I have come to accept that I will spend the rest of my life cleaning up bodily fluids.
The 5 year old is so obsessed with not having a red butt from wiping poorly that every time he poops he comes out of the bathroom and finds someone to bend over in front of so they can examine his ******* to see if there’s any poop on it. Strangers, dogs, his own Grandpa.
The 3 1/2 year old has spent this week peeing wherever he happens to be standing. This might be okay on the lawn sometimes, but then he continued to do this in the house. He pulled down his underwear and peed on the doormat. He peed in the kitchen. He peed on a blanket he had put on the floor while I was in the bathroom. He stood in the bathtub and peed on the floor when he was taking a bath. He just loves to see what he can pee on.
Then this morning he made it to the toilet and I thought we were all good, until he came out complaining that he had peed on his shirt and pants. I stripped him down and went to find a washcloth to wipe him off with so that he wouldn’t stink in this 80 degree 95 percent humidity. He squatted down to pick up a car and pooped on the floor. It looked like a giant Hershey’s kiss.
My husband has mentioned with an eager look on his face that he wants to stay home with the boys. I’ll bet he would freak out if he saw a giant poop kiss on the floor, a naked baby, and random puddles of pee everywhere. Does he realize staying home means a load of laundry a day just to keep the house from smelling like boy pee? No, he sees himself playing Mario and doing “projects.” This is why he has to work and I handle my own job and kiss poops when I am “not working.”
Yesterday morning my husband carried a crowbar into the kitchen and proceeded to tell me how to use it to take nails out of boards.
“You slide this end under the nail and pull back this way . . .”
I gave him that look I give people when they say something to me that I don’t understand (something so stupid that I have no idea why these words are coming out of their mouth). I don’t mean to make a face. After 5 kids it comes naturally. And is why I have a deep groove between my eyes.
“Why are you showing me how to use a crowbar?” I finally find polite words.
“It’s not a crowbar. It’s a flat bar” he says as though that explains why he’s giving me the Nail Pulling For Dummies talk.
“You called it a “Wrecker” last week and it’s still a crowbar. And I know how to use one. Do you remember that I told you last night that the boys and I spent an hour taking nails out of the old deck boards? Did I show you the pile after you said you didn’t see it when you walked right by it? Why are you showing ME how to use a crowbar?”
At which point he walked away.
But seriously, does he think I pulled nails with my teeth?
There was a tick on the dog and I had Nick pull it out while I sat on the dog. So far so good, right? Then he brought it over to the kitchen light and examined it closely to see if the head was still attached. What happened next is beyond my ability to comprehend.
He took it down to the basement. Beat it to nothing. Started a fire even though it was 75 in the house. Put it in the fire to cremate it. Filled the house with smoke. And burned sweetgrass to get rid of the smell of a burning tiny bug.
If this is what he does with every tick we find this summer then we are in for a hot smoky time in my house.
He was hitting his brother as they were standing on chairs at the kitchen counter while I was trying to do something, I forget what. It was something important like paying bills or calling clients back. I picked him up and turned to the right to put him on the floor and that’s when my back spasmed and I spent the rest of the day high on Aleve and muscle relaxants. Washed down with a swallow of peppermint schnapps, because it was the only thing I could reach where I was stuck in the kitchen crying.
It hurt so bad it make me want to throw up. The kid is almost 5 and 42 pound. I used to be able to throw a bag of dog food that size over my shoulder and walk half a mile to the car in the Walmart parking lot. Not anymore. One tiny child and I’m crying.
By late afternoon I was feeling a little better until Gina called and said I sounded drunk. I explained that I was more tired of the pain than drunk. And not drunk, but waiting for the pills to wear off because I had been useless all day. By evening it was better and I thought maybe I would survive.
Until the husband said “You shouldn’t be picking up children, you’re pushing 50.”
Then I just wanted to smack him across the face, which took my mind off my back.
I’ll have to look back and see if I’ve explained the plunger effect before. My husband plunges the toilet VIOLENTLY so that there’s water and other things all over the bathroom floor. Instead of using finesse, he uses FORCE like the suction of an F4 hurricane. This M.O. occurs in other things he does as well. It’s become a theme in our house.
Forward to today. I’ve been on him about coming to bed with me instead of sitting on the couch watching television until he falls asleep and then waking up in the middle of the night and coming to bed. Going to bed at the same time is really important to the relationship. We have very little time together with only one day off together, 2 little kids, 3 adult children, and all the chores that come with living up here on this hill in the woods.
I’ve also been on him about exercise. Because he gets none.
Then comes the PLUNGER EFFECT. It started two nights ago. He runs upstairs at 9, jumps into bed, and is sound asleep before I get there. Then he gets up at 5:30 to exercise which I’m pretty sure means coffee and morning television, especially since I found the elliptical unplugged when I got up. So then he’s so tired by 8:30 at night that he runs to bed again. I’ve been very clear and specific about wanting to go to bed “together.” I think. Do I have to be so specific and include 6 minutes and 35 seconds of conversation at night in my request?
Do all men do this?
That’s what I should change the name of this blog to. The symptoms of perimenopause do not go well with a 3 and 4 year old. Here are some examples:
I got a massage this morning. That sounds relaxing and indulgent, but it’s more work and sometimes painful. She finds the trigger points that hurt and pushes them out. Sometimes I work hard not to hold my breath. She saw my legs today and said “You have as many bruises as my kids.” Yes, and my hormones are so out of whack every month that I bruise easily every time one of the boys jumps on me or ninja whacks me in the legs with a book or a toy drill.
My hair falls out in clumps just before my period for two months now. My doctor said I’ll just be one of those old women with sparse hair. I’m 46! I’m not 62! And it grows back in. NO, my estrogen is just bottoming out every month and my hair falls out. But add to that two little boys who like to hold my hair when they are getting their butts wiped, or lovingly pet me in a little boy pulling hair kind of way.
And then there is the nap time problem. Just as they’ve grown out of taking naps I’ve grown into them.
I got myself a fitbit last week and the one thing I discovered is that I sleep horribly. 7 hours and 3 of that is restless and 45 minutes of that is awake. Then I realized that it’s tracking hot flashes. I wake up, throw the covers off, go back to sleep, get cold, wake up, pull the covers back on.
Any other woman going through this would be like, well, I’ll get 9 hours tonight and nap tomorrow. Not me. The 3 year old sat on me today as I was laying on the couch and kept poking me in the nose to make sure I was awake.
Bald, tired, and bruised. That’s me.