I was sitting at work at 11:30 last night and missed my boys. Big time.
I have tried on more than one occasion to keep a daily journal of the things they do and say. I always start strong; but by the middle of the next month, I haven't written down a thing in days. Then, another month passes, and all the cute and awesome stuff they say and do will soon be lost from my memory and never immortalized into words. Granted, sometimes I'm the only one (and Christopher) who thinks what Andrew and Davis have said and done is cute, but I'm really the only one who matters anyway.
Every week it seems, someone different is coming up to me and telling me to enjoy my children while I can. The time moves so quickly. They'll be grown before you know it. These are the words that kill me. Not only do I know this is the case, but having it told to me over and over again makes it painfully more obvious. I know they're growing fast. I know time is passing quickly. I know that in the blink of an eye they will be starting kindergarten; going to the first middle-school dance; getting the driver's license; going away to college. And breaking away from me. Just typing those words brings tears to my eyes.
But when I'm told that I need to enjoy my children while I can, I feel a mass of guilt that I'm not. Am I doing everything possible with them to enjoy every moment possible? When, on a Saturday morning, I don't feel like jumping up and taking them to the zoo and would much rather sit in front of the television and listen to them giggle, does that mean I'm not utilizing the time properly? When Andrew tells me for the 50th time (in an hour) that he loves me, and I tell him that he doesn't need to keep telling me that (especially when he does it only because Davis is getting into trouble), does that mean I'm not enjoying every moment while I can? God damn. Being a mom is a terribly hard, incredibly guilt-inducing job for which no one prepares you. I have a friend who's pregnant with her first child right now and I want to pull her aside and tell her all the stuff that no one told me while I was pregnant with my first child.
You know the stuff: you will always worry about your kids. From the moment you find out you're pregnant until, I'm guessing, you're in the grave, you will constantly have in the back (or front) of your mind a worried thought about one or the both of your children. It never stops. You will always think that you can do better than what you just did when you freak out and lose your shit in front of your child (and because of your child). Every day of my life since Andrew has been in this world, I have asked myself at some point, what did I do today to totally fuck up my kid? What did I do that disappointed him so? That when he's older and starting his relationships (whether with friends or new loves), what will be burned into his brain that I did that totally fucked him up? And I hate that. I hate that the responsibility falls on me (and my husband) to make sure that these boys will grow up to be loving, respectable, honorable young men. That's a lot of fucking responsibility. And frankly, I'm not sure I'm up for it.
Last year while on vacation in Avon, Andrew became VERY sick with what I'm convinced was the 2009 H1N1 virus. He had the throw ups; a high fever; a terrible cough. He was a very sick little boy. And Andrew doesn't get sick. So, because he only had the throw ups (and it wasn't coming out the other end) and because the weather was just too perfect to spend the day indoors, we all went to the beach. And for the first time in his life, Andrew fell asleep on the beach (Davis, on the other hand, is a seasoned beach-sleeper. Man, that kid takes some good naps on the beach!). And at the risk of writing this and sounding like someone needs to call Child Protective Services, that time that Andrew was asleep on the beach; and Davis was asleep on the beach; that was the first time in almost 5 years that I had not a worry in the world. I knew, in the deep recesses of my mind, that both of my children, for that time, were ok. They weren't going to suffocate in their beds; they weren't going to choke on something they were eating; they were, at that moment, ok. And I enjoyed every moment of it. Christopher and I got in the water and stayed there for at least an hour. It was so relaxing.
And because I had no worries at that moment, I feel GUILTY ABOUT IT!!! Andrew was VERY sick!! How could I not feel worried about him? Granted, the only thing he needed was to sleep. And I guess that's how I've reasoned it out. But that's the moment I pick to feel stress-free about my children? Sometimes, I fail miserably as a mom.
Henceforth, I will be writing about my life with three of the handsomest men in the world. And I say that without any doubt. I have absolutely ZERO doubts that I live with the most handsome men in the world. And the most wonderful. And the most loving. And the most honorable. And the most perceptive. And, though sometimes, the most annoying, they are mine. All of them. And I wouldn't change it for the world.
