Dear Diary,
At 6 in the morning, Rayne will wake up with 11 demands, not realizing that her Mommy was up every hour nursing her baby brother since midnight. After cooking breakfast for her, I will feed Silas, who will then spit up in my hair, on the couch, on the dog, or all of the above. After cleaning the dog/couch/eggs from the dining room table, I will battle with my daughter to brush her teeth and hair and get dressed ("I don't like pants! I don't like shorts!"). I would have laid the baby in one of the play apparatuses we purchased that he despises, so I have about 10 seconds before he screams bloody murder to brush my teeth and hair, put on deodorant, and find an outfit that both fits me and allows me to nurse in until the next time I'm spit up on and am forced to change. Next, I will read 10 stories with my daughter who interrupts and corrects me on every page. A sip of ice cold coffee that was once upon a time hot will get me through the hardest part of the day: Rayne's free play time. I will attempt to feed/cuddle/play with the baby all the while remaining patient with her couch acrobats, high pitched screams, and dumping her toys all over the living room. After all, I am supposed to "not say no", "say yes more", "ignore the mess", or any other phrase used to guilt moms. One of the flips Rayne did will undoubtedly result in an injury and require lots of kisses and wiped off tears, which will mean independent play is done, I guess. Next, we will transition to one of the art or science activities I prepared the night before in my free time, in which Rayne will most likely complain about, causing another discussion on being grateful. "What is grateful?" "Oh, you mean that thing we talk about every single day?" Forget about pooping alone. I will nurse Silas while pooping. Then, on this particular day, it is ballet class, a notion that I am entirely too thrilled about getting out of the house for. After lugging the 30 pounds of baby + car seat, the slowpoke 3-year-old, and diaper bag a mile from the parking lot, I feel relief. This is where I get a break, where Rayne will be safe inside a dance studio, interacting with children, and I get to sit down! Wait, no. Silas will wake up screaming (after screaming the entire time in the car, of course), wanting to nurse, so I will seek out a deserted hallway to pull my boob out while the ballet moms rally against Planned Parenthood or gay marriage or human rights. Passersby will shoot me dirty looks at me FEEDING MY CHILD, as I'm sure they would rather me go in a bathroom and do it. After ballet, we will make the trek back to the car with the howling baby while Rayne asks me where I'm taking her for lunch (for the record, I've never taken her to lunch after ballet), and feels cheated at the idea of eating lunch at home. Once home, after trying to prepare her lunch in 30 seconds while the baby cries out in starvation, I will find myself saying "Please keep your fork out of your pants" and other sentences I never thought I would utter. Even though Rayne will take an extraordinary amount of time to finish her lunch, it is still too early for nap, so we will do a math or writing activity. Silas will wake up in the middle of the activity and require being held, so I will somehow bounce him on my knees while counting/sorting/making patterns with Rayne.
Then, finally, it has arrived. Nap time! After cleaning the booger stained toilet paper all over the bathroom floor and calling insurance companies, I will pee for the first time in hours. Upon settling on the couch comfortably with a sleeping baby, the dog will bark. Or - my personal favorite - Rayne somehow won't be feeling tired on this day, so she will get up constantly or shout at the top of her lungs and kick the wall, any of which will wake her brother. This will go on for about an hour until I finally give up hope of her taking a nap. Daddy will call (yes! a grownup) with the dreaded news that he won't be home until around 6, another 12-hour day. Rayne will come out of her room asking if she gets candy (huh?) and throwing her Barbie at me, proclaiming that I'm Ana and she's Elsa. Remembering all the studies I've read about the importance of make-believe play, through gritted teeth I play Ana trapped in the ice castle, attempting to create scenarios from my sleep and caffeine deprived brain that will simultaneously meet the master's approval. I will then suggest outside time, which includes two options: 1) chalk on the 6 foot slab of concrete that we call a front porch or 2) strap a flailing Silas to me and take Rayne for a bike ride around the complex. The backyard (a.k.a. Poop Graveyard) is not an option. Due to the amount of crackheads asking for money or fighting in the street, I will suggest going inside. This will be matched by the always bi-polar Rayne, who will either tell me that I'm mean or say "Ok, Mommy" so sweetly. It will be time to prepare dinner, so naturally, it will have to wait until I feed Silas. After pooping up his back, he will happily sit in his jungle chair long enough for me to pull the meat out of the fridge. He will cry while Rayne climbs the armoire or presses buttons repeatedly on the cooler. She will help me get dinner started but will be mad at me for not allowing her to stir boiling hot rice or veggies by herself. Dinner will be ready, which means I get to eat on the couch while nursing Silas and feeling guilty for Rayne sitting by herself. Then, my favorite sound on planet earth will ring through the air: Daddy's work truck reversing into his parking spot! After dinner, it will be shower time for Rayne and I, which means meltdown city. I will floss/brush her teeth, wash her body/hair, leaving me 3 inches of shower to stand in and scrub food, dirt, spit up, pee, poop, and sweat off of my post partum body, the same body that Rayne asks if still pregnant every day. Once I get Rayne dressed and brush her hair, Daddy will read and I will either do the dishes or - you guessed it - feed the baby! We will tuck Rayne in with two songs and 4 "I need a hug"s, after which I will alternate feeding Silas and folding laundry for the following hour. I will finally get to put on that TV show I've been wanting to watch, but I will pass out within the first 7 minutes. Don't worry, though, I will catch the ending spoiler when Silas wakes me up by punching me in the eye.
Honestly, Mommy
**About Alisha**
My name is Alisha. I'm 26, married, and have a almost 4-year-old and a 4 month old. Currently, I'm a SAHM, but my background is in early childhood education and speech/language development. I've recently taken up wine and fleeing to my bedroom to count to 10, but the kids always find me there!
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