DEFCON 5 Nuclear Fuckin' Meltdown, Monkey Style

My three-year-old son has been home with me, rather than in a day care program of any sort, for the past three months. The time with him has been great in many ways, but it has also been mind-numbing in many others, and to call it “frustrating” is a gross understatement. Extreme. That’s what it has been. Frankly, those folks who ski naked or base jump off skyscrapers or hood surf… they know exactly jack shit about Extreme. Extreme is 24/7 existence with a three-year-old at home, a genius 7-yr-old in school, a dog, and a corporate pilot for a husband.

Yeah, hubby travels extensively and for prolonged periods, but it’s not like we get to accompany him. His job often entails its own mind-numbing tedium, like days on end spent in a hotel room in a strange city without any human contact beyond the occasional greeting from Maria, the everpresent Marriott hotel maid. He misses us madly, and I know this. He doesn’t golf or gamble or drink, so he doesn’t have much to do in all those strange cities, and I know he gets incredibly lonely. I have no shortage of sympathy for his situation. But, there are times when I would give anything, a limb a kidney an ovary ANYTHING to have just two days of that tedium. To trade with him. Not just for the rest, but also for the empathy that only comes with walking in the other person’s moccasins. For him, not me.

I get it. I totally get it. I understand his plight, because I make it my business to do so. I understand what he lives because I probe, poke, and pick into his brain at every opportunity. It’s my nature. I have to. What can I say, I love the guy, would die for him if it ever came to it, and I want to understand things from his perspective as much as it’s possible for one to do that about another. I wish I could say with total and complete faith and certainty that he did likewise. Not so. Ok, maybe so at least SOME of the time. Just not nearly as often as I’d like. Or maybe I’m paranoid, ungrateful, spoiled, lame, and don’t see how good I have it. Whatever.

Anyway, enough back story. Let’s get to the meat of my day. We’ll start at the beginning, unhip as that might be in modern prose.

As it does every day, the alarm brayed its unwelcome greeting at 7AM, and I hit the snooze button a time or ten. Finally, when the precise moment had come after which it would be physically and temporally impossible to get my older son ready and off to school without being tardy, I rolled out of bed and woke him up in the drill-sergeant fashion that works best for all of us. He responded with a sleepy protest, then climbed begrudgingly down the ladder from his top bunk, scratching his butt and muttering his disapproval all the while. With firm but brief verbal prompts, he dressed himself, brushed his teeth (for the entire two minutes even!), fed the dog, peed, combed his hair, and splashed his face with cool water to help get the sleep out of his eyes. In that order. Breakfast happens at school this week, so in just twenty minutes, my little soldier was ready to walk out the door. Quite an accomplishment that, even if I do say so myself!

Unlike my ordinary day, my husband was home this morning, having even slept in his very own bed, and had agreed last night to transport the little guy to school on his way in to the office, where he (my husband) was slated to do some training exercises and paperwork at the company’s private hangar before returning for a SECOND night in his own bed. I took it for granted that, since it was an actual possibility for once, I’d not be resented if I returned to my bed, where my t-shirt and saggy underwear clad 3-yr-old still slept soundly, despite his usual habit of awakening at the moment his brother starts brushing his teeth and then doing everything he can dream up to interfere in Ian’s preparation for the school day. It was like a sign from above: little one still asleep, bed still warm, and hubby home, able and willing and even committed to take the elder to school. Hellooooooo, sleep!

Alas, as hubby emerged from the bathroom, I felt his disapproving glance burn into my reclining form, right through the blankets. I looked up, asked if he needed something, reminded him that his coffee (which I’d set up for brewing the previous night and then mixed just the way he likes it in his cup, which I handed him while he was still in bed, just like he does for me with as much regularity as his schedule allows) was on the nightstand, and steered him in the direction of the laundry basket containing his clean underwear. He sighed a little, clearly a bit put off, but I let it go and instead sank into the softness of the bed in hopes of a return to Dreamland.

