Thursday, March 1, 2012

You Can Cut the Tension with a Knife

Okay, listen, little girl in Elise's stomach, you're killing us. Get out here already before we tear each other to pieces.

Every morning, Elise and I are awaken by a tiny voice calling, "Daddy.....Daddy....." Usually, it is still pitch black out. This morning it started around 5:30. Yesterday, 5:00. The day before that, 4:30. Thankfully, it has been getting a smidge later and a smidge lighter every morning, as Peter finally adjusts to the end of daylight savings time in Brazil. I have received strict instructions not to get him out of bed before 6. Sometimes, I successfully tip-toe into his room, convince him in urgent whispers that it is not time to get up yet. Sometimes, he will curl back up, lay his head on the folded blanket which is his pillow and let me cover him with his other blanket, so he looks like a turtle trying to go to sleep. I rub him on his back a few times as reassurance, then tip-toe back into our room and slide back under the sheets and may get 10 or 15 minutes of quiet before the tiny voice comes again, "Daddy....Daddy....."

This morning, it was a chorus of two voices as the room finally started to lighten around 6 which made my rising from bed inevitable. I have had to resort to asking Peter if he has woken with a 'happy heart'. I'm not sure he knows what this means. I'm not sure I know what this means. I haul Pete from his crib. If Sam is awake, he follows. The first of what is sure to many bouts of sibling rivalry today ensues shortly after, when Pete and Sam argue who will turn the kitchen light on. They then squabble over sippy cups, who will stir the waffle mix, fight over a die-cast Lightning McQueen Hot Wheels. They both will lay their blankets on the kitchen floor like they are on the sands of Rio and curl back up as if it were I that insisted they get out of bed. Sam will scoot his poofy-head into Pete's ribs or tizu, then start head-butting his like he is a pachycephalosaurus defending his young. Pete screams then tries to flee, but can't because Sam is lying on his blanket. It's 5:45 a.m.

I handle this chaos better some days than others. Some days I can let it wash over me like waves rolling over the North Shore. Others, especially if the morning pot of joe hasn't been brewed yet, are more trying. Today was one of those days. It is on mornings like this one that I feel that the slightest pebble in our well-oiled engine could send the entire train careening off the rails. Some mornings, the chaos spirals out of control. Sam will whine because he has the smaller of two whisks I've assigned to my waffle-batter-stirring assistants. Pete has the larger and he isn't doing anything with it except beating it on the side of the counter like it is a cymbal brush and he is Neil Peart. I will dump the waffle batter in the sink in frustration. Sam bursts into tears. Pete looks about forlornly. Then asks for milk, juice, his blankie (which he is sitting on), his pacey (which is in his mouth) and five other things in the span of fifteen seconds. I take a deep breath. I quickly gather Sam up in my arms and tell him I'm sorry I lost my temper.

Neither Elise nor I believe in hiding the ugly truths of parenting. Nor are either of us ashamed of our less than perfect moments. This blog is here to remember both the beautiful and the ugly. Fortunately, we have had a very beautiful year, and the moments I consider ugly are mostly a confluence of naturally energetic boys displaying their natural boisterousness colliding with a deficit of patience I resolved on January 1 to have more of. And this is not to say that our boys are tiny Damians. Far from it. They are good, sweet children harnessing the destructive potential of an ICBM. Our job is to make sure if that potential energy makes it out of the silo, that it is transformed into a force for good.

Other mornings, yesterday, for example, I can calmly convince Sam he isn't ready to get out of bed yet. I know this because as I went in to lift Pete from his crib, Sam was still asleep. Before we could quietly slip from the room, Pete executed his 'down' maneuver, a twist of the torso combined with a crippling elbow to my adam's apple that signals his desire to be on his own two feet. He then promptly padded over to Sam's bed and queried, "Brudder....Brudder....you 'wake?" He wasn't, but he soon would be, much to his chagrin.

After a display much like the one this morning, I told Sam that he didn't have to get out of bed when Peter got out of bed. I gently guided him back to his room, turned his night light(s) on for him, gave him his blankie, stuffed Angry Bird doll, stuffed giraffe named Petey, tucked him back in and left the room. He was only in there for five minutes and promptly reported that he hadn't even closed his eyes, but the trick seemed to work. He was refreshed and didn't take Lightning McQueen from Peter, didn't head-butt him, hold his blankie hostage or rip the pacey from his mouth. A parenting victory, if only a small one.

The end of the day is a mirror image of the beginning. Whereas the morning begins quietly and revs up, the end of the day, from the moment I pull into the driveway, is a race to wind down the day and, again, find quiet. Often, I can't even get out of the car. Tiny exuberant bodies are blocking my exit. Once, it was only Sam that would ask, "Do you have any packages?" Now, Peter, too, runs up to my car door, asking around pacey, "Packages?"

The evening is like pinching quicksilver. Dinner, bathes, clean up the play room, dessert, brush teeth, two books and bed. Followed, by guiding Sam back to his bed two more times, a last trip to the bathroom, prayers, aquarium light out. By this point it is often close to 9. I hope it doesn't sound like I am complaining. I'm not. I realize how incredibly fortunate I am to be able to do this every night, and that there are many fathers who would envy being at the center of this kind of maelstrom. In my job, there is the unlikely reality that this could be taken from me for a year. I don't think this will happen, but I don't have to remind myself that there are other fathers who don't get to share the wonders of 'Dinotopia' with their sons every night, build Thomas tracks, or say prayers.

And this is only the beginning of the day, an hour, maybe two, and the end of the day, which can't be more than three hours, even on a late night. I can only speak to the beginning and end of the say. This is nothing to say of the middle eight to nine hours Elise must manage with alone. I readily acknowledge that no matter how challenging my work in the office may get, regardless of how many deadlines I brush up against, reports I have to juggle or meetings I have to suffer through, this 'work' pales in comparison to what Elise is doing. Every day. Now, 39 weeks pregnant. Rarely, if ever, complaining. Dinner always on the table within 30 minutes of me walking in the door. I readily acknowledge I have it eeeeeeasy.

A few days ago, I pulled my car into the driveway shortly after five. There was a tiny pirate standing in the car port. He had on a feathered pirate hat, eye patch, aquamarine plaid pants (that Elise sewed herself), a feather parrot cut-out glued to a popsicle stick in one hand and a treasure map in the other. I was so astounded, I promptly drove right into the gate, scratching the side of my car and denting the side view mirror. These things don't happen by accident. Tiny pirates are the product of focused parental energy. Sam couldn't stop giggling. Somehow, he found the wind to tell me--as he was showing off his map of the play room--that "Shees" was 'X' in Portuguese. This kid is good. This mom is better.





I know I have been a little more on edge recently. I guess having a new baby would do this to the best of us. Having a new baby and dealing with the unknowns of bidding on our next assignment would dent the calm repose of even Zach Brown. I feel it is ironic that I am feeling this anxious, because we have never been more stable and secure financially or in our home routine, and Elise and I have never been closer nor exhibited the kind of emotional resolve the next few days and weeks will require. I know we could not be more prepared for what is to come. No thanks to me. The baby will sport tiny pink Minnetonkas. Not by my design, but I am happy she will.

So get here already so we can all stop freaking out and love on you!!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Good thing you have a little turtle and giggly pirate around to help keep things in perspective for now!
--Nanny