Too Perfect?

Sometimes I think: "What if I stop being so imperfect and have nothing left to write about on this blog?" Fear not, gentle readers! Fear not, me . . . there's really no chance of that.

Yesterday began like any other day, and those of you who read this regularly know what that means. Let me say that Mas has stopped coming to wake me up and instead plays and reads by himself when he gets up. While that sounds great to the tired ear, it's not so great when that means he is just sitting in his own p-o-o-p. So when I awoke for the second time that morning (first time being with Shaifali around 6:15) at the alarmingly late hour of 9:15, I snapped out of bed and ran to my babe's room. He was looking out the window at the construction equipment outside and singing and talking to himself. I tried to get a picture, but the camera ran out of batteries.

The cute scene often fades into a scene of melodrama when I tell him that it's time to go to the bathroom. Cue screaming. Cue lying on the floor of the bathroom (yuck). Cue crying.

You get the picture.

So I'm telling him in a neutral voice (at first) to please stop screaming because it will wake his sister up and that's just not a nice way to wake up.

Yet he continues to scream in my ear. So I lose it (as this seems to be my biggest trigger for patience loss) and carry him downstairs to the bathroom and put him in there announcing that he can stay there until he's done screaming. My blood is boiling now, adrenaline running through my veins. I want to swear, and I manage to only say one bad word under my breath as I'm walking away from the closed door. Success? I suppose it depends on your definition. I call Superdad to find out what I can do to gain my composure for the next bit of time before friends come for a visit to restore sanity. Deep breaths, just get through it, and all that.

So I decide to meet the basic needs of my child because that's all I can muster at this moment. I go back down and get him cleaned up without saying anything more than basic commands. "Stand up." "Foot up." "Wash your hands."

He says, "Doing, Mom?" and other things in a perfectly calm voice. He's over it at this point, even if I'm not.

I continue to care for the basic needs of my mugwump with a blank look on my face and with no words. This leads to my just preparing his granola and banana for him in a bowl instead of giving him the granola in a bowl, the soymilk in a measuring cup for him to pour, and the banana unpeeled on a cutting board with a knife for him to cut himself. I'm not going to lie: I knew that this had the potential to set him off, but it was all I could do. So I set the bowl down and walk upstairs as the hysteria begins as a drop only to turn into Niagara Falls.

"My banana! Do. My. Self! My banana, Mama! Mom! Mom! My banana, Mama! Self! Mooooom!!!!!!!" Rinse and repeat and increase intensity for the next 10 minutes. By this time, Shaifali has awoken, so I am nursing her upstairs and numbly listening to the extremely sad sounds of Mas crying and yelling and not eating his granola. I remember, from when I was little, the feeling of stuttering inward breaths followed by a sharp exhalation. I heard it again with Mas yesterday.

He finally staggers upstairs to say more calmly, "banana, Mama." At first I couldn't respond. Then, after he sweetly says hello to his baby sister, I try to explain to him that I was very mad and sad that he had screamed at me and ask him if he remembers. He really has mostly forgotten that incident and was somewhere else in his day. So we both apologize--he for screaming and I for only being capable of the bare minimum, and we move on. He then eats his first bowl of granola and has a second, for which I set out the cup to pour his own soymilk and the banana, knife, and cutting board to cut his banana.

So these moments of imperfection . . . these times when all I can do is care for his or her survival needs and not for their thriving needs . . . they aren't every other minute, and they pass. And I like to think I make up for them. Mas tells me I do. Just as he makes up for the screaming fits. It's evident that I'm doing ok and that so is he, and here's the final scene that tells me so:

It's now 1:45 pm, and I'm rocking both of them at the same time before his nap. He is completely relaxed and snuggled into me and pats his baby sister while he rocks. He searches for her hand and holds it. After I manage to carry both of them so I can drop him in his bed, I dip her down so he can kiss her. Then I give him a kiss and tell him sweet dreams and that I love him. He is smiling.

And that happiness is the last image I have of him until he wakes again.