I heard the engine of his truck fire up, and must have dozed very shortly thereafter, because my next memory is of him tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Honey, it’s 9AM, don’t you think you should get up?” I was a bit surprised, because I thought I’d understood him to say he was going to go straight to work after depositing our son at school, but apparently he hadn’t dressed for the occasion until after his return home. I told him in a sleep-fogged voice that it wasn’t my intention to get up until I absolutely had to, but at that precise moment, the littler monkey awoke and bounced out of bed and into the bathroom. I fussed groggily at my husband then, saying “He’d still be asleep if you hadn’t turned on every light in the house.” His response came quickly, the tone unmistakably irate, “I’m getting ready to go to work. I think I have the right to turn on the light in my own bedroom.” Ugh.

He finished grooming himself and was headed out the door when I asked him to give me a kiss. He did so, but only after telling me he didn’t think I’d cared to have one, since I was still in bed. Huh? Anyway, off he went.

By this time, the wee one was singing along with Dora in front of the T.V. that his pop had fired up for him, a mere twenty feet from my bed in the adjacent room. Dora and my boy are great pals, and he isn’t one to get up to no good when she’s on, so I felt safe in attempting to resume my doze, which is exactly what I did. A quarter of an hour later, I stirred and asked him if he wanted some cheerios or fruit. He declined. --- I need to mention here, that when my boys are hungry, they say so. When they’re not, they say so. We have intentionally not forced them to eat more or more often than they feel the need to eat, because both my husband and I have battled lifelong overeating issues. It has worked incredibly well for us, and our children have always had robust builds without so much as an ounce of extraneous padding. They’re both big for their ages, tall and muscular. That’s my proof that this wasn’t a neglect situation. If you need more than that, well I can’t help you. --- So, the monkey wasn’t inclined to eat, and I was definitely inclined to sleep a bit more, and Dora was still on, so sleep I did. A bit later, I was awakened when the little guy decided he was indeed ready to eat. Again, I suggested a Clementine, one of his favorite things in the world. He accepted. And then all hell broke loose.

“Mommy, I don’t want the Clementines in the fridge. I want the ones that I put into that jar on the top of the shelves.” Says he.

“Honey, the Clementines would have spoiled if they were left in that jar, so I put them in the fridge. They’re the same clementines.”

“Mom, NO! I want the ones in the JAR!”

“Sweets, let’s see what we can manage.” I slipped on my robe, ran a brush through my well-bedded locks, and headed for the kitchen, monkey in close pursuit.

The Clementine was actually fairly uneventful, and I offered him tortillas with beans (my brunch) as well, which he also declined. No hill.

I went to the couch, swigged some coffee that I’d had to reheat in the microwave in order to make it drinkable- that’s the logical consequence of oversleeping, right? Well worth it!- and finished off my food. Monkey showed up with a half-eaten Clementine a few minutes later, and grinned sweetly as he offered to share it with me. Of course, I accepted the sections he shoved into my mouth, who wouldn’t? We cuddled a bit, and then he went back to his monkey business in the play room. My dad called then, and while we were on the phone, the wee one made another appearance, this time demanding cheese cubes, an unopened bag of which was in plain monkey-view in the fridge. I told him he could have some, but he wanted me to come get them for him, which I did.

“No, Mommy, I don’t want that kind!”
“Huh? It’s the only kind we have. What’s wrong with these?”
“I want the one with the COW on the front.”
I stared hopefully at the front of the bag of cheese, but all that I saw was a faint pastoral view of some western landscape. Hmmmm….
“Oh, sweetie, this does have a cow. It’s just really small because it’s off in the distance. See? It’s a cattle ranch in the picture, where the cows graze on the grass. This little dot right here? It’s a cow. I think. It might also be a well, but my vote is definitely on a cow.” A sense of humor is an absolute requirement in mothering, did I mention that?
“Mom, I want a BIG cow, like the one on the other package.”
“Oh. Well, this one doesn’t have a cow that big. But I’ll draw one for you if you wish. How ‘bout it?” At this point, I proceeded as though all were right with the world, despite my sneaking suspicion that we were on the verge of a major toddler meltdown. I poured some cheese cubes onto the paper plate he had brought to me and then smiled down at him. “Here ya go, love. Cheese cubes. You start in on these and I’ll get right on that cow.”

“No, Mom, I want SEVEN cheese cubes.”

