Trapped in a glass case of emotion

My intent in blogging is certainly not to create a place where I complain about my children. I love my children, most of the time. Wait—I love them all of the time, I like them most of the time. But four children in to the motherhood gig, I find that most days end with me wearily collapsing into bed and lamenting the sheer number of children and pets I have in my life. I love each and every one of them to death (with the exception of Howard Hughes, who makes me celebrate the short lifespan of the rodent). My life is full of love and adventure and hugs and giggles and crazy stories and kisses and silly and happy… and spills and poop and vomit and messes and stains and laundry and dog hair and tantrums and yelling and cat poop and time outs. I feel like not one of the nine critters I’m responsible for gets enough of my attention on a daily basis (not to mention my husband). My whole life is wrapped up in kids, the care of kids, the discipline of kids, and the care of pets. Tom and I have certainly established that there will be no more pets until at least two have dropped dead (Howard doesn’t count). But the bigger question that has been circling around our house is whether or not there will be more children. And truthfully, more and more I want to say ‘NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT’.


Tom and I wanted a big family. We talked about five or six kids. And I think if we hadn’t started so early, and had them so close together, it might have been a possibility. But after nearly six years of diapers, bottles, nursing, and pregnancy all on top of each other, I am ready to call it quits. I just don’t know if I have it in me to start over again. I never thought I would reach a day when I would say I was positively sure I didn’t want more kids—Tom and I have had that discussion several times over the years, wondering if we would ever find ourselves saying it. Now I think we say it like three times a day, laughingly, but with a sort of wonder underneath that says, “maybe I really do mean it”.

I think I’m ready to reclaim my life. I mean, on the one hand, my life will not be my own for another 18 years or so, if ever again. But every time a new baby comes along, that clock starts over again and I just don’t think I can keep doing it. I have things I want to do—I’d like to be able to work more, I’d like to have older kids that we can take with us on adventures, I’d like to not change diapers EVER AGAIN. Part of me is sad at not experiencing the magic of pregnancy and having a new baby again… but after four rounds and the intimate knowledge of all that the experience entails… it seems a little less magic than it used to, know what I mean? My peers, that’s age 29 or so, are experiencing the magic of the first baby in droves right now. I’m happy for them. I’m also happy not to be them. I don’t want to be 35 and still having kids.

Well anyway, bittersweet revelations aside, the reason I sat down to blog today was

WYATT

The child is making us insane. He is so cute, and so strong, and absolutely spoiled. I didn’t think it was possible to ruin a child that young, but I take the blame entirely. Wyatt never wanted to take a pacifier, preferring to suck his thumb. I did not have a problem with this, since it make it easy for him to self soothe. But when he got teeth, he stopped sucking his thumb. Again, not a problem because it saved me the trouble of figuring out how to get him to stop. But he’s always been what I like to call a “boobie friend”, meaning that nursing is just as much a comfort/soothing/enjoyment time as feeding time. And when he stopped sucking his thumb this was magnified by like a 10 factor. Now, he nurses to fall asleep. He nurses when he gets hurt. He nurses when he wants a snack, or is bored, or when he’s happy to see me. Worst of all, he wants to nurse all night long and does not appreciate sleeping in his little bed. We’re desperately trying to get him to take a pacifier, because when Wyatt is in the bed, he’s the only one who gets any sleep. He kicks, flails, spins, rolls, pinches, and slaps. He can actually do most of this while nursing, but if he is separated from his boobie friend then there is also yelling. I’ve always had really good sleepers who can lay down awake and go to sleep alone. This guy is bringing sleep deprivation to new levels, especially since I have a hard time falling back asleep after I’ve been woken. Usually the phases that babies go through are very familiar to me. It’s not often that I come across something that I haven’t experienced with at least one of the older kids. This is new, and it is terrible! We’ve tried just letting him yell in his bed (because it’s not even crying as much as angry yelling), but he doesn’t give up. He can go forever. I love my little guy, and admit that up until now when Tom has suggested laying the smack down and getting tough on him I’ve said no. I think part of me is sad at the idea of never being needed like this again. However, that part of me is sad about it during the day. At 3am, that part of me is nowhere to be found. It’s an ongoing and growing problem, and since it’s new territory I don’t know the solution or how it will end. I’m not ready to stop nursing him, he’s not ready to stop nursing (obviously), but something’s got to give.

Did I mention that he bites???