I blog in my head more than on the computer

This may strike you as funny coming on the heels of my prior post, but can I just say that I think one of the things that holds me up from blogging more consistently is that the girls (Waylon is presently exempted from this indictment) are, pardon my French, being little shits at bedtime. Ugh. We've even implemented Weissbluth's "sleep rules" poster method (from one of those chapters in his book for older children) and a sticker chart, but alas, Georgia and June are managing to drive me to anger each night. Which is a real shame, because I hate for that to be the final impression they have of their parents at night, even though they seem to wake up not holding any grudges. And I don't know if Joe's just more patient than I am, or if I'm just more tired after a full day of watching children, but it's definitely me who is most prone to letting my frustration boil over in the form of stern words, a raised voice, harsh looks, and various threats (e.g., I had to tell June tonight that if she made me come back to help her find one more stuffed animal in her crib, that I'd remove them all). <--I'm sure that sounds super mean to you, but I swear, I really get to the point of wanting to punch the wall with their antics sometimes, and not just at bedtime. I try to be patient but I guess I'm not the most patient mother out there. I wish I could do better and always show them love and not anger, which - please don't misunderstand - is not the same thing as me saying that they do not need discipline or that Joe and I don't embrace our role of providing it. Anyway, it's frustrating because so often lately I feel like we'll have a great day, followed by a terrible ending; like a fun carnival ride that suddenly crashes and burns. After getting through dinner dishes and other cleanup, a recency effect seems to cause me to bitterly focus disproportionately on the bad parts of our day, and it doesn't leave me in the mood to post sweet stories and pictures. I sure hope the girls' lasting memories aren't the bad parts, too.

But in my head, you should know, I'm a fantastic blogger. I walk around pushing a stroller in the sun, snapping pictures here and there, composing succinct and witty entries about the following: Waylon's awesome t-shirts and onesies, June in general, Georgia's kindergarten exam, Georgia's diet/eating habits, the girls dancing to "Hot Stuff", everyone in dress up clothes, Waylon's curly hair in the heat, fun family outings, and more! And I wonder, why is no one leaving me comments, telling me how adorable these children are and how I have made their day with such fine Internet entertainment? Oh wait, that's right...I never actually created any of those posts on the computer. They were only in my head. Because at the end of the day, the kids have left me just wanting to veg out, plop down and watch TV in exhaustion, or in this weather, have a beer with my husband on the porch. (Which, granted, is not an altogether bad outcome either, but I do wish there was more time for both blogging and chilling.  Certainly many childhoods, including my own, have passed without being blogged about, and to no ill effect; that is not my concern. However, I consider blogging to be a hobby of mine, something that in theory I'm doing for enjoyment, so it bums me out when it falls by the wayside, or worse, feels like a chore.)

Sorry you just got a stream of consciousness entry of the worst possible sort:  blogging about blogging. I suppose you can let me know which of the above entries you'd prefer that I actually shake out of my imagination and on to your screen, if any.

Fallen

So, adding just one tiny person made this surprisingly trickier than last time, but hey, we're all in the frame, so that's success in my book.



The awesomely misleading thing about blogs is you can just soak in that photo and think, man, I wish I had three little ones, I wish my family were like that, why isn't my life as perfect as theirs, and most importantly, why aren't I half as beautiful as them? (You're thinking that last part for sure, right? ha ha.) : )
What is not pictured is the hour long attention-seeking cryfest that nearly broke the will of two adults trying their hardest to get through it with any semblance of dignity, intelligence, or grace, wanting to throw in the towel but for knowing that getting the culprit (*cough*GEORGIA*cough*) outside for just 20 minutes of fresh air was our last ditch effort to break the cycle of emotional terrorism. What more can you say to someone who's sobbing because she has outgrown last year's winter pajamas, even though she just inherited 5 fabulous new ones? How long can you remain calm after explaining to a hysterical person a half dozen times, in six different creative ways, that flip flops aren't well suited for playing outside in November? After a week of everyone except Waylon taking turns being sick, this was a weekend requiring a lot of digging deep, a few extra glasses of wine, and several muttered "I'm going to shoot myself"s and "serenity now"s under our breath. But, you know, from the looks of it we just frolicked in the crisp autumn sun all day, so let's just go with that fantasy instead.

You all know how much I love putting babies in piles of leaves, though, right? So here are some shots from a more peaceful day.  Besides, I don't mean to sound ungrateful for what I have.  I know some people have much more serious battles they're fighting. If my problems are solved by a glass of wine, a nap, some good tunes, and a husband to lean on, I'm doing alright.  

Bratity-brat-brat-someone-help-me-please!

Georgia and June, I write these sweet words about you (see: recent posts), and then what do you do?  You, Georgia, wake up and cry, cry, cry because I put the spoon that you were going to use for "shucking" the canteloupe (all work involving food is now called shucking for some reason) into the cottage cheese by accident.  God forbid.  You, June, pitch a fit and throw yourself in it about...oh, I don't know...EVERYTHING.  I am terribly sorry that your father insisted on showering and could not hold you for those 5 minutes, and that I was repulsive to you as an alternative at the time.  I can see you're going to show your older sister (who only has ever known how to cry, cry, cry) how to throw a real temper tantrum.  Hello, terrible two's.  You're early.  Time for me to get out that "Happiest Toddler" book and review it I guess, because nothing's making a dent with you, June.  Oh, and Georgia, I tried all the techniques from every book with you this morning, and nothing worked, so may I just remind you:  WE HAVE OTHER SPOONS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. 

P.S.  New house rule:  no plastic dress up "click clacks" (aka, high heels) before 8 a.m.