“Yeah, ok. You have seven. And another six. Let’s count them.”
We did. I scooted the offending six to the farthest side of the plate and told him he could ignore them unless he decided he was hungry for more than seven.

He eyed me doubtfully, but took the plate to the table and sat down. I retrieved a black sharpie from the drawer, but just as I was ready to put ink to plastic, he stopped me.

“NOOOOOO! I don’t WANT a black cow! It has to be a BROWN cow.” Oh shit. I breathed deeply, and then, with control and purpose in my voice, said almost too quietly for him to hear--- he has to be quiet to hear me when I do this, see, so it’s all part of my Mommy repertoire--- “Honeybunch. I hear that you want a brown cow. I’m happy to make a cow on here for you. But I have only a black marker, so it’s a black cow or now cow. Your call.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH NO COW! I don’t LIKE black cows! I want a BROWN ONE, like on Barnyard!”

My blood pressure unaffected, and my facial expression likewise despite rather intense irritation, I said sweetly and quietly, “Ok then. I’m going to go check my email in my bedroom. Here’s some juice for you.”

He looked at the cup and then wailed, “I want BLUE juice! NOT PINK!!!” Huh??? I don’t buy blue food. Ever! Ah well, I’m chalking it up at that point to low blood sugar and too much Dora. No hill.

“Ok, sweets. No juice then. But here’s the thing. This cup is mine. I’m happy to share it with you if you get thirsty. I’ll just leave it on the table here for you. I’ll come back for some in a minute.” And I departed to my room.

A few minutes passed before he was in my room, screaming about how many cheese cubes he wanted. Seems that he wanted five now, and no other number would suffice, regardless of my most creative attempts at distraction. I asked him where the ones I’d given him were, and he said, “That was too many! If I eat all those, I’ll get a tummy ache. I had to dump them.” Give me strength. Now I was a bit miffed, but didn’t let so much as the slightest hint of that enter my voice.

“Come on, let’s go see.”

The kitchen floor was strewn with eleven cheese cubes. The other two lay on the table.

“Sweetheart, I gave you more than five. You are a very smart boy, and you know that you don’t ever have to eat more than you want. Why didn’t you just eat them and leave the ones you didn’t want?”

Um, FYI, never ask a three-year-old why s/he did anything. It’s what Vinzini from The Princess Bride would call, “A classic blunder.” DOH!

This is where the crazed toddler with bottomed out blood sugar snuck in and took over my darling son’s body while I wasn’t looking. I got kicked, the garbage can was shoved onto the floor, and much screaming and recriminations about tummyaches and me being a NAUGHTY MOMMY ensued. I breathed. I waited. And waited. When we reached what I figured was probably the eye of the storm, I explained that I’d be happy to get more food for him, but that he had to first pick up the cheese and right the trash can, and also apologize for kicking me. I reminded him that it’s fine to kick or hit, as long as the recipient of the strike is an inanimate and soft item. He swore that he “just couldn’t wait” to hit, and I suggested that he would have to figure out a way to either wait or just not do it at all. The eye wall hit then.

Eventually, after being targeted and missed with another kick, I declared that I’d be in my room, where I would lock the door, and that as soon as he was able to be calm enough to speak to me without screaming or hurting, I’d emerge and work with him. He kicked my door for several minutes, cried hysterically, said my name several times, insisted that he didn’t like me and that he felt mad and sad and mad and MAD, and cried some more. I called my husband at work, looking for some suggestions on how to get the kid fed without giving the appearance of caving. My hubby, much to my chagrin, declared my action in having locked the child out of my room “unsafe.” Um, no. I explained to him that at no time was I unable to see my child’s feet, and at no time did I do anything other than give the appearance of having left his vicinity. Daddy was fresh out of ideas and had to go back to work, so off the phone went we.

