My Fair Lorelei
(Written last night.)
This morning dawned like any other. Around 5:00 a.m., Lorelei crawled into our bed, sippy and seahorse in hand, and promptly positioned herself horizontally. Not much later, Chris got up. A little after that, I got up. I got my coffee (I drink it in the shower--that's what that ledge is there for, right?) and quietly began getting ready for work.
Chris took off before the girls were up. I got through hair before Lorelei woke. Next, we climbed into Charlotte's bed to wake her. Charlotte was less than thrilled.
I then ran around, trying to get my girls and myself ready for the day. And so the morning started to unravel. Charlotte simply DAWDLED, resistant. Cranky. A tad petulant.
And Lorelei? Oh dear lord, Lorelei. As the temperature in the house climbed past 80 degrees, and I was already dressed for work in not the most comfy clothes, I held a writhing toddler over the toilet who refused to pee as she screamed and cried. Well, fine. As I recall from my own potty training 31+ years ago, NOBODY can MAKE you pee.
And as my mother is thinking right now, probably with an evil giggle, karma is a bitch.
People, this is not my first disastrous morning routine. I really tried to keep my cool. I sweetly talked to Lorelei as I literally wrestled her kicking, screaming body into undies, clothes, and (most painfully, what with the kicks and all), SHOES. Screaming and crying (her), I got her into the car and buckled into her car seat. Miraculously.
As I buckled Charlotte, she asked (miserably--she hates mornings like this as much as I do) for her snack container of cheerios. Inspired, Lorelei shrieked for hers too. So, I made the zillionth trip back into the house and fetched the containers and their water bottles. In the backseat, Charlotte said thank you. Lorelei took one look at her container, which I guess wasn't as full of cheerios as she desired, and screamed at the top of lungs and hurled the container at me.
It landed on the garage floor.
Now, a mature, GOOD mother would have gently shut the car door and taken the offending snack container. Calm plus consequence. GOOD parenting.
Me? I did a quick all-clear for little hands and fingers, and I effing SLAMMED that door. I'd had it. I was pissed. As pissed as Lorelei.
Predictably, this exacerbated the situation.
Lorelei wailed and wailed for her cheerios. Well, no freaking way. Meanwhile, I chased down the dog who did not want to go into the mudroom, gathered up my own work stuff, and loaded the rest of the car. More wailing. And Lorelei wailed all the way to school.
Mercifully, she got her shit together by the time we entered. I sat the girls down to breakfast, feeling like utter poo. Squatting in my dress, I pulled Charlotte into my arms, hugged her, and told her I was sorry this was such a not fun morning. Then I gathered up my Lorelei. We stared at each other. Then I gave her a tight hug and suggested we try to better tomorrow. Her face buried in my shoulder, she nodded her head and wrapped her arms around my neck.
During the drive to work, I called Chris. "I don't know what to do," I said. Chris had done his part that morning: made the girls' sandwiches, put their lunch boxes in the car, prepped the mudroom for Emma, with her bed and water and toys. What part of the routine could we tweak?
"Maybe it's sleep," I said. "Maybe they're overtired." We've been loosey goosey with bedtimes lately, particularly because--and here's a flippin' shitty irony--we're attempting way more family meals, which gets us into the bedtime routine later.
Chris agreed that sleep might be the culprit, or at least a factor, and promised to help me get the kids to bed right on time.
Tonight (Tuesday), we succeeded! Though I fear it was only because Chris had a late afternoon dentist appointment, which allowed him to have a LOT of dinner prepped by the time we got home. Whatever. Family dinner + baths + kids to bed on time. High five.
We'll see how the next few mornings go. It's just the worst feeling to see the pained look on your big girl's face, and the red-faced rage and frustration and tears on your little girl's face. I'm sick of pulling on every ounce of patience I possess, only to blow in the end, shouting at Lorelei, slamming a door, snapping at Charlotte when I'm really actually annoyed at her sister (or father).
It's those moments when my temper wins: do my hours and hours and hours of story time and silly games and thousands of sing-songs offset the "LORELEI, SIT DOWN!" or "CHARLOTTE, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF I HAVE TO ASK YOU TO PUT YOUR SHOES ON ONE MORE TIME . . . !" and the ever-popular "GET IN THE FREAKING CAR!"???
