At this time in my life there is a sound that fills me with dread. A dread so finite that it pierces my forehead. It is the sound of birds chirping.
One might say that birds chirping is a sound filled with wonder and hope. For me, it’s a sound that means my 3-year-old is going to be up within the hour. Not just up, but UP!
Mommy, Mommy, let’s play, let’s play with everything in the house that does not in any way resemble a toy, let’s go to the park and watch me run off and not listen to you when you call my name and chase after me with that godforsaken double stroller holding my little brother, let’s fight over who gets to buckle me into my car seat, let’s fight over what order we are supposed to be putting on my diaper and jammies for nap, let’s debate over me not napping, let’s discuss the finer points of Dora and Swiper’s adversarial relationship, watch me flail about until I collapse with exhaustion. Mommy, MOMMY, CAN WE PLEASE DO ALL THAT AND MORE?
Not that I don’t love my kid. I just don’t love this stage that she’s in. Couple that with an 8-week-old baby, a dwindling maternity leave and a serious lack of sleep and I am like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry.
She is a vampire of the day. We race around to feed her unquenchable thirst for stimulation and she sucks everything dry in its wake. Once it’s light out, you had better run and hide. I have the teeth marks to prove it. Sure, Daddy helps. He helps a lot. But he doesn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to whip out his boobs for the younger spawn. I feel like the bride of Dracula.
Today, when she got up from her non-nap, I ambled into the kitchen to check the clock on the microwave and it was simply flashing “End.” I said out loud, (to the microwave) “You got that right.”
I am seriously considering checking into a hotel for a 3-day lock-in. Seriously.