I left the room, called a friend who has kids, and vented to her whilst sitting on my front stoop, as Hurricane Monkey picked up strength the moment I was again in his sight. He screeched inside, and again I listened intently to him while breathing deeply and repeating to myself that homicide was illegal, unnecessary, and that the whole thing was sure to pass soon. It did. The monkey went to the back door and ran around to the front stoop, grabbed me tight, and hugged me like there was no tomorrow. I reminded him that I was not gone, and that I would never leave him alone, but that sometimes Mommies need time out too. He asked to be picked up, and I hitched him onto my right hip before walking into the kitchen. I spied atop the refrigerator a giganto box of microwave popcorn, like a shining star from heaven, and asked him if he’d like some. And just like that, the storm had passed.

I let him push the popcorn button on the microwave, and while we waited the 1:45 minutes for the word ENJOY to scroll across the digital display of my microwave, I mixed each of us an Emergen-C, just for good measure. He gladly accepted his “vitamin drink,” and gulped it down happily. He then sat at the table, all manners and sweetness, and ate the popcorn I poured onto his paper plate, drank all of the pink juice, and slurped down the five cheese cubes I placed aside the popcorn. Happy times.

Once he was adequately tanked up, we cuddled under a blanket (his idea) on the couch for a few minutes before retiring to my room for a nap. Hubby called and said he’d fetch the elder one from school. Groovy. But then he informed me that the elder boy had asked to have coffee and donuts after school, and so the plan was that he’d pick up the kid and the TWO of them would hit the coffee joint. Um… yeah. I asked if we were going to ALL go, and not getting the hint, he said, “No, just me and Ian.” ACK! Ok, so I napped with the little guy.

Hubby got home two hours later and handed me a bag o’ fresh donuts. He also brought the gallon of milk that I’d requested via text message to his cell phone. I was on the phone at the time he got there with a mutual friend with whom I’d not spoken for some time, so I kissed hubby on the forehead and went to the living room to continue and finish my conversation. When I was finished, I found hubby, asleep in our bed beside the still-snoozing little monkey. I woke the little ‘un as gently as I could, and then nudged him toward the door to his play room, reminding him that his brother was FINALLY home to play with. He wasn’t happy about it. Chapter Two of the Nuclear Freakin’ Meltdown began, far less intense and I suppose really more an aftershock to the Defcon Five Nuclear Meltdown I’d faced alone earlier today, but a force to be reckoned with all the same. Again, I shuttled him out of my room and locked the door, because again he swatted at me.

I then looked expectantly at my darling. When he didn’t open his eyes, even with all the racket my littlest was by that time generating, I nudged him. “Um, honey? A little help? I’ve been at this all day, and I’m wiped. Please?” Nothing. “Um, Shawn? Seriously, I’m not up for more of this right now. You said this afternoon that having him out there like this was ‘not safe,’ but you’re ignoring it. What up?” (I was on the toilet at that point.) He looked at me angrily and said, “I don’t know what to say about it.”

Ok. I love the guy. Last time I checked at least. And he’s a shit sometimes, and so am I. And I know homicide is illegal. “Um, ok. I’m going to go out for a bit.” That’s all I could manage without screaming and mutilating him or me or everyone. I ran a brush through my hair again, brushed my teeth, put on shoes and a pair of non-yoga pants, and informed him that I’d be using his pickup rather than the SUV, so that he would have car seats should he elect to take the boys anywhere while I was gone. I snatched up my laptop from its place beside our bed, stuffed it and the power supply into my satchel, scooped up keys and purse, and left.

Once I got here, “here,” being the local Books By The Billion/Horbuck’s Coffee combo, I sent him a text message telling him where I was and that I’d be awhile. And now I’m listening to my walkman, missing him like mad, mad as hell at him, wishing he’d call and check on me or something, knowing full well that since I’m still this pissed I have no business going home just yet. It’s now 8:51PM, exactly 3 hours and 21 minutes since I left our home. I called him about a half hour after the text message, because he made no reply. He said that he’d indeed received it, but that he didn’t think I needed a reply. GAWD.

Another FYI folks: An angry/hurt/pissy mom/wife ALWAYS needs a reply. A sweet one. An “I love you honey.” An acknowledgement, kind and considerate, even if you don’t feel entirely sincere in those qualities at the moment. We fucking work our asses off, ok? We don’t get a day off. We don’t get a break. The Labor Department would shut the entire lot of us down if ever we fell under their jurisdiction, and I suppose that would lead to some sort of weird Matrix-style