I have tried on more than one occasion to keep a daily journal of the things they do and say. I always start strong; but by the middle of the next month, I haven't written down a thing in days. Then, another month passes, and all the cute and awesome stuff they say and do will soon be lost from my memory and never immortalized into words. Granted, sometimes I'm the only one (and Christopher) who thinks what Andrew and Davis have said and done is cute, but I'm really the only one who matters anyway.
Every week it seems, someone different is coming up to me and telling me to enjoy my children while I can. The time moves so quickly. They'll be grown before you know it. These are the words that kill me. Not only do I know this is the case, but having it told to me over and over again makes it painfully more obvious. I know they're growing fast. I know time is passing quickly. I know that in the blink of an eye they will be starting kindergarten; going to the first middle-school dance; getting the driver's license; going away to college. And breaking away from me. Just typing those words brings tears to my eyes.
But when I'm told that I need to enjoy my children while I can, I feel a mass of guilt that I'm not. Am I doing everything possible with them to enjoy every moment possible? When, on a Saturday morning, I don't feel like jumping up and taking them to the zoo and would much rather sit in front of the television and listen to them giggle, does that mean I'm not utilizing the time properly? When Andrew tells me for the 50th time (in an hour) that he loves me, and I tell him that he doesn't need to keep telling me that (especially when he does it only because Davis is getting into trouble), does that mean I'm not enjoying every moment while I can? God damn. Being a mom is a terribly hard, incredibly guilt-inducing job for which no one prepares you. I have a friend who's pregnant with her first child right now and I want to pull her aside and tell her all the stuff that no one told me while I was pregnant with my first child.
You know the stuff: you will always worry about your kids. From the moment you find out you're pregnant until, I'm guessing, you're in the grave, you will constantly have in the back (or front) of your mind a worried thought about one or the both of your children. It never stops. You will always think that you can do better than what you just did when you freak out and lose your shit in front of your child (and because of your child). Every day of my life since Andrew has been in this world, I have asked myself at some point, what did I do today to totally fuck up my kid? What did I do that disappointed him so? That when he's older and starting his relationships (whether with friends or new loves), what will be burned into his brain that I did that totally fucked him up? And I hate that. I hate that the responsibility falls on me (and my husband) to make sure that these boys will grow up to be loving, respectable, honorable young men. That's a lot of fucking responsibility. And frankly, I'm not sure I'm up for it.
Last year while on vacation in Avon, Andrew became VERY sick with what I'm convinced was the 2009 H1N1 virus. He had the throw ups; a high fever; a terrible cough. He was a very sick little boy. And Andrew doesn't get sick. So, because he only had the throw ups (and it wasn't coming out the other end) and because the weather was just too perfect to spend the day indoors, we all went to the beach. And for the first time in his life, Andrew fell asleep on the beach (Davis, on the other hand, is a seasoned beach-sleeper. Man, that kid takes some good naps on the beach!). And at the risk of writing this and sounding like someone needs to call Child Protective Services, that time that Andrew was asleep on the beach; and Davis was asleep on the beach; that was the first time in almost 5 years that I had not a worry in the world. I knew, in the deep recesses of my mind, that both of my children, for that time, were ok. They weren't going to suffocate in their beds; they weren't going to choke on something they were eating; they were, at that moment, ok. And I enjoyed every moment of it. Christopher and I got in the water and stayed there for at least an hour. It was so relaxing.
And because I had no worries at that moment, I feel GUILTY ABOUT IT!!! Andrew was VERY sick!! How could I not feel worried about him? Granted, the only thing he needed was to sleep. And I guess that's how I've reasoned it out. But that's the moment I pick to feel stress-free about my children? Sometimes, I fail miserably as a mom.
Henceforth, I will be writing about my life with three of the handsomest men in the world. And I say that without any doubt. I have absolutely ZERO doubts that I live with the most handsome men in the world. And the most wonderful. And the most loving. And the most honorable. And the most perceptive. And, though sometimes, the most annoying, they are mine. All of them. And I wouldn't change it for the world.