Last night, as Lizzy and I attempted to make our week to come a little saner by doing her class valentines in advance, she was asking me how to spell a teacher's name. (she wants to give her extra valentines to her art teacher, P.E. teacher, etc.) She pronounced the name "Ms. Deh-vall," so, not knowing the teacher from Eve, I spelled "Duvall". Perhaps it was the semi-late hour, but I had learned by that time in the process that questions only make her anxious. Pretending to know as fact was the only way to proceed. The poor girl had really freaked out earlier over our not remembering how to spell "Ms. Britney" (Britany? Brittany? Britnee?), a woman who works at her day care. Darned if I can remember the Christmas list that the day care ladies helpfully (and hopefully) set out in December.
My little girl definitely takes pride in spelling things correctly. And I, probably foolishly, take pride in her doing so, as well. I wonder where the "anal" gene is located on the chromosome ...
Yeah, so her teacher has about six assignments due this week, if you count valentines. Thanks a heap, I say! We're even supposed to make a creative box for the valentines to be deposited by Friday. Hasn't that always been the purview of the school? A little class art project? A coworker reminds me that the schools are too busy these days teaching to their tests. Oh, goody. So we get to 'teach' everything else in all our spare time at home.
Matt's been (legitimately) consumed with a music project for the past two weekends, and I'm coming apart a bit, trying to be single mom person. Knowing full well that there are millions (probably) of moms out there who do it all the time, either for lack of spouse, spouse serving in military, spouse with off-hours job, or whatever the reason. And, oh yeah, all the undersung stay-at-home types! All I know is, it's darned tricky, simultaneously catering to the needs of an infant and a 6-year-old. And those bins of clothes that I washed two and three weeks ago, but haven't had time to fold and put away, are making me about cry.
Matt had a birthday on Friday. I got him: A card, and two candles that he requested from Target. Which doesn't even count. I feel pretty bad about that. No cake, or anything! Unfortunately, more of the same is in store for Valentine's Day. At least he has no expectations. Nor do I. We can sit down together and romantically write mortgage payments and checks to the day care, if we want to remember why we don't spend money on each other. :)
Lizzy has had her moments, but I don't know if it's ever been worse than this Saturday night. She just LOST it with me. I strongly suspect a late night the night before had a hand in her behavior; regardless, she was particularly vile. I got my first "I hate you," and lots of slamming doors, screeching and nonstop interrupting when I attempted to say anything at all. She was a mess. I admit, I lost it a bit myself, and we were both out-and-out screaming at each other somewhat. I don't remember doing that with my mom. I don't remember thinking I would live to see another minute if I were to do that with my mom. Maybe my parents are right; maybe we've allowed Lizzy to make too many decisions in her short life. She really seems to think she's in charge a lot of the time. Huh? No, I don't THINK so. We allow you certain input. That doesn't make you a co-parent of yourself, or your sister. Ah -- those battles are mostly to come!
And then, almost in the next breath, Lizzy will be so genuinely sweet, helpful and loving ... I just don't know. Don't know what to do with all of that.
It's interesting to me that Maddie remains impassive through these exchanges. Tension among family members seems to bother her not at all. I recall a baby and wee child Lizzy being rather freaked out when her parents argued. (though perhaps she was older than six months; I don't recall.) For Maddie, apparently, it's all good.
I need to convince Matt to hang around the house more, so his girls don't tear each other apart one day.
Maddie continues to wake me up pretty much hourly overnight. I just don't understand it. Where did my good little sleeper go ... at this point, I would kill for the old three-hour sleep intervals. Heck -- two hours! Two consecutive hours of sleep! Sounds way better than it used to.
The notion that this will not go on forever sustains me. Until then, I remain mostly incoherent, most of the time.
Thank God for strong coffee. And thank God I'm in an industry in which a mistake will not kill anyone. Except those of us who die a thousand small deaths when we see mistakes in print. But, with the way the industry is going -- editors being let go, copy editing being
outsourced to India, for goodness' sake -- we might as well get used to it.
I'm looking at my nails -- they're all scraggly and uneven. My hair is a fright. My clothes are unironed -- well, okay, that's always the case. I feel like hanging a sign around my neck that says "Don't judge me -- my kid won't let me sleep."
Ahhhh, Monday.