I don't want my kids to spill something and look up with wide eyes to see if she'll get yelled at. I also don't want them (Lorelei) to stare right at me and purposefully dump milk on freshly mopped floors, either.
When I'm in the good-mothering zone, I can manage Lorelei. We have fun, we goof around, we get dressed without drama, we play, we laugh, we cuddle.
But throw one thing off---for example, a bit of contrary tiredness mixed with Mommy needing to leave the house by a certain time and . . . . it's not pretty.
Solution? I don't know. Maybe Lorelei and I are too similar for our own good. Her mother, like Lorelei's Nana, goes from zero to sixty in not very much time at all.
I think Lorelei is fascinatingly complex. And yeah, I'm her ma, but I feel like I get her. In all the hubbub of our daily lives, Lorelei and I can exchange a glance or a smirk that contains about a thousand words and thoughts and feelings, and nobody sees it but the two of us.
But my god, I could just throttle her a minute later, when she says she wants an orange--no, green!--no, PURPLE!--cup. AND WHAT SHE GETS IS ALL WRONG, no matter what.
Anyway. Chris and I are trying to tackle this Lorelei stage proactively. But I'm Ashley, and I'm a mommy who yells. And feels crappy after.
Meanwhile, here's what we're reading this week:
On Charlotte’s nightstand: We just finished Betsy-Tacy, which I highly recommend.Our next chapter book is Roald Dahl's The Magic Finger. (It's not that long, but it should last us for a few nights.) Charlotte thinks it's hilarious. And you know what? It is!
This morning dawned like any other. Around 5:00 a.m., Lorelei crawled into our bed, sippy and seahorse in hand, and promptly positioned herself horizontally. Not much later, Chris got up. A little after that, I got up. I got my coffee (I drink it in the shower--that's what that ledge is there for, right?) and quietly began getting ready for work.
Chris took off before the girls were up. I got through hair before Lorelei woke. Next, we climbed into Charlotte's bed to wake her. Charlotte was less than thrilled.
I then ran around, trying to get my girls and myself ready for the day. And so the morning started to unravel. Charlotte simply DAWDLED, resistant. Cranky. A tad petulant.
And Lorelei? Oh dear lord, Lorelei. As the temperature in the house climbed past 80 degrees, and I was already dressed for work in not the most comfy clothes, I held a writhing toddler over the toilet who refused to pee as she screamed and cried. Well, fine. As I recall from my own potty training 31+ years ago, NOBODY can MAKE you pee.
And as my mother is thinking right now, probably with an evil giggle, karma is a bitch.
People, this is not my first disastrous morning routine. I really tried to keep my cool. I sweetly talked to Lorelei as I literally wrestled her kicking, screaming body into undies, clothes, and (most painfully, what with the kicks and all), SHOES. Screaming and crying (her), I got her into the car and buckled into her car seat. Miraculously.
As I buckled Charlotte, she asked (miserably--she hates mornings like this as much as I do) for her snack container of cheerios. Inspired, Lorelei shrieked for hers too. So, I made the zillionth trip back into the house and fetched the containers and their water bottles. In the backseat, Charlotte said thank you. Lorelei took one look at her container, which I guess wasn't as full of cheerios as she desired, and screamed at the top of lungs and hurled the container at me.
It landed on the garage floor.
Now, a mature, GOOD mother would have gently shut the car door and taken the offending snack container. Calm plus consequence. GOOD parenting.
Me? I did a quick all-clear for little hands and fingers, and I effing SLAMMED that door. I'd had it. I was pissed. As pissed as Lorelei.
Predictably, this exacerbated the situation.
Lorelei wailed and wailed for her cheerios. Well, no freaking way. Meanwhile, I chased down the dog who did not want to go into the mudroom, gathered up my own work stuff, and loaded the rest of the car. More wailing. And Lorelei wailed all the way to school.
Mercifully, she got her shit together by the time we entered. I sat the girls down to breakfast, feeling like utter poo. Squatting in my dress, I pulled Charlotte into my arms, hugged her, and told her I was sorry this was such a not fun morning. Then I gathered up my Lorelei. We stared at each other. Then I gave her a tight hug and suggested we try to better tomorrow. Her face buried in my shoulder, she nodded her head and wrapped her arms around my neck.
During the drive to work, I called Chris. "I don't know what to do," I said. Chris had done his part that morning: made the girls' sandwiches, put their lunch boxes in the car, prepped the mudroom for Emma, with her bed and water and toys. What part of the routine could we tweak?
