Reason #237 why I suck at parenting

here comes that crystal clear moment in every Momma’s life when reality wallops her.

No matter how much she cherishes the fruit of her womb, no matter how much she nurtures and cozens them, no matter how many thousands of lullabies she chirps off-key or allergen-free cupcakes she bakes, no matter how much she schleps, chauffeurs, buys, sews, glues, reheats or secretly tosses, there will still come that fraught moment when her suckiness is inescapable.

Last night was that moment for me. Correction: last night was the latest such moment.

My first mistake was letting Minitaur head toward the downstairs bathroom while I went upstairs with his fussy sister. This was after dinner, and he was obviously going to perform his evening potty, even if he insisted he only had to pee.

I’m nursing, and listening. He calls out that he needs his shirt changed, meaning he got a few drops of pee on it. I call out that I’ll put him in his jammies whenever he’s finished. He has to poop, he yells. No shit, I think to myself.

A minute later, I hear a lot of yelling and jumping and thumping. He’s obviously climbed on the counter in his stockinged feet and is in some imaginary land or distant planet and having a grand ol’ time. I can picture him holding his pipi, staring at himself in the mirror, jumping and leaping and wiggling and shouting.

Um, earth to Momma: this was your cue to go downstairs, hoist him off the counter with a stern lecture about his safety, wipe his bottom, pull up his pants, wash his widdle fingees and drag him, no doubt mid-tantrum, off to bed.

Instead, I just listened, while the baby sucked away.

Crash.

The timbre of his shouting changed. It was no longer fun.

I yanked my nipple out of Milkula’s mouth (ouch) and raced downstairs, left boob flopping out of my bra, in time for Minitaur to stagger into my arms, screaming. He had his hands over his mouth, and blood was streaming through his fingers.

I somehow managed to peer inside, fearful he’d lost some teeth. Nope, but there was one nasty gash on his lower lip, and blood pooling inside his mouth, dribbling down his chin, streaking arms and legs and dotting the floor.

I propped his nekkid bottom on the kitchen counter and fetched paper towel, ice and a plastic baggie. I somehow assembled an ice pack from all that while issuing soothing words and hugs. He was inconsolable.

Upstairs, the baby noticed my prolonged absence and started howling.

I called Plosh, who was stuck in traffic somewhere around Pasadena, a half hour’s drive on a good day. Last night obviously wasn’t a good day. I told him Minitaur might need stitches and he told me to go to Urgent Care on my own.

Yeah, right. I can manage two screaming kids, one of them half-naked, in a waiting room on my own.

And I can fly too.

I decided to wait and see if the wound coagulated on its own, which it did, about the same time Minitaur fell asleep atop my bed, his little body shuddering with sobs even as he fought to keep his eyes open. By then, he had pajama bottoms on, at least, and he still clutched the ice pack (now wrapped in a burpy cloth) to his swollen lip.

The baby decided that once a boob was in her mouth again, Paradise had been regained and she could playfully whack her unconscious brother in the head a few times and pull his hair.

Plosh finally made it home, exhausted, in time for our son to wake up whimpering. The two watched some TV and then Plosh, dear, competent soul that he is, spent the night curled up in Minitaur’s bed with him. They’re still there, all snuggly and sweet, as I write this.

I was left alone to ponder my glaring unreadiness for parenting. And that is where I’m stuck now, trying to decide whether I should just hide for a few years or turn myself in.

You know all those people who sneer that you ought to have a license to parent? I hate those people. I always think they’re talking about me.

They are, aren’t they?

Comments

[plosh]

No, they're not talking about you. You can't control kids -- especially boys -- all the time.

[AbbaGav]

Milkula, love the names. Great post. It gave me flashbacks. Parenting through pools of blood is definitely not covered in the manual. Sounds like you have a little baby Calvin on your hands (Calvin and Hobbes). Try to enjoy these years.

[Nadine]

For a few moments please let me be your "grammie":
Sweetie- things happen and it's always at the worst of times. You need a pause, take a beather, get a baby sitter, go out with your "dude" to: movie/dinner/watching-the-stars/whatever.

The short person will learn not to climb in sinks with socks on...eventually...

[Adrian]

No Anne, you do NOT suck at parenting. You did the best you could in what can only be described as extremely difficult circumstances. Parenting is an inexact science as the best authorities on the subject are willing to admit. You can only do your best and hope that it's the right thing at the time.

