January 22, 2012
My kids are so completely opposite of each other it makes me wonder if they even have the same mom. Maybe I just dreamt about giving birth three times? Maybe I only really gave birth once and the other two just followed me home one day? Stranger things have happened, I'm sure.
As I type, Ezra is in his bed having a bit of a conniption fit because his left nostril is ever-so-slightly stuffed up. He is sniffling and blowing his nose so loudly every four seconds or so that I can hear him from the other side of the house and I keep finding myself yelling things like "BREATHE THROUGH YOUR MOUTH! No.. your mouth! Your MOUTH! THE HOLE THAT IS NOT YOUR NOSE!!"
He won't stop, of course. And I can't reason with him. He is un-reason-with-able. This is the kid who just mastered the art of blowing his nose for the first time earlier today (seriously) and who has no grid for dealing with pain. None whatsoever. At the slightest twinge of discomfort he drops like a weight and just starts... freaking out. And shaking. Nothing can get through to him when he is in this state. He is always fine... a tiny scrape or an itty-bitty cut, but it's almost like his brain doesn't get the memo that he is not, in fact, mere inches from the pearly gates.
And then there is Myer. If this kid's hair was on fire, he could not be bothered to tell you. Trying to find out what is bugging this kid is an almost impossible feat. The more I question and press and ask, the more he retreats. This is exasperating on a completely different level. I have one child who informs me every time a hair on his head moves a little to the left, and I have another who won't tell me if all the hairs on his head are engulfed in flame. What IS a mother to do?
Maybe Truman will fall somewhere in the middle of these extreme boys of mine, bringing a perfect balance and equilibrium to our family dynamic.
More likely, however, he will end up on some whole different and new plane of extremes... regularly hanging from the light fixtures and gnawing on chicken bones or something.
Ah, motherhood. The land of perpetual "wait... WHAAAAAT?!"
at 8:00 PM