if you can't be a good example then you'll just have to be a horrible warning

This week I did not write much. But on Monday I almost made it through the day without breaking down and crying. It was really close. Moments before Matt walked in the door Charlotte dropped her plate of spaghetti, splattering red sauce over the half of our kitchen that is my work space. I had just cleaned the wreckage of Jude's tea, spilled on the library book and homework strewn table when I noticed Alex scratching his head. My lice paranoia immediately shifted into high gear, provoking a crawly sensation across my own scalp. It all became too much. 

Once the tears began there was no way to stop them. Matt walked in, assessed the situation, shook his head in disgust and asked the kids why they had once again broken his wife. Sobbing my way up the stairs, I retreated with my laptop to the room I refer to as "the hotel" in which children are welcome only by invitation. I watched the debate while following the Giants game, monitoring twitter and the shouting and fireworks outside my aerie balcony. Just as I began to feel human, the kids crept in one by one to curl up at my feet, nestle under my arm and listen to Mitt and Barack duke it out.

I tried to start a blog two years ago, but knew I'd never be able to write consistently with three year old twins at home and three classes to teach. Re-reading that first attempt the other day, then again aloud to Matt, I remarked that things seemed different two years later. He thought they were pretty much the same. After the debate ended and the kids went to their own rooms I had a chance to reflect: how have things really changed in the past two years? 

I still struggle terribly between 3 and 7 pm, that magical time of day when everyone's resources are most depleted and the bulk of the care taking is yet to be done. I might cry a little less often, but it happens with regularity. I behave badly toward my children and am forced to apologize with appalling frequency, but take comfort in the fact that I own my mistakes and attempt reparation.  So I suppose Matt's right that the circumstances which often transform my life into a twisted game of whack-a-mole are substantially the same. As usual, it's only my perception that has changed. Discovering that lonely old blog post was strangely comforting. It reminded me that everyone struggles. That I'm doing fine. That time passes and life changes and the best thing I can do is put away my judgment and fears and show up for the experience. 

My post from December 9th, 2010:

It's not just me, is it?

Recently, I've become alarmed by my worsening condition.  Why am I experiencing a revival of my old mantra "you're not like other people, you can't handle life"?  I am not right sized; I am the worst at everything.  And so I have begun to wonder, is it me?  Is it time for a flex account vacation?  And just when the answer to those queries seemed a resounding yes, little voices of commiseration began to find their way to me.

There was my friend who is always patient, kind, reasonable and thoughtful, who told me how she had discovered that her single (extraordinarily well-behaved, at least from my point of view) child had created a yellow marker masterpiece on the ceiling of her new (to her) car.  She described becoming angry, enraged, completely unreasonable, demanding her almost six year old daughter explain why she would act like a two year old.  Amidst all of the blaming and shaming and bad temper she slammed her way through dinner and banged her way toward her child's bedtime.  When her husband inquired as to her well being she announced that she was "fine."  And when he pressed her she broke down and cried.  For two hours.  Well, that sounds like most days in my house.  Times four.  

Another parent at the school who'd arrived from England a few years before asked me how it was going and upon seeing my overwhelmed face assured me that everyone, simply everyone falls apart after moving house.  She described the adrenaline rush that accompanied her throughout the packing, the house search, the school search, the unpacking, the arranging and the creating of "home".  And the subsequent crash once all of the former had been accomplished.  Sounded just about right.

And finally, there was the phone conversation with my erstwhile writing partner  living with her two not particularly mellow boys across the country.  During our fifteen minute conversation I was interrupted a mere 17,359 times by my twin three year olds who were fighting, screaming, throwing things, kicking, refusing to share, crying, calling me names and generally wreaking havoc.  

"Oh my God," breathed my friend.  
"All day, every day," I replied with a quavering voice.  
(It is an annoying side-effect of my fragility that whenever anyone shows me the slightest kindness I am overcome by the desire to burst into tears.)  
"How do you do it?" my friend asked in awe, and I thought: yes, exactly.  How do I do it?

Not gracefully, as people are likely to tell me.  Not with peace, love and understanding as I wish that I could.  But without drugs, at least.  (Though another well-meaning friend did take me aside at the playground the other day and suggest in all earnestness that smoking some pot at the end of the day would do me a world of good.) Without the copious amount of alcohol that sometimes seems necessary.  Without inflicting bodily harm upon my children and without, as much as possible, inflicting emotional harm. When I inevitably fall short I remind the kids of one of my favorite sayings: if you can't be a good example then you'll just have to be a horrible warning. I am their walking talking object lesson.

Upon reflection, the mere fact that I get out of bed every morning and try, try, try to be kind to these unreasonable, self-centered and highly emotional creatures each day is a testament to my sanity and fortitude.  Someday this will be easier.  Until then it is imperative that I remember who I am and how tremendously difficult this life is to negotiate, particularly for someone like me: unreasonable, self-centered and highly emotional.  Most importantly I need reminders that it's not just me.  The stories of my friends and other parents mean more to me than years of therapy.  Apparently everyone is overwhelmed by the things I face in quadruplicate every day.  Contrary to my fears, it turns out I may be doing a better than mediocre job of hanging in there.  At the very least, I am not the very worst.  I'm writing this to maintain my sanity, but I'm posting it to pay forward the gift of shared experience.