The Tomboys Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting: Bat Shit Crazy

My children have decided that they are a tag team duo in an effort to drive me and their father insane. If one is happy, quiet and occupied (Owen this morning), then the other decides to throw a temper tantrum for no discernable reason from 6:15 a.m. until 7:45 a.m. (Maggie). The pain behind my right eye that took residence about 3.2 seconds after arriving home on Tuesday night remains still, made only slightly weak by the drone of work. They say the perfect spacing between children is four years. Mine are 2 years, 3 months. What you negate to realize when you decide to have another child when the first is 18 months is that you have absolutely no fucking clue as to what will come. You think you do. At the park, adoringly you admire those seemingly happy and self sufficient two, three and four year olds. But what you see is a lie, because you don’t live with the bi-polar assholes. The park is their Prozac. The place John and I visit when our sanity is in mere shreds. This is not to say that there are not moments of happiness and bliss (bedtime and naptime, namely). It is to say that this is hard; it is really, really hard. A typical conversation with Owen when he has done something wrong.

Us: Owen, why did you do that?
Owen: Because I did that.
Us: Why are you mad?
Owen: Because I SOOOO mad.
Us: Owen, why did you hit your sister?
Owen: Because I hit her.
Us: Owen, why do mommy and daddy drink?
Owen: Blank stare.

That there is crazy talk. Nuttiness to the nth degree. It makes no sense, and I without the aide of corporal punishment. Have you tried to reason with a four year old? You can’t. And you can’t yell because that makes Captain Insano more “SOO mad”. Instead, you reassure him. Say things like “Owen, Daddy and I are not mad at you. We love you. But you can’t hit your sister. You can’t hit anybody.” A concept he seems to be grasping more and more as the days go on to what I perceive to be a five year old Shangri-La. (If it isn't, don’t tell me. Please let me have my delusional hope).

Then there is Maggie, who last Saturday, when Owen took a car from her, came up behind him, put a choke hold around his neck, and then slammed him and her to the ground. Her 23 pound body was no match to Owen’s 43 pound linebacker frame. What resulted was her head hitting the floor with an awful thud, tears of anguish, and Owen looking at her like she was, quite frankly, retarded. I was impressed by her gusto. But the parent in me had to reiterate that we don’t hit people when we don’t get our way. But seriously, though, wouldn’t that be awesome if we did? I dream of it constantly.

I guess this is parenthood, and this what I get for not spacing my children at the recommended ages. Although it can be horrible, torturous and eye-twitchingly maddening, I must admit it is also amazing, laugh filled and kind of awesome. Which is why we do it right? That and the invention of wine and the fact they are pretty cute (see below). But what I don’t understand for the life of me is why any person would ever consider having more than two. That is just an entire level of psychosis to which I want no part. All hail the empty womb.