Breathing in Grumpy Pants

Started the day off strong, with a mind-clearing dog walk and great Peloton ride. But then I must have unknowingly changed into my grumpy pants, because I am back in the same funk I have been fighting for the last few days.

The next three weeks - the last weeks before school starts! - are going to be routine-less. And that’s not how I prefer to roll. Tomorrow kicks off five days of Mama Camp, wherein I aim to create fun, magical days for my children because I want to have quality time with them slash feel guilty spending more money on camps. On Friday we depart for our summer vacation: a little over a week in a little cottage in a little town on a little island in Rhode Island. And then we come home, hopefully relaxed and renewed - is that possible when “vacationing” with two kids and two dogs? - and spend a week gearing up for the start of school.

And, actually, the real school routine won’t be rolling out for a couple of weeks after that due to my son’s preschool, which eases the kids in with teacher home visits and shortened classes and ughhhhhhh...

Breathe.

I love my kids. And someday I will look back and I will miss them being small enough to hold and snuggle. Someday "feehicarole" will be pronounced “vehicle” and that will be a little sad. Ushering these kids into proper childhood from teeter-tottering toddlerdom has been, on balance, an honor and a joy, mostly.

Breathe.

This is the point in the summer when it gets hard. And it’s ok to admit that it’s hard. I’m not the only one who struggles when routine is out the window. It’s hard on the kids too. And when they get exhausted from the relentlessly hot, sticky, and active days, I am the closest and safest target for their crankiness. By this point in the summer I’m basically walking around with one bullseye on my forehead and another on my heart.

Breathe.

I’m taking it too personally, the plentiful attitude and comparative lack of gratitude. My six-year-old, obsessed with fairness, is struggling with being kind when she sees other kids behaving much worse and still getting what they want. My four-year-old wants all of me all the time, underestimating his own capacity for creative play. Nothing I give either of them will ever be enough.

Breathe.

Because that’s parenthood, right? What kid has ever said, thank you, this is enough? I want my kids to be testing limits, experimenting with being kind and being twerps. Because that is how they will learn that the grass is realer on the kind side of the fence. The twerp side? Just turf. It may be green, but it’s fake. And there are more toys and treats on the kind side too, even if they might not be easy to see sometimes.

So where does this leave me? Breathing a little deeper than before I started typing. Feeling a little more empathy for these two little souls who are under my care. It’s tough being a kid, wanting to do and be and play with and create so many things all the time, and being bossed around by grown-ups who may or may not always know what they’re doing.

My husband sent me out of the house this afternoon, to work through and shake off my funk. I started typing this from the pedicure chair. By the time my watermelon toenails and I got home, my husband and kids had cleaned the playroom and started packing for our trip. When I walked in the door my husband was folding a load of laundry and the kids were quietly and calmly looking through cookbooks, picking out recipes they want to make while we’re away. With my husband’s prompting, both kids told me that the theme of this upcoming Mama Camp week is “appreciation.” Tears welled up in my eyes as my son told me that he is going to try to do more on his own and, when he does need help, he will be more polite in asking for it. My daughter said that she will stop stalling at bedtime (a major pet peeve of late) and that she will be more cooperative. In exchange, she'll be allowed to leave her light on for 15 minutes - because, you know, fairness.

Breathe.

I have a wonderful family. And I hope these next few weeks ultimately serve as a reminder of that. If I start to veer back into my dreaded funk, I’ll come back to this entry and read it and remind myself to breathe some empathy back into my being.

P.S. to Self: Don’t forget how much worse ALL OF THIS would be if you were still drinking. How did you even work through funks when you were a Wine Mom? Oh, you didn’t. Not really. You just poured a glass of wine and sent your woes sinking to the bottom of the bottle. Then you’d finish the bottle, and there your woes would be, right back in your gut. But not anymore. Kudos to you. Keep after it.