It's been one of those situations that feels like a nightmare the whole time you're in it, and then you wake up and find out that things are mostly okay except for a strange booming sound in your "new" furnace and that the carpet feels a little more thin and crunchy than you're used to. Other than that, everything is mostly ideal. We did the unthinkable. We sold our old house and moved into a bigger one. All of this while gestating a fetus and refraining from spanking two disobedient children.
The move has made me a less perfect parent. I think that's putting it as delicately as I can. I have been stressed out for over a month now, culminating in a stretch of days where I truly thought I was going to lose my mind. Packing everything we own. Repairing damage caused by our movers ninety minutes before the buyer was to do his final walk-through. Waking up the day of our move-in to three inches of snow and more that just kept on falling. Unpacking as quickly as I possibly could because that's just the kind of psychopath I am. I wanted to feel as at home as I could in this house as fast as I could, and I'm still not there yet. This place is not my house. There is a huge stack of notarized papers that say otherwise, but it does not feel like home. When does that happen? Surely by day eight, right?
And so I've been psychotically focused on the move and all of its million working parts and my children are falling apart around me. Superficially, they don't seem very affected by the move itself. They sleep well at night and have basically found equivalent ways of leading their lives- same seating situations during meals, same bath and bed time rituals, same general disregard for walls, floors, window treatments, rules. So there's that. But their behavior has just been unbearable, and while I think part of it is my extremely low level of patience these days (did I mention the gestating and the moving?) and their subconscious reactions to all of the changes in life, I'd also like to think that the other part of it is just that they are horrible children who have turned rotten despite all of my best efforts.
Obviously, I don't mean that. But it's been a trying week. I know that I am too focused on house stuff and not as focused as I should be on the kids, and I'm trying to make an effort to change that now that we're moved in and the worst is all behind us. I know that if I pay more positive attention to them, there's a decent chance that I'll have to pay less negative attention to them. I know this all in that deep abyss I'm calling my heart, but I'm just so very worn out. I'm completely exhausted, but the demands and the messes and the fights and the screaming and the lack of listening and the tantrums have just about come to a head.
And so I ask you. Who would like to move into our basement and help me raise these children, at least during the day while Chris is at work? You? You? YOU? But if you're living in the basement, you should understand that the furnace is very noisy and that's where the boys spend most of their time fighting and attempting to give each other head injuries. I hope you know first aid!
In rereading this, I feel like I should delete it. Somebody mentioned the other day that they liked my blog. To which I basically replied that I wasn't sure what I was doing with it anymore, as it was supposed to be something FOR my children and yet I'm revealing things and feelings that I don't necessarily want them reading one day. Here, my boys. Here are the weeks that you drove me crazy and were utterly unbearable. Here is where I called you horrible.
|Our last day together in our old house.|
I hope with every new day this house feels more like home and less like some temporary residence with issues that I feel a complete lack of ownership for. I hope that I can calm down and refocus my energies on being a better mom who spends quality time with her children and doesn't feel the need to speak only in threats. Maybe they are related and once I fill this house with good memories, that's when it will become a home. Starting tomorrow. Day eight.
Tonight's already a lost cause; just ask the two little boys who got put to bed early after twenty minutes of shenanigans and sobbing.