Well, we officially have a toddler.
Sure, he turned a year old a few months ago. Sure, he's been walking and trying to talk since then. Sure, he's getting better at feeding himself and more curious about the world around him. Are these the tell-tale signs of toddlerdom? Maybe for you. For me, it's the fits. It's the emotional meltdowns that are becoming more and more common around here. It's the big feelings he doesn't know how to navigate. It's the overwhelm that takes over his mind and his body that we need to help him through. Where do they come from? And where do they go? No one really knows, Cotton Eyed Joe.
We had a rough evening last night and a rough morning this morning. We were eating dinner as a family, all holly jolly flowers and folly, when suddenly, a wave of discontent swept up our sweet natured boy. I thought maybe the food was spicy - we've seen a reaction from RB when we used mild enchilada sauce, and when I say a reaction, I really mean an absolute "what-the-fuck-were-you-thinking-mommy-and-daddy-this-is-hot-and-i-hate-it-and-now-you-must-pay" meltdown. Looking back at last night, that was not the cause because we'd been eating for about ten minutes before that took over. Beau's pretty sure he bit his tongue and that's what triggered the explosion of tears and what we can only assume were baby expletives. We had to get up and get out of that environment. There was no calming down and going back to eating.
Once he finally calmed down, we played for a bit and did bath time. Very Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vibes, honestly. One minute, he's losing his mind, and the next he's sweetly handing me a plastic green apple. He was mostly happy in the bath. However he never once yawned or showed any sign of sleepiness. I should've probably known then what I was in for. We wrapped up bathtime per our normal schedule, wrestled into PJs (though this is not unexpected, for we hate the lay down flat, and Mommy requires it to get dressed for bed); we turned off the lights and started trying to settle. Trying is the keyword here, because there was no settling to be had. He is normally really good about falling asleep around the same time every night, typically 7:30 or so, but he was not into that idea last night.
I'm currently six months pregnant and RB weighs somewhere around 28lbs at any given time. He's recently shows preference for being held horizontally at bedtime, with me walking around in the dark, singing Blake Shelton's Ol' Red (current favorite lullaby). This would be much easier if I didn't have a very active baby sticking out in front of me like a partially deflated beachball. I wish I could sketch a picture of how ridiculous it probably looks. There he is, arms and head leaned on one of my arms, legs in the other, and his abdomen stretched atop my own, which doesn't do much to help hold him up. It makes him happy and I recognize the day will come, sooner rather than later, that he no longer needs me to hold him and rock him to sleep, and these are the thoughts that gives me the strength (literally, the strength) to hold him the way he likes.
That said, last night I held him this way on and off for about an hour. My back was killing me. So was the guilt. While I was trying to convince him to go to sleep, I was frustrated. I was frustrated because my downtime - my precious, three-ish hours of downtime - I get each evening between our evening routine and going to sleep, they were slipping through my fingers. I was frustrated because I was tired. I was frustrated because our routine wasn't working. Then came the self doubt, or that shitty little voice in my head that loves to undermine me. "If I'd just sleep trained him...", "If I worked out more and my arms were stronger...", "If I was more patient...", "He's not going to sleep because of my energy...", "He's just a baby, I'm an asshole for being frustrated with him...". Anyway, so there I stood, in the dark for a while, holding my son who just wanted to be held, tearing up on and off, thinking mean thoughts to myself, until finally his breathing calmed and he somehow got heavier. He'd finally dozed off. It had taken a full 7oz bottle, an hour of singing, a second 5oz bottle (cheers to Daddy for coming to our rescue), lots of walking, rocking, patting, and then finally, standing in silence, slowly leaning back and forth. Finally, at 8:12 pm, 12 ounces of milk, many spilt tears later (both his and mine), he was asleep and I was exhausted. I walked downstairs and started washing the recently used bottles. Beau offered to do it for me. I declined. He realized I was crying. I told him I just needed a few minutes to calm down. He left me be. I took those few minutes, got myself together, and leaned into my evening. I laid on the couch on my heating pad. Beau made me a bunch of popcorn and seasoned it to perfection. I balanced it on my ever-growing belly and ate away my frustrations while watching Pacific Rim 2. Finley laid behind me and snored on my head. Happy cuddled over by his daddy. My downtime happened and I felt better. We went to bed, and everyone slept through the night (mostly).
RB woke up in a great mood at his normal time of somewhere around 7:30. We got up, got dressed, then went downstairs to see Daddy and get in gear for some breakfast. Before we could get to breakfast, RB dirtied his diaper, so back upstairs we went to get cleaned up. This is when we embarked back down our dark path and back into shit-fit territory. I picked him up to go upstairs and he cried and wiggled as hard as he could to escape his fate. We got upstairs and got cleaned up. He continued crying. We came downstairs and calmed down for maybe sixty seconds, just long enough to get in the highchair for breakfast. Beau made some egg muffins the other day with lots of veggies and bacon and RB loves them, so I was hopeful food would take his mind off his despair (it normally does). To put it bluntly, it did not. It actually only made things worse. He was fucking pissed. Just straight up fucking pissed. About what? We don't know. But he was.
After seven-ish minutes of trying to calm the beast, I gave up and took him out of his chair. We got to walking, as we do when we're upset. We walked around inside and outside. There were moments that made me think "this is it! this is when we get our shit together" and those moments were, well, fleeting. We ended up back upstairs in his room, which his definitely his happy place, with all of his clothes off (I thought maybe something was poking him?) playing with tractors. And finally, after thirty minutes, he calmed down. Beau brought his breakfast upstairs and we ate it on the floor. I trepidatiously re-dressed him, all the while praying the positive attitude would hold. It probably didn't help that I was on a work call this entire time, and I was trying to pay attention, but I was falling short on that too. Finally, we went downstairs and we got him in the car to go to daycare. Beau took him to daycare as he does every day, and I walked in the door after they left the driveway and contemplated crying once more.
I had a busy morning at work and didn't have crying scheduled in, so I just stuffed those feelings down and got on with my day. Or did my best to. At least until my mom called to check in on me. Then I cried. But I pulled it back together pretty quickly (at least for me) and now I'm feeling okay. I'm definitely still feeling badly that my last two interactions with my son have gone the way they have. I'm hoping he has a good day so we can have a good evening. Beau said RB did fine on the drive to school.
Sometimes I try to think of my day like some kind of sports game. The first quarter was hard - really hard. I wouldn't say I scored. The second quarter has been slow goings but gives potential that this could end up as a win. Halftime is coming up (aka lunch) which gives me some peace. Perhaps in the second half, I'll totally slay it and this morning will be but a memory. We'll have to see.
I know these hard moments and big feelings will be more and more common as he gets older. I'm well aware. I'm still a human myself (inconvenient!) and am trying to keep my shit together while helping him get his shit together. I'm trying to give myself some grace and recognize hard moments do not mean hard days. They are just moments, and I am letting it wash over me.
Here he is, enjoying his breakfast on the floor in his room. At least he finally ate something.
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