Connected Parenting – Dubious and Fraught with Peril

Thursday, February 19th 2015

I dunno. To be this connected to your children means to die a thousand deaths in a day, laugh at a thousand jokes, assuage a thousand boo boos, negotiate … you get the idea. And I trust that you get i exaggerate. And that i don’t care. Because i am exhausted. If not physically, emotionally. Mentally. And I grasp and gasp at my blog for for oxygen.

Like, I mean. AFTER sherpa-ing my son through his breakdown and meltdown and stages of grief about having to -in fact- DO those three sentences we agreed upon before dinner. And AFTER soothing and encouraging and threatening and recovering and loving and humoring my daughter through her breakdown about a tiny plop of potatoes invading her plate full of pork cutlet. We re-established equilibrium over the hard-earned *flamly* meal, after which I *actually* had the audacity to attempt sharing something with my *hubsand,* by way of so-called “adult” snippet of conversation, something about the world, um, conversationally. It wasn’t even about the world, incidentally, it was about an experience on Facebook! It doesn’t even matter what it was about. It was just an exercise in *talking* about something. Like, connected marriage? God forbid.

Kids forbid anyway.

I can’t even reconstruct it for you. I’m spent. Let alone my personal demons and struggles. I suppose I’m just getting the February Break Blues. It’s not like I can even blame “Cabin Fever,” because in spite of all the profound kvetching from fellow New Englanders, we love this sh*t. We are like pigs in it. It’s beautiful and our logistical arrangements and personal viewpoints spare us from much of the agony suffered by others. I’ve truly been thankful for all this time we’ve had with each other to work things out and do stuff and for the respite from the grind of the daily school-day pressure.

I’m learning so much about parenting and about myself these days. I officially love it and don’t think I would trade it for the world.

But then again, YESTERDAY morning when we awoke WITHOUT kids -because they were still on overnight at my sister’s- I can hardly express the lightness of being. I’m not kidding. I was able to have a couple of THOUGHTS in the morning. Like, back to BACK. I got in costume before my gig, in not very much time, without very much effort. I even had an IDEA. I was even able to ACT on that idea and get it done by DOING something. IN the moment. Like follow through and complete. It was SO WEIRD. I kept saying to my Hubsand, “I THOUGHT of something! And I DID something! I did SOMETHING!” (It was just print out and frame ukulele chords so that I might, for a change, get a clue of what I was playing sometimes, should I ever manage to play them around the house.) And then? I LEFT. EARLY even, FOR my gig, WITH coffee and food and everything I needed for a successful day. It proffered such a feeling of HOPEFULNESS.

In retrospect it was almost worse than no taste at all. It gave me this false feeling of, “Oh! It can be like this?!?!” But then naturally the kids came BACK. And it’s NOT like that. It’s not even a daily grind. It’s a MINUTE-LY grind. Is that a word? I don’t freaking care. Survival. (Negotiations, encouragement, admonishment, explanations, ultimatums, love songs…) From minute to minute. WITH grace OR without. THAT is the task. No less or more. Just, everything.

So, I’ve written this rant. All it’s cost so far is the table and kitchen still full of dishes and crap after dinner, and the kids still dallying and d*cking about instead of that which we do EVERY day (complicated and UNTENABLE as it sounds): “Potty, Hands, Teeth, Face and Jammies.” I know, Rocket Science, right? SO *complicated.* Well that’s what it becomes when Mom or Dad isn’t there riding you through every step and every transition. Which is possibly why it’s done half-assed on the average day.

Just wait ’til you see the “Let’s Pretend” post I have in the hopper. It will blow your *MIND.*

In the meantime, I leave you with this, which this stolen posting process also yielded (because we turned on American Idol, in order to see a contestant who is a relative in fact MAKE IT to the Top 24); part of a TV commercial for a … can’t even think of the name for it… f*ing AIR FRESHENER. That’s it. (This is my brain with kids). Air Freshener Ad. There ya go.

Downy Unstoppables [16 seconds]:

And this. I leave you with this. Because while I put the elegant finishing touches on this post, my daughter was yelling at full force from the her perch atop the toilet down the hall; “MAA-MAAAAA! I NEED YOU TO WIPE MY BUTT BECAUSE I WENT POOO-OOOOP!”

And because I was clinging to the mere process of writing for my oxygen tonight, I did not come soon enough. So this too: [privates blurred for obvious reasons]

I need you to wipe my POOOP!

I need you to wipe my POOOP!

Welcome to my world. May you run screaming back to yours. You’re welcome.

About circuskitchen

performing artist, mom, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, niece... just a regular extraordinary person
This entry was posted in childhood, domestic life, education, faith, family, food, forgiveness, health, love, marriage, mental health, parenthood, patience, work and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Connected Parenting – Dubious and Fraught with Peril

  1. Pingback: MIRACLE DAY | circuskitchen

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