I am getting really good at doing things with one hand. Just yesterday I was holding Carson with one arm while assisting Everett on the potty while also catching up with a friend on speakerphone.
Being a mom to two kids feels a bit like being an octopus (I would imagine). All my limbs are constantly doing things, holding people, helping pull up pants, cutting cheese slices, velcro-ing shoes. I’m moving, always moving, helping someone with something. My arms move without thought, both fluidly and jerkily, as I try not to drop a sippy cup or even worse, a child.
I’m five months into this gig of being outnumbered, and for a while now, I’ve been trying to meet All The Needs. I’ve enforced time outs while breastfeeding and I’ve assembled lego cars while changing a diaper. I’ve opened fruit pouches and sang songs and wiped boogers, all while holding a baby. I’ve done my best to tend to both kids at the same time to avoid one of them crying/whining/fussing/melting into a puddle of pathetic on the floor.
But the thing is, sometimes I have to pee. And sometimes I have to eat a sandwich to keep from getting hangry. And sometimes someone is going to cry. I have two hands and two arms and while I’m using them both a good 95% of the day, sometimes I cannot help everyone all at once.
Sometimes Everett is going to get the banana yogurt because we’re all out of strawberry, and he will cry. Sometimes Carson is not going to have his diaper changed right away, and he will cry. Sometimes they don’t want to take baths or ride in the car or go down for naps and they will cry, cry, cry. Sometimes a day will be excruciatingly difficult, and, well, I might cry too.
When Brett went back to work after Carson was born, I remember being overwhelmed by the amount of crying. It seemed like someone was always crying, and the house was forcibly loud. You start to tune it out, eventually, but that noise can hurt your ears after a while.
Much like anything else in motherhood, you just have to accept it — it being the thing that drives you momentarily crazy. You have to ride the wave instead of pushing against it, because the wave is bigger than you and it’s always going to win. Even though these kids weigh a combined 42 pounds, on most days, they feel bigger than me. Louder than me. More forceful than me.
My ears aren’t necessarily happy about it, but I’m learning to accept the noise. Nobody is going to faint from the wrong flavor yogurt. I’m pretty sure babies don’t suffer longterm if they have to occasionally wait ten minutes to nurse.
I guess you could say we’re all in touch with our emotions in this house.
If you need to have a good cry, as we all sometimes do, feel free to come on over. Chances are, one of us will probably join you.
