Will someone please come exorcise the demons?
I'm not quite sure what's gotten into The Dude. It could be teething. It could be the antibiotic he's on for his ear infection. It could be he's tired. He's gassy. He wants to walk, but he's not fully confident. He wants his stuffed giraffe, Jeffrey, but he doesn't want his stuffed giraffe, Jeffrey. He wants his milk, but he doesn't want his milk. He wants to be held, but wait a second...nope changed his mind. He doesn't want to be held. But wait a sec...nope changed his mind again...he DOES, in fact, want to be held. He wants the cat, but the cat doesn't want him, until the cat wants him, but he doesn't want the cat.
I want to pull my hair out. I can't fix it and so it goes that every waking minute spent with The Dude is an act of just trying to keep him happy. He's 15 months and at this point, we would have long ago said sayonara to the paci and the bottles, but alas, they are still here and I get it. I understand why parents wait so long to take them away. Because it's truly the only thing right now that seems to make him happy. That, and taking every single DVD off the shelf and all of the stuff out of every single drawer in our house. Particularly the Tupperware and mismatched lids.
He spends an awful lot of time being unhappy and consequently, his poor Mom and Dad do too.
And it doesn't help that I feel absolutely scattered lately. Scattered to the wind and like an absent parent. I am trying. Lord, I am really trying, but lately, I feel like I'm falling short. I absolutely cried all the way to work this morning because I feel like I am failing. My kids think I'm just the meanest, but it seems that even with the best expert's advice on how to get out of the house without being committed to Whitfield, mornings are still THE most stressful time of the day. Strike that. Mornings when we have somewhere to be...like Monday through Friday. They like to ignore me and despite my best effort not to wear my invisible clothes every day, it seems I keep putting those on first and so, perhaps it is my fault and they truly cannot hear or see me. Until I start shouting through the invisibility and thus ripping that fabric so they see me.
Please tell me that my kids won't remember this about me when they are older. Or that they might just laugh about how they use to make me crazy when they were little.