I am not maternal. I thought for a few minutes that I might be, after a lifetime of knowing full well that I'm not. But then February came and brought with it the terrible twos and I haven't taken in even one breath of reprieve since.
I feel as helpless as I did with a newborn, and somehow even more clueless than I did back in those days.
It's a constant power struggle around here. I try to be firm, I try to punish without emotion, I try so, so, so hard not to yell. I'm from a family of yellers and I'm a yeller, people. But I don't want Grant to be. I don't want him to know this feeling of being out of control of your feelings or your voice - to feel that the only outlet is to yell. When I was a kid, I can remember getting in trouble a few times and my biological father would yell, and point, and chastise and then he'd say "Okay?!" and I was expected to look him in the eye and say "okay," after just having had my ass reamed. It was humiliating. But man alive, sometimes I think it's all I know. My mom used to yell "What's the big idea?!" and I knew a storm was brewing. Not that I didn't deserve it, but ugh, the yelling. I'm sure it's because I didn't listen the first 4 times someone said something, but still. The yelling is what I carry.
Tonight, from 5:00 to 5:30, G and I went back and forth on picking up his toys. "G, pick up your toys please." "NO!" "Well, firstly, that should be 'No, thank you,' but second, if you aren't going to pick up, you need to go to the time-out chair," Queue screaming tantrum. 2 minutes later, "G, are you ready to pick up?" "NO!" "Okay, then you need to stay in the chair." 2 minutes pass "Are you ready to pick up?" "Yes!" "Okay, get down and let's clean up!" Insert dawdling here. "If you aren't going to pick up, you need to go to time-out again." Shampoo, rinse, repeat. I tried explaining, I hugged, I demonstrated, I even bargained. No dice,
And no, I don't think I'm expecting too much. He knows how to pick up, he JUMPS to pick up when we're in music class, and I swear to God I DUMP praise on the child when he does it, and yet, no clean up for G.
Erik walks through the door. G is bawling because he's in time-out again. All Erik has to say is "Let's clean up!" and off G goes, cleaning like a maniac. I burst into tears while finishing supper in the kitchen.
There were days last year that I used to think "This is a piece of cake," and now look at me. How the heck am I supposed to have this struggle again with a second child? And presumably a third? I clearly haven't learned a lick of anything yet. I keep praying for patience and it's seriously just getting worse. I remember the scene from Evan Almighty (I think it was), where Morgan Freeman plays God and he was talking to someone about how when people pray for things God doesn't just give it, he teaches it. Which I suppose makes sense, but now I feel like the more I ask for it, the more I'm going to be broken in and things will just get worse before they get better.
Imagine. Of all the things that have made me somewhat question God's motives, it's a child. Not death, not war, not abandonment by a parent, but my child. The person I love more than anything. Doesn't make any sense to me.
And seriously, where the crap is spring-time? We need to play outdoors!!!
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