Spit Spot!

Lately I've found myself in an almost constant state of reflection. I think it has to do with Keelyn's weaning, Hailey's impending end-of-year-big-girl-dance thing, Andrew's job situation, the sad state of a few marriages I know of, and a whole host of other stuff I don't really want to go into here. I apologize to the readers who now want to know exactly what said stuff is, all because I mentioned there was stuff but I'm not writing about it. If I were you, I'd be going hey! wait! what stuff?!, but I already divulge enough of the mundane details of my life here, don't I? I mean, really, how self-indulgent can a person get?

Don't worry. I'll answer that one. Pretty darn self-indulgent. Because the fact that I write, assuming you'll read, is, well, just that.

So back to me and my personal reflections...

The thing is, life moves quickly, and I am both blessed to be where I am in my life, considering that I got here quite mindlessly, and terrified of where I am in my life, considering that I got here quite mindlessly. I didn't get here mindlessly as in, oops, I got married, and oops we have two kids who spontaneously appeared and started making bold requests for such things as milk! and strawberries! and NOW! You Lamo Who Can't Move Quickly Enough For Me! But, mindlessly, as in, I just put my kids down for their naps, which included reading stories, and I'm not sure I could tell you which stories we actually read. Some days are just like that. We have a routine. We go through it.

And don't get me wrong. I love our routine. I love that it includes time to go to the park like we did this morning, and that it includes time to cuddle and watch a cartoon, and time to dance around the living room like fools. And I love that it includes meals together, and playtime in the evenings with Daddy, and laundry, and the grocery store, and I LOVE that we do it all together. But there is a routine. The routine equals sanity for all who live here.

Breathing isn't necessarily built into the routine. It fits in where it fits in. I think the main reason for my constant state of reflection lately is the fact that I have had time to breathe. Right now, in a life that is busier than it has ever been, with more demands on my mind, body, voice, and spirit than have ever been called, I've found myself breathing.

And therein lies the terror.

I've cleaned the bathroom floor three times in the past four days. Yes.

The first, because I was cleaning the bathroom, because on occasion, you can find me wasting my time with such nonsense. The second, because Keelyn thought it would be good to "help" me clean the floor yesterday, by dipping an enormous wad of toilet paper into a urine-filled toilet bowl, and proceeding to wipe the floor and herself with it.

Yuck.

I'll pause while you go vomit.

Pausing.

(Don't forget to flush.)

The third, this morning at 6am, (a mere eight hours after replacing the newly cleaned bathroom rug back onto the bathroom floor last night), because the toilet overflowed due to what I can only imagine are large wads of toilet paper I did not know about, that went into the toilet and were dutifully flushed by one big sister who cannot stand a mess, even in her toilet.

Truly. It all must be clean.

So, as I was cleaning the floor, I was thinking...I never knew it would be like this. Not when we got married. Not when we talked about having kids. Not when Hailey was born. I never knew the number of messes that would present themselves in newly cleaned bathrooms. I never knew the number of loads of laundry I'd do in order to keep up with the number of other messes that present themselves on newly cleaned little bodies. I never knew my garden tub, the one I dreamt of warm soaks in six years ago when we bought our house, would be filled with rubber ducks and sticky bathtub art. I never knew the top rack of my dishwasher would display a glowing rainbow of plastic cups, or that I'd find myself cursing a sippy cup valve regularly.

And I certainly never knew that having two children would pretty much quadruple said messes.

Oh, friends, double it does not. I can totally understand why people say that three kids isn't really that many more than two. Because two is pretty much ten anyway.

I also never knew I wouldn't mind it all. That my marriage would thrive in a time of messes. That it would become my life, and in a moment of reflection, on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor, I would be at peace with that. Happy with that. Seeking more of that.

So, why am I breathing lately? It's rather simple. My kids, despite their messes, have been delightful. Not perfect. Though I like to think my kids are pretty damn perfect. But, I've learned in my years as a mommy that the kids save the best and the worst for us. We get the five star treatment when it comes to aggression, as well as when it comes to love. Anyway, delightful.

Keelyn is just a happy kid. No other way to say it. Sure, she gets frustrated once in a while, and she knows exactly what she wants, but most of the time, as long as her diaper is not being changed, there's a smile on her face. Especially if she is also putting food in her mouth. Outside. With a doggie passing by. And music. And bubbles.

And as for Hailey, she's just been a peach lately. I mean, she's always been a soft-hearted, affectionate child, but it's no secret that we went through much more than the terrible two's with Hailey. The first couple years of her life were very difficult for both she and I, as we learned to navigate things together. I have millions of happy memories, and I loved every minute with her, truly. She taught me things about myself. She taught me to be a mom. She taught me to love in a way I'd never known. We played, we laughed, we loved, we danced. But. The tantrum phase severely outlasted any textbook variety, beginning earlier than doctors would label it as such, and ending far past the predicted year most kids face. Normal tantrums were exponentially overblown as a result of her sensory processing disorder, and there was screaming, and hitting, and biting, and yelling, and throwing, and head banging...and that was just my part in the whole thing. And just to cover my ass while you are contemplating a call to social services, of course I'm kidding...it was fifty-fifty. There was a time when I kept a regular date with my pillow, as I sobbed out of frustration and fear, drowning in the impossibility of an end to it all. This, often after hours of failed attempts at calming her. There were definitely times when, despite my love for my daughter, and my love for mommy-hood, and the fun times we had, and the true ribbon of happiness we rode, it was all-consuming.

But it ended. A while ago. And I'm finally able to catch up with that realization, and appreciate it...and appreciate her in a different way. I'm breathing. Sure, she throws the occasional fit. And lots of times, the girls pick the exact same moment to lose their cool, just to see if they can throw me. And the sensory stuff is still there. But that alone doesn't get us as often any more. We've both learned to cope with it as it comes, or avoid it altogether. I caught a glimpse the other day, of how things used to be. We were going for a walk, and THE SUN WAS TOO BRIIIEEEGGHTTTTT, Make it go away, I can't see it's too BRIGHT!!! While she still reacted in a way that exhibited how quickly she can spiral into captivity to her sensory issues, it was an easy fix, and she was easily transformed back to her normal happy self. Partly, because she understands it can be fixed, and partly, because apparently, being three-and-a-half also means becoming a more rational human being. And she is one happy, adorable, creative, precious human being.

So I guess I'm terrified because I don't know what's around the next bend. I'm assuming there will be more messes. Both the kind that drum up on the playground when someone feels left out, and the kind that drum up when you are dumb enough to procreate a second time, giving your first child a team-minded advantage. And forget about the mind of the second child. She came out knowing who's team she was on. And now, a year later, she's all, hey, Sissy, can you flush this please, and won't it be funny when Mommy has to clean the floor again? Ooh, and while she's cleaning, let's go pull all my books off the shelf, and unfold the laundry, and then start asking for breakfast. I'll throw myself on the floor, and you stomp your feet in desperation. That'll get her fired up.

But, luck be the lady who gets fired up. Luck be me.