I'm sitting here on the couch, next to my boy, who is freshly washed and clothed in footy PJs, half listening to Sesame Street but definitely not watching it, trying to let loose every ounce of frustration and annoyance I just felt between the half hour of 5pm to 5:30pm when all hell seemed to break loose in our house.
I thought, maybe if I write about it, find something funny about it, then I can let it all go and not feel so empty for wanting to walk out the door, walk down the hall, walk outside, sit on a bench and just breath. But that would mean leaving Mateo in the condo alone with the cats and no knowledge of how to work the remote to the TV. And that just seems really mean.
Mateo is entering this fun new stage of life called "you put me in my high chair to feed me and I'm gonna swing my arms around like a wild monkey and knock everything off, or better yet, flinging my arm when I have something wet on it so splotches hit the wall and floor and you and me." It's not fun. And, well, I'm getting really sick of it.
I don't know how he is in daycare, but since I haven't heard anything negative, I have to assume he's sitting at the table like a good little angel, eating the food given to him. When he's home? It's a constant battle. Sometimes I get so frustrated with it all, I just take his dinner away from him and he probably goes to bed hungry (he still can't tell us). I know he doesn't get what I'm doing, but it's a lot easier to take the food away than watch it all covering our floor and walls and table.
Tonight was no different. He hasn't eaten much today, mostly fruit, because every time we tried to feed him in his high chair, he just wanted to be the craziest boy on this planet and only ate bits. Now, you let him eat bites while he's playing, then he'll get an almost full meal inside him. But do we want to start that madness? I think not.
After chucking dried pea pods one by one on the floor (dried pea pods he just ate before being put in his chair, exclaiming "mo, mo, mo" when he was finished), then dipping his hand in hummus so he could fling his hummusy hand back and forth at top speed, causing chunks of hummus to stick to the wall (the very same hummus he devoured after returning from Trader Joe's with his daddy), and then dropping pita bread bits on the floor while laughing manically (the same pita bread he ate with the hummus he devoured), I told him it was enough, took his tray away, cleaned him up and let him down onto the floor. And because I'm an emotional eater (I've decided), I ended up eating the little appetizer pizzas I heated up for him along with the hummus that didn't make it on the wall or floor with some pita bread (not the bread that fell on the floor - I do have standards).
While I was stuffing my face, he decided to pull the bottom part of our refrigerator grill off. I took this from him and put it where he couldn't get to it. He then laid on the ground and started reaching under the refrigerator. I grabbed him, told him to stop, moved him into the dining area, closed the gate and walked away....
Because walking away is so much better than eating everything in sight or yelling at the poor boy when he doesn't even get what he's doing (to some extent).
While he proceeded to cry big crocodile tears, I started getting his bath stuff together.
I think this is where I almost lost it. Almost. Because if my husband had been home, I think I would have gone ballistic on him and then ran outside in my slob clothes, my somewhat broken glasses and my very much so bird's nest of a hairdo, screaming at the top of my lungs, "I'M SO DONE! TAKE ME TO THE LOONY HOUSE!"
I always get Mateo's PJs, night diaper, extra towel together for when I bring him into his room after his bath. It just makes my life that much easier, and that's all that matters, correct? I pulled open the top drawer, where his PJs are kept, only to find a whole mess of shorts and pants where the PJs should be. Hmm. I opened the middle drawer and saw my husband's fantastic organization of Mateo's drawer, with each clothing item neatly folded and piled on top of each other. Surely the PJs would be in here, I thought. Nope.
I looked in the very bottom drawer. Nothing. I went back through every drawer, getting more and more annoyed. That's when I headed to the phone and called my husband, who was at the gym, to ask him to call me back and kindly tell me where Mateo's PJs are because I couldn't find a single pair. I even looked in his laundry basket since most of his clothes got washed -- nothing.
I then went back into Mateo's room and very passive aggressively began riffling through all Mateo's neatly folded up clothes because I'm sorry, if you're going to rearrange a set of drawers/clothing that have been put away the same way for, oh, about 21 months, then let a gal know. Right? Right.
Then I turned around and saw the design of one of his PJs sticking out of a cloth bin we use for toy storage.
And that's where all his PJs ended up. I immediately went into our room, grabbed the phone, called my husband, said "NEVER MIND."
What was Mateo doing this whole time? Crying even bigger crocodile tears in the dining area. When I let him out, and told him to go into his room, that boy hightailed into his room as fast as he could, moaning and sobbing and basically saying "sorry" as best he knows how. We hugged it out, but I was still miffed at him, so his bath was quick, then into PJs and this is how we found ourselves sitting on the couch, snuggling because we both aren't understanding each other.
And I hear it only gets worse before it gets better....I love my boy, I love my boy, I love my boy (nightly affirmation).