Return of the CAPS LOCK
Listen. I’m tired of myself on Twitter, so Ima bring the pity party over here. WHO’S EXCITED?
Let me sum up the last 178 tweets or so: ROSIE WILL NOT GO TO BED AND I AM BEING CRANKY ABOUT IT IN 140 CHARACTERS OR LESS.
I started to tweet about it again tonight, but I was already over it before I even typed the “AR” in ARRRRRRGH.
The situation is annoying me so much, I am actually writing this post like those one-sentence-a-paragraph jobs that make me roll my eyes.
You know the ones—the posts written in this totally choppy way with one sentence or two strung together and then a break, which is a blogging convention that some people use to make everything look more dramatic than it actually is.
It drives me crazy.
But here I am, doing it.
Because everything I’m saying IS important today.
As evidenced by these last few sentences, standing alone.
N E WAYS. Here is a short list of some things I do not like, in no particular order: feeling inept, letting anger get the best of me, behavior from my children that makes me want to sell them on eBay, having all my free time taken up by something unpleasant, operating on too little sleep, high blood pressure, elevated stress levels, the inability to have a conversation with my husband at night because of passing off duties related to parenting, and people typing “woah” when what they mean is “whoa.” (That last one is unrelated to what I’m about to say, but is still true.) All of those things I do not like? They’re occurring on a nightly basis at this house. And not just for the last one or two or three or even four nights—this has been going on for weeks, possibly even a couple of months.
I won’t regale you with the nitty gritty details (except time out: can I just tell you that not even 15 minutes ago—and I am typing this at 9:45 PM, i.e. TOO LATE FOR LITTLE KIDS TO BE AWAKE O’ CLOCK—Rosie had been ushered back to her bed for the frillionth time and had stayed in her room, quiet for long enough that I had the sliveriest sliver of hope that she might be caving in, giving out, powering down, whatever it takes for Rosie the non-sleeping Robot to finally drift off, when L walks past her room to go to the study and finds her waist deep in a pile of over 100 wadded up baby wipes, pulled diligently and in rapid-fire succession, no doubt, from the jumbo sized container where they had been freshly loaded not even two days ago. What was Rosie’s response when L got onto her about it? MIRTH. SHEER, GLEEFUL, CACKLING JOY AT HER CLEVERNESS.) because, well, I’m worn out from the actual living of the experience and keep having a slight version of PTSD when I try to relive the events via the written word.
I am not proud of how quickly I jump to Stern Voices and Pointing Finger and If You Don’t Stay In Your Bed Thens. It doesn’t make me feel very good at parenting, and that is a pretty straight arrow shortcut to not feeling good about anything I do. I joked once about how I thought that someone needed to start an “It Gets Better” campaign for parents of toddlers, and while it was said totally tongue-in-cheek I’m kind of warming to the idea because at this point I’ve been without the older version of my offspring for a full week, and I’ve kind of forgotten that it actually does.
The hardest part is thinking that all of this acting out pre-slumber from Rosie is a direct result of not getting enough time with us. That breaks my heart a little bit. Also: have we not already done this? I mean, sure, with a totally different kid, but also with her? Why did that not stick? Have we gotten dumber? (Don’t answer that.)
I am quite ready for this to end, thank you very much. Both the miserable bedtime “routine” and this convoluted sorry excuse for a blog post, which I am only writing to keep the built up steam from coming straight out of my ears.