"Maybe it's sleep," I said. "Maybe they're overtired." We've been loosey goosey with bedtimes lately, particularly because--and here's a flippin' shitty irony--we're attempting way more family meals, which gets us into the bedtime routine later.
Chris agreed that sleep might be the culprit, or at least a factor, and promised to help me get the kids to bed right on time.
Tonight (Tuesday), we succeeded! Though I fear it was only because Chris had a late afternoon dentist appointment, which allowed him to have a LOT of dinner prepped by the time we got home. Whatever. Family dinner + baths + kids to bed on time. High five.
We'll see how the next few mornings go. It's just the worst feeling to see the pained look on your big girl's face, and the red-faced rage and frustration and tears on your little girl's face. I'm sick of pulling on every ounce of patience I possess, only to blow in the end, shouting at Lorelei, slamming a door, snapping at Charlotte when I'm really actually annoyed at her sister (or father).
It's those moments when my temper wins: do my hours and hours and hours of story time and silly games and thousands of sing-songs offset the "LORELEI, SIT DOWN!" or "CHARLOTTE, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF I HAVE TO ASK YOU TO PUT YOUR SHOES ON ONE MORE TIME . . . !" and the ever-popular "GET IN THE FREAKING CAR!"???
I don't want my kids to spill something and look up with wide eyes to see if she'll get yelled at. I also don't want them (Lorelei) to stare right at me and purposefully dump milk on freshly mopped floors, either.
When I'm in the good-mothering zone, I can manage Lorelei. We have fun, we goof around, we get dressed without drama, we play, we laugh, we cuddle.
But throw one thing off---for example, a bit of contrary tiredness mixed with Mommy needing to leave the house by a certain time and . . . . it's not pretty.
Solution? I don't know. Maybe Lorelei and I are too similar for our own good. Her mother, like Lorelei's Nana, goes from zero to sixty in not very much time at all.
I think Lorelei is fascinatingly complex. And yeah, I'm her ma, but I feel like I get her. In all the hubbub of our daily lives, Lorelei and I can exchange a glance or a smirk that contains about a thousand words and thoughts and feelings, and nobody sees it but the two of us.
But my god, I could just throttle her a minute later, when she says she wants an orange--no, green!--no, PURPLE!--cup. AND WHAT SHE GETS IS ALL WRONG, no matter what.
Anyway. Chris and I are trying to tackle this Lorelei stage proactively. But I'm Ashley, and I'm a mommy who yells. And feels crappy after.
Meanwhile, here's what we're reading this week:
On
Lorelei’s nightstand: The Babies on the Bus by Karen Katz. Lorelei picked out just one book at the library, and
this was it. A good choice, actually. She LOVES it. Whoever reads it
essentially has to SING “Wheels on the Bus,” plus lots of extra verses, but it’s
pretty dang engaging. And it's easy to ham it up. The illustrations are bright, the babies are diverse, and
opportunities for interacting with your toddler while reading abound. I love
Karen Katz books (aside from the fact that her lift-the-flap books are NOT
sturdy enough for their intended age range). This more recent one (pub.
2013) is worth reading (ahem, SINGING).
On Charlotte’s nightstand: We just finished Betsy-Tacy, which I highly recommend.Our next chapter book is Roald Dahl's The Magic Finger. (It's not that long, but it should last us for a few nights.) Charlotte thinks it's hilarious. And you know what? It is!
On my nightstand: Vanessa and Her Sister. I had this on the library queue hold for quite a bit, so I was so excited when it finally arrived. Despite some legitimate efforts to READ, I'm only 22 pages in right now. The novel covers Vanessa Bell, Virginia Woolf's ever patient sister. (Woolf was a tad high-maintenance.) Just 22 pages in has me nostalgic for the college days where I worked on my late mentor's first book, where Woolf had a huge part. I've been away from Woolf for awhile, and the auto/biographical gist is coming back to me as I read. Of course, this is about Vanessa, so it's a fun twist.
And, for reasons that ought to be obvious at this point, I'm also reading Jo Frost's Toddler Rules. I recently finished Your Two-Year-Old: Terrible or Tender? (or, as I called it, "Your Spawn or Satan's?") It's outdated, but I'd still recommend it because it gives basic developmental information of two-year-olds. Fun fact: Apparently Lorelei is normal.
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