Freaking Nights

Single mom here. Lance in Cincinnati completing his DMA. Me, with two little kids, having moments. Lots of them. While they appear copious, said moments are better qualified than quantified. As in I want to strangle you kids and throw you out the window moments; my throat hurts from yelling moments; aw that’s so sweet and considerate of you moments; and I love you so much you are so darn precious moments.

An attempt to chart out the moments yields occasional surprises. And unyielding guarantees: A morning shower or an important phone call will invariably activate the sibling squabbles. “Then I’m not gonna be your friend,” and “then I’m not gonna give you any stickers” are fierce threats from the mouths of babes. Bedtime, on the other hand, will usher in instant camaraderie, and infinite play.

I sit in the living room in the dark taking it all in: the talk about soon visiting Aba in Cincinnati, the patter of little feet scampering to collect toys and stuffies to shove into the Elmo and Dora knapsacks, Sebastian declaring the flight safety rules and assuring his sister that she can’t fall out of the plane, only off the moon, but that he’ll catch her, and not to worry about an astronaut suit that’s something else altogether.

“Liliana say crescent moon.” “But Sebastin, I don’t wanna be an ascronaut because why you didn’t listen to my words?”

And I teeter: between Omigod that is so freaking SWEET, and these kids freaking need to get to sleep NOW. Lots of freakings you’ll have noticed. But that’s not how I pronounce it when the sentiment erupts from within me.

Yup, nowadays, meltdowns are MY territory. Don’t even try going there you three year old terror, I’m gonna beat you to it! Sure you have an ear-splitting cry but I can curse and bang my hand on the table. And I’m bigger. Top that. I’m also really good, I’ve noticed, at making stupid threats that I’ll never be able to fulfill: If you don’t behave you’re not going to Cincinnati; That’s it, I’ve had it with you, I’m never taking you to visit your Aba again. They do now and again yield results these paroxysms, but they make me feel like crap.

Sebastian comes out of his room an hour after I’d said good-night to ask me for a piece of paper and some crayons and I nearly lose it. I grab a piece of paper, tell him to tell me what he wants to write and I’ll write it (quickly!) and get straight to bed. Four categories, OK: Water. Oxygen pack. Food. And… C’mon, yalla, hurry, I press. Um… friendship. Sigh.

He has a way of stringing me, this kid, when I’m at the end of my rope, with a little tender wisp, that makes me crumple, and smile. Like when someone delivers a kind word while you’re crying, and your tears gush even more fervently. The smile through the tears breaks through the breakdown.

[The other one has her “way”, simply, with an impish smile and a full-bodied laugh.]

When Sebastian showed me the sticker chart he’d written out a few days earlier, I had read the categories rather – well – categorically: cleanup, helping, set the table… put a DVD on in Saturday. I reread the fourth item silently and my heart skipped a beat. (So that Ima can sleep in, is the unwritten clause.) One moment, I beamed and swelled at this token of thoughtfulness. The next moment, I guiltily pondered the priorities I am instilling in my sweet children.

The other night the kids wanted to watch a TV show. And I let them. “The inmates are running the asylum”, I could hear my dad saying. But the guilt swiftly evaporated; the warden was able to take a breather (and fold laundry!). I “let it go” and avoided a marathon of escalating nerves. Letting them fall asleep in front of the TV is an underrated bedtime routine. (Sure, it would have been better if the freaking Cat in the Hat’s raucous thingamajigger adventures settled into some mind-numbing Baby Einstein, but hey, “you get what you get, and you don’t get upset”, as the mantra from Liliana’s daycare goes.) 

OK, I know: this is far from a formula for a regular healthy bedtime routine. But it served me well for a night. It allowed me to inhabit a peaceable rhythm. Perhaps the formula worth exploring is that of figuring out when to step in, and when to step back. I’m still trying to figure out the middle ground.

In the mornings, things are generally less cloudy. Shafts of sunlight seep through the windows and a smile spreads over as I stretch under the covers to the sounds of genuine amity: "Good job Liliana, you did an 'L'", and "Sebastin that's a really beautiful house... which Barbie do you wanna keep?"

Moments later, little sister pronounces “Sebastin: ‘cuddly’” and the two of them storm into my bedroom to demonstrate so that I can snap a photo.

My darling angels. Until the shower!

In the moments vs. the moments, the bad ones linger and the good ones dwell. What lingers I eventually shake off: with a deep breath, a pillow over my head, or a Bellini. What dwells I let into my heart.

I walk into the kids’ room after a night of moon-diving astronaut activity and notice the accursed paper now replete with illustrations.  In the “friendship” category there is a figure with a curly mop among the stick friends! I’m still coming out on top.