[Randi(cruisin-mom)]

When my now 19 year old was 3 1/2 months old, I had laid him down on my bed for just a few moments (so I could brush my teeth), knowing of course, that he wouldn't be able to go anywhere, right? WRONG! He decided that was the moment to practice his newly acquired skill of turning over...which he did...right off the bed, leaving him stuck between the nightstand and my bed. He screamed, I ran to rescue him...it was Mother's day, no less, and I was sure that the L.A. Times would put me on the front page as worst mother of the year...but,in spite of me,he did make it to 19 last week. When my younger son, now 16 was about 4 months old...I was holding him in my arms, and while walking into his bedroom I whacked his head into the doorjam.
Now there are some good parenting skills! Anne...you are not alone...you are a good mom. Only a good mom would write a post like this one. A not so good mom, would not even wonder if she were doing things right.

[Anne]

Aw, shucks, everyone, thanks for sticking up for me. Not sure the Monsterling would agree, as he seemed to keep blaming me the whole next day. His lip jutts out a good way too and is looking kinda gross. Now he's downstairs re-enacting the scene with his Thomas trains. I think Salty is getting it on the chin.

[Dreadmouse]

Secure in my still-childless state, I can confidently assert that it's no big deal. We've all done it to ourselves and survived, right? I've got a good scar on my left ear from where I split it open, and a few on my shins as well. It's a life lesson, it is.

(That said, the first time my daughter-to-be hurts herself I'm going to dissolve into a big angsty puddle.)

[Julia]

Awwwww mama, you don't suck, and you did just fine. You took a gamble and this time, it didn't pan out. But that's ok. Amazingly enough, even though we secretly imagine ourselves invulnerable super-mamas, able to be many places at once and solve every drama at once (while baking those allergen-free cupcakes--hee hee!--with the other hand)--we aren't, and we can't. Believe me, I feel your pain, cos I've been there myself--just chalk this one up to experience and move on. The kids are ok (thank G-d), you got a good story out of it, and life trundles merrily on with you (mostly) at the wheel.

[Ontario Emperor]

I could tell a story, but I won't. Suffice it to say that both of your kids will survive without any lasting trauma, despite all of the ways in which this story could be twisted. Heaven forbid if the La Leche League discovers that you denied milk to your child, even if it was for a brief moment and due to an emergency.

[Anne]

Okay, everybody has to hold their breath for Dreadmouse, whose little mouse is due any day now (or is here already?). Good luck! You'll be an awesome Dad.

And, OE, I've already ticked off the La Leche Leaguers ... the baby's starting to eat solid food. Though I tried giving her avocado yesterday and all I had to show for my efforts was bright green spit-up.

[psychotoddler]

When my sister was in town for my son's Bar Mitzvah, we came home from shul Friday night to find everybody frazzled and panicked (except my wife; nothing phases that woman). My sister, my mom, my kids. The PT was ecstatic:

"Andrew jumped off the couch and split open his head!"

So I took my sister, my brother in law, and my nephew Andrew and spent Friday night in the ER with the knife and gun club. My sister kept insisting that I jump somehow to the head of the line. "You're a doctor, aren't you? What good are you??"

Boys will be boys.

NOW you're a parent.

[Robin]

My oldest (Now 18) fell down while walking around holding a bottle in his mouth at around..must have been just around or just under 1 year old (we spontaneously bottle-weaned him at 13 months old after forgetting his bottle on the airplane on a trip to Grandma's) I was actually WATCHING HIM while he did this. He put the bottom teeth right through the lip and I freaked (for all I knew) like no mom has ever freaked before! I dragged him to the emergency room immediately, where the doctor patiently explained to me, "WHAT? if I put stitches in it, he's going to yank them. If I put a bandaid on it, he's going to yank it off...go home and stop being such a...NEW MOM!" (paraphrased, of course) After that, BOTH of my younger children did the SAME thing to their lower lips in nearly the SAME manner! (and while I watched or was close-by, I might add) I never skipped a beat, just put a wet icey washcloth on it and kept on going. It gets so much easier after the first time, and those little bottom lip scars are not only cute, but ubiquitous! I can't think of a kid I know who doesn't have one!

[Anne]

I'm really enjoying parents' "war stories" here. Glad to know I'm not the only one whose kid is all scarred!

But he IS listening to me lately, especially when I warn him that something (ie, jumping up and down in his sister's crib, laying on the floor and kicking the sliding glass doors, sitting on the kitchen counter and using his bare feet to explore the knife drawer) is very dangerous.

And yesterday, we had a big hugging session and he wouldn't let go for a while. I asked him what was wrong and he said, "I'm sorry I had a bleed, Mommy."

Awwww ...