who was home while E went to the post office, those are all the things I would have been doing. I feel like shared parenting means sharing all of it – not just the interesting parts. On the balance sheet of taking care of kids, he doesn’t get to cross of “get hugs” and “read books” while I’m stuck with “offer the baby eleven different foods to throw on the floor” and “let the toddler spit out the apple skin he refuses to swallow for the umpteenth time into your hand.”

But my parenting advice never goes over well and the more times I suggest – Honey you should…Honey why don’t…Honey I think… – the more annoyed E gets and, ironically, the less likely he is to pitch in. Not because he is spiteful and mean, but because who wants to keep doing something you are told over and over you are not good at? (I mean BESIDES blogging, because obviously no one can stop me from sucking up more than my share of the interwebs. I’m in yur bandwidth, writtin down mah rambling thoughts!)

We need to find a compromise that DOESN’T involve either of us threatening to move to Australia.

*And hey, who wants to talk about how totally messed up it is that childcare costs a frickin ZILLION DOLLARS, but watching one’s own children doesn’t count as a job? Oh, you don’t have time to discuss one of the most written about parts of motherhood ever? How about just an Amen?

Yesterday, I was working on some life-skills with Little Evan. Doesn’t that sound fancy? Life-skills. What I really mean is I was teaching him how to use the Keurig to make Mommy a cup of coffee. Obviously he can’t do it on his own – he’s always trying to make me drink tea instead and he can’t even reach the counter – but he loves to switch out the K-cup and push the button. And I dare you to tell me making coffee isn’t an absolutely necessary skill, especially if he takes after me and gets an Underwater Basket Weaving Liberal Arts degree.

As we waited the 20 seconds for my mug to fill with the delicious, life-giving nectar of the gods that is Newman’s Own Organic Dark Roast, Little Evan reached his fingers right towards the stream of hot coffee.

“Oh no!” I said, pulling him away, “That’s hot! Danger! Don’t touch!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because hot things can burn you and that would hurt your fingers,” I explained.

“Oh ok mama. I won’t touch the coffee,” he said. And we both enjoyed a quiet moment of understanding and an important lesson learned.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA No.

“WHY?” he asked again. “WHY? WHY? WHY?”

“Because if you got hurt you’d be sad and that makes me sad.”

“WHY?”

“Because when you’re sad you cry and I don’t like crying babies.”

“WHY?”

“Because it hurts my head and there aren’t any circuses in town I can sell you to right now.”

“WHY?”

“Well, they probably heard I was trying to unload one majorly whiny toddler and they didn’t want to risk getting stuck with you.”

“WHY WHY WHY?”

After about thirty seconds I resorted to something I used to swear would never cross my lips: “BECAUSE I’M YOUR MOTHER AND I SAID SO.”

Other variations: “Because I am the boss of you!” “Because Mommy is in charge!” “Because Daddy will be mad when I tell him!” and “Because God doesn’t like it when you ask questions.” Yeah, I might be going to hell. Also, it didn’t work.

He asked “WHY?” approximately 40 bazillion more times over the next 8 hours, although it felt more like 8 days. WHY do I need to stop kicking my sister? WHY do I need to eat something besides Fritos for lunch? WHY shouldn’t I punch Mommy in the face? WHY can’t you hold me while you cook dinner? WHY WHY WHY?

How is it possible that my toddler has learned this word already? And how long do you think it will take before it drives me to drink?

(Non-surprising answer: negative two hours.)

I yelled at my husband yesterday, in the Taco Bell drivethru.

Not my finest moment. But it’s ok, I’m starting a new diet tomorrow. Oh and the yelling was sort of unnecessary too.

But sometimes I wonder if he will EVER understand what my days are like while he’s at work talking to people who know how to wipe their own butts and don’t smack him in the face when they have a difference of opinion.

We were at Taco Bell and I was making E read all the menu choices out loud, because a) the writing is TINY b) I was in the passenger seat and it’s an awkward angle for seeing the board and c) I always hope they’ll have something new I haven’t heard of before that might delicious instead of ground mystery meat covered in fake cheese sauce. What can I say, I’m an optimist. E was getting frustrated with my squinting and my indecision and in his most exasperated tone said, “If you can’t read the board, WEAR YOUR GLASSES.”

