In the last month or so, my almost eight month old son has slowly been transitioning away from a predominantly milk-filled diet, to a predominantly food-filled diet. Because he’s my third child, and because he does not go to daycare, I have not been paying much attention to exactly how much I feed him during the day. This is why up until about two weeks ago, I mistook his crying and screaming for personal mommy-hatred, when in truth, he was just starving.
It is far too easy to take things personally in stay-at-home mommy land.
This morning I was feeding him Cheerios one-by-one in the high chair while I ate pancakes. He had just finished a big bottle, yet I still underestimated his hunger. When I ran out of Cheerios, instead of getting up to get more from the pantry, I simply gave him a bite of my pancakes. And then another. And then we were sharing my pancakes. And then the pancakes were gone.
But he was still hungry.
Let me tell you, after several bites of warm, gooey, sugary pancakes, the transition back to dry Cheerios was a shock to say the least. If babies can be indignant, I witnessed it today.
Also, it is the last day of Dance Camp for the girls.
We couldn’t be ending on a more typical note.
We were loaned several leotards and even more pairs of shoes, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the visible presence of snags and stains on more than a few of them. A daily reminder that the mommy trench is certainly not braved alone. This also relieved ninety percent of my inclination to wrap my children in potato sacks, on top of their “proper attire,” lest they should spill, snag, or accidentally draw on something that wasn’t ours.
The week has gone well. Employing my mother’s most effective obedience weapon, “The Timer,” I have been able to wake up at 7:30 each morning, pump and prepare a bottle for the baby, make breakfast for myself and the girls, and remain virtually hands off of the situation going on upstairs. Within fifteen minutes, both of my daughters have been fully dressed (with some help on tights from Daddy), pottied, packed up, and ready to eat breakfast with more than enough time to get out the door. We graduated from Cheerios to pancakes, it seems, and for my first initiation into the dance chapter of suburban-stay-at-home-mom-land, the transition was relatively smooth.
The girls were awake and alternating between giggles and arguments this morning a mere five feet (and three inches of dry wall) away from my head at 6:30. An inordinate amount of whining and probably some tears occurred before breakfast. Two minutes before getting in the car, Eliott realizes she only has one tap shoe. In the aftermath of hungry baby, whiny four-year old, frantic six year old–whose entire life has been lost with that tap shoe–and John, who thought it would be “helpful” to take the girls to dance camp on his way to work, I sat in the mostly silent kitchen.
Cheerios and pancakes in front of me.
The phone rings, and it’s John. “So I’m not sure what you want to do about it, but Carter decided to rip two huge holes in her tights this morning in the car. You might have to bring her another pair when you come for the recital.”
Yes, the pancakes are all gone, my friends.