The Rigors of Raising Saints

(alternate title that I almost flew with: The Rigors of Raising Hellions)

I only type about it every other sentence so it isn't news to you that this has been a really rough month. I always tell myself I won't write a "this was a horrible month" post after Simon is finished with nights but look at me now: defying and denying my former self. It's been the month of so much tired and the messiest house and the worst diet and so many visits to see Simon that never ended in a visit but with long waits in the car and then (maybe?) a zoom out of the hospital parking lot in a really nasty mood with three crying kids - two of which may or may not have been buckled into their car seats. They're sneaky and crafty and I hate it almost as much as I loathe these rotations. I tried to remember that we were in a similar situation last January when Sebastian was two months old and Julia was 15 months old and Simon was on nights and that it didn't last forever but it felt like IT WOULD. More than forever. So when Simon asked, "do you ever wish you could just go back to your time in DC?", as we pulled out of the driveway this past Friday night on our way to a family outing to Costco I surprised myself by quickly answering that I didn't.

He pressed on, "you don't?! all that time to yourself and getting dressed in nice clothes every day and going out with your friends whenever you wanted??" and again, but a little more hesitantly I answered that I didn't.

And it's true. Oh, would I give my third born's locks to go back to a Thursday night of dancing followed by a Friday morning headache and frenzy of emails about the slightly hazy memories that were always funnier when stifling laughter and shuffling papers at my desk at work? Bleep yeah.

I actually think this was from a weekend trip to NYC because, you know, I could do fancy things like that.

I remember telling Simon (and he doesn't let me forget it) that the reason I was so unorganized was because I had an hour long commute to and from work every day. I was busy!! I had to walk to the metro every morning and sometimes if it was extra full I had to stand on the 40 minute ride and then walk from the metro all the way to work and do the same thing in reverse every day after work. So much toil. So much alone time that my current self would slay for as she is pretty excited about a solo trip to get blood drawn on Friday morning. 

Sometimes I would take a break from emailing to give tours of the Capitol (in my lenses that look suspiciously transitional) because my job was .34 steps above that of an unpaid intern. Can you spot the Blackberry that made me look centuries more productive and important than I actually was?

It was an easy and fun life that I still managed to find fault with from time to time. When Simon and I were dating long distance we would talk for hours on the phone every night and I wouldn't go to sleep till 1 or 2 and had to wake up at 7 to get myself ready for that big odyssey of a commute to slide into work by 9. I thought I knew the meaning of tired. Knee slap.

St. Patrick's Day 2008. On the metro and on our way to have a terrible time.

What was there not to miss? Every weekend's greatest conundrum was the pressure of choosing thee most fun thing to do. Staying in over going out? Let me bite my nails and nervously mull that over lest I make a decision that I'll regret ..... never.

So three weeks into this rotation that just won't quit it would make sense that one might long for the carefree life of the DC days. Build me a time machine and take me back and away from these! kids! These kids that I love but that are very skilled at finding my last nerve standing and having a stomping contest all over it.

Sebastian weaseled his way into the refrigerator earlier this week and had made an impressive pile with the carton holding 18 eggs, the syrup bottle, and the barbeque sauce container all on the floor. He hadn't broken anything or spilled a drop and was pretty proud of his architectural genius. Before I could decide whether to scold or applaud his efforts he had cantered off to scratch and draw blood from Theo's face and (again!) was pretty proud of his accomplishment that left his victim crying his first real tears.

Julia painted all ten of her fingers and her lips with dark nail polish this morning and won't stop telling me that "it hurt her." My greatest triumph yesterday was figuring out how the back windshield wiper worked and the day before that it was getting all four of us from the house into the car in a record-breaking 4 minutes even if we were all outfitted in clothing that could've passed for hobo-pajama-chic.

Staying at home with little kids is really hard. It's grueling and nonstop and exhausting in the worst and best ways. I keep hearing that it gets easier as they get older and I'll believe it when I see one of them put on a pair of socks or voluntarily put something back where it belongs but I wouldn't trade these years for a former, funner world. An especially frustrating day? A million times yes but I think I'd probably be missing Julia's unique sense of modesty and minimalistic hair accessorizing ...

along with a whole host of other toddler quirks. So on the days that seem to go on for 99 hours and when I'm way too tired to even begin to rectify the paralyzing feeling of needing to interact with people that can speak in complete sentences sans multiple speech impediments I try to remember that fact. I usually fail but time flew when I was having fun and time will have flown when I was in the trenches and raising my little saints. 

So she hopes and so she thinks.


Sometimes I think these types of posts sound like a good idea at three in the morning in between placating Theo's grunts and so I type them. I usually don't publish them but I just couldn't let all those screen shots of ancient Facebook photos go to waste. Forgive me.