If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say...
It's been a bit like that recently, hence the lack of blogging. Not that life is so terrible or anything it's just that I don't want to go on about it. And I don't want to pretend that it's all roses and happy toddlers - arms flung wide and grinning loonily as they run towards the camera for a big hug. Which sometimes it is, but often it's not. The New York Times had a good article about it all recently. They described parenting as sheer misery interspersed with moments of transcendent joy. I couldn't have said it better.
Let's start with the joy. It's dazzling to have a small person, in your likeness, stroke the side of your face and murmur, "Mama." It's fulfilling in all the ways that great books, movies, dinners out, bottles of wine and all that other nice stuff can only ever dream of being. And it's daily. Everyday you can bet on having more than two of these life-affirming moments of transcendent joy. However. Seconds later you must be prepared that the source of these love-nuggets will punch you in the face with a peanut butter fist. And then spend the next 45 minutes hanging off you crying because you wouldn't let him eat a bottle of Zinc tablets.
It's exhausting. It's like being in prison without any hope of parole. Our life is not our own anymore and it bites. Both David and I agree that this parenting of small children is more than we signed up for. I feel like government organizations have spent so much time warning teenagers about the horrors of parenting that they have totally neglected to inform, prepare and dissuade people in their 30s. Seriously, if I haven't repressed these years after Cal has moved past them, then I might dedicate some of all-that free-time-I'll-have to door-knocking, or turning up at nice restaurants and bars with information brochures. And in those brochures will be some Real Talk.
You know the other day a new-to-Amsterdam mama asked me what a good thing to do with toddlers in the city was, and you know what my first thought was? Creche. I'm not kidding.
You see there's a reason why most people just repress this stuff. It makes you sound dead mean, right? I know. But I do want a record of this time. I love looking back and reading about all the different phases he, and we, went through. I read an elderly person's reason for keeping a journal the other day and thought it was just perfect. "Because otherwise it all (the past) just gets mushy." So true. I don't want it to get mushy. And it already is. I already have trouble empathizing with mothers of new babies. Those days are blurry and mushy and lost.
I'm not going to end this post with some endearing anecdote about Cal. Sometimes he can be an absolute rotter. His grandparents will never believe it, but it's true. For example these days he refuses to play in playgrounds, only in the middle of the busy street next to them. If you suggest otherwise he melts down onto your feet and howls. He was a very relaxed little baby, but he has become a demanding, complainy little toddler. Which, we understand, is exactly what he should be. If only people would accept that parents of toddlers are entitled to be equally difficult and anti-social. Like, "Oh should we invite David and Emma to dinner?" "Well, maybe not - they're toddler-parents, they'll just whine and throw stuff." "Ok, cool, let's wait a couple years then call them."
Let's start with the joy. It's dazzling to have a small person, in your likeness, stroke the side of your face and murmur, "Mama." It's fulfilling in all the ways that great books, movies, dinners out, bottles of wine and all that other nice stuff can only ever dream of being. And it's daily. Everyday you can bet on having more than two of these life-affirming moments of transcendent joy. However. Seconds later you must be prepared that the source of these love-nuggets will punch you in the face with a peanut butter fist. And then spend the next 45 minutes hanging off you crying because you wouldn't let him eat a bottle of Zinc tablets.
It's exhausting. It's like being in prison without any hope of parole. Our life is not our own anymore and it bites. Both David and I agree that this parenting of small children is more than we signed up for. I feel like government organizations have spent so much time warning teenagers about the horrors of parenting that they have totally neglected to inform, prepare and dissuade people in their 30s. Seriously, if I haven't repressed these years after Cal has moved past them, then I might dedicate some of all-that free-time-I'll-have to door-knocking, or turning up at nice restaurants and bars with information brochures. And in those brochures will be some Real Talk.
You know the other day a new-to-Amsterdam mama asked me what a good thing to do with toddlers in the city was, and you know what my first thought was? Creche. I'm not kidding.
You see there's a reason why most people just repress this stuff. It makes you sound dead mean, right? I know. But I do want a record of this time. I love looking back and reading about all the different phases he, and we, went through. I read an elderly person's reason for keeping a journal the other day and thought it was just perfect. "Because otherwise it all (the past) just gets mushy." So true. I don't want it to get mushy. And it already is. I already have trouble empathizing with mothers of new babies. Those days are blurry and mushy and lost.
I'm not going to end this post with some endearing anecdote about Cal. Sometimes he can be an absolute rotter. His grandparents will never believe it, but it's true. For example these days he refuses to play in playgrounds, only in the middle of the busy street next to them. If you suggest otherwise he melts down onto your feet and howls. He was a very relaxed little baby, but he has become a demanding, complainy little toddler. Which, we understand, is exactly what he should be. If only people would accept that parents of toddlers are entitled to be equally difficult and anti-social. Like, "Oh should we invite David and Emma to dinner?" "Well, maybe not - they're toddler-parents, they'll just whine and throw stuff." "Ok, cool, let's wait a couple years then call them."
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| Full disclosure: seconds before this he was trying to push his scooter into oncoming traffic. |
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