Two Months. Two Kids. (Two Years Later)

I was just looking through my drafts folder for this blog and I found this tiny attempt at a post, which I started on June 21, 2008. Trombone was just shy of 2 years old and Fresco was 2 months (duh):

“I’ve been searching for the right simile. Taking care of two children is like running a marathon. Taking care of two children is like scaling a tall mountain. Taking care of two children is like

…being interrupted every five minutes.

I’m struggling because there’s nothing to compare it to. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done so the best similes I can come up with are”

That’s it.

I guess I fell asleep.

***

Taking care of two children can be horrifying. When everyone wakes up “in a mood” on the same day. When everybody poops at the same time. When there’s only one piece of bread left and everyone wants toast and the person who is allowed to use a knife in the house is still elbow deep in the poop from sentence two, above.

It can also be splendid. You are never lonely if you are willing to lower your standards for intelligent conversation. You can make small children laugh and forget they were begging for chocolate by putting on a clown nose and talking in a funny voice. They say the darndest things.

Lately, SA has been taking the children out of the house on Saturday mornings. I think this has benefited my mental health greatly. I didn’t notice until today, when I yelled, that I hadn’t yelled for a long time.

I had a dream last week that I was changing Michael Jackson’s diaper. He was an adult Michael Jackson. An incontinent, adult Michael Jackson, who did not want his diaper changed.

My daytime mental health is good. My nighttime mental health is picking up the slack.

Taking care of two small children is like: walking a non-stop tightrope. One foot in front of the other and you can’t get off till you get to the other side. You’re doing something amazing even though it just feels like walking. Everyone is looking at you. Focus. Just put one foot in front of the other. Don’t get fancy. Don’t look down. Don’t forget to smile. You can rest when you get to the other side.

(Chicken Soup for the OverDramatic Mother of Two’s Soul, here I come!)

It’s like: life, man.

It’s like: being cuddled to death by verbose koalas.

Yeesh. Here, clown face. That’s what it’s like, for me, anyway.