FIRST of all, we have this discussion at least once a week. My glasses are scratched enough to be mostly unusable. My older, slightly wrong prescription glasses give me a headache. My even older, extremely wrong prescription glasses don’t help at all.

SECOND of all, I don’t have an eye doctor here, and I need to see one for a new prescription before I blow any money on new lenses and frames. But seeing a doctor takes free time and there seems to be a shortage of that in my life.

THIRD of all, my eyes aren’t actually that bad. I passed my driver’s exam without the glasses so I don’t HAVE to wear them. I just squint a lot and can’t read medium-small words on the tv.

But the argument isn’t really about whether or not I NEED the glasses – because if I am honest with myself I do, and ought to wear them regularly – it’s how my ability to GET the glasses is hampered by wrangling two children all day. It makes everything HARDER and he doesn’t understand.

E thinks that because he’s capable of caring for both kids in the house doing it elsewhere would be almost the same.* AHAHAHAHAHAHA. Do you know what happens in public? ANYTHING. Anything happens in public. Dogs the toddler can’t touch. Wind that blows on the baby in a way that makes her scream with anger. Food that belongs to people who don’t feel like sharing. Poopsploded diapers and nowhere to change them. POWER OUTLETS. DIRT. TRAFFIC. YELLING. STRANGERS TO JUDGE YOU. And no where safe to just leave the kids while you walk away for a minute and regain your composure.

Take the post office for example. Our post office is a NIGHTMARE – no parking, giant stone steps, no ramps for strollers (or handicapped people for that matter – I’m sure they’re violating about a zillion Americans with Disabilities Act provisions). I was in a town with a better post office so I decided to go there. I park somewhere out of the way so we’re not in the busiest part of the lot. Open the toddler’s door. Unstrap toddler. Fight with toddler about holding hands in the dangerous parking lot. Pick up screaming toddler. Walk around van. Open baby’s door. Pin toddler against the van with my knee while using both hands to get the baby seat out. Get slammed in the shoulder by the auto-closing door the toddler has activated. Hold baby seat in one hand and drag toddler with the other to the building. Fight with toddler about who gets to open the door even though it is too heavy for him. Herd toddler into line. Get out of line to prevent toddler from doors to the mail room. Feel like a terrible parent as he slams his head against a counter because he’s angry. Mail packages. Repeat in reverse back to the car. And I consider that a SUCCESSFUL trip.

E suggested I just use the stroller. All that does is add 10 minutes to a trip that now involves a screaming, thrashing 2 year old and getting stuck in three different sets of doors. It is also impossible for errands that involve: stairs, buying anything bigger than a breadbox, tiny doctor’s offices, places I have not been before and can’t judge for stroller-friendliness beforehand.

Now try that same scenario again only with a doctor’s office full of things Little Evan can’t touch and people who don’t necessarily like children. Oh and depending on the kind of doctor you might get to do it with your pants off. IT IS THE EXTREME OPPOSITE OF FUN and so far down on my list of things I’ll enjoy I’ll take any measures necessary to avoid it. So all my errands and appointments have to be done while E is home AND the offices are open. Not an easy feat.

Because E’s in the military, being healthy is actually PART OF HIS JOB and not only is his medical/dental/eye care provided, they schedule the appointments during work hours and make him go. My bosses aren’t quite so flexible. I don’t have family in the area to leave the kids with. And as much as my friends offer to help, asking them to watch my kids for every appointment would probably get me uninvited to playgroup pretty quick.

How do other people – or people with MORE kids – do this?

Maybe E can just keep reading menu boards for me and I’ll get new glasses when Caroline goes to preschool. In 2015.

*For the record, E is very good at parenting and sharing parenting responsibilities. But without the ability to lactate he can’t comfort and/or feed Caroline so the amount of time I can be away from her in limited. And now I need to write a WHOLE OTHER POST about my expectations of my husband (and men in general) as a father and how I feel both guilty and not at all guilty for asking for help. I need to go back to stupid craft projects before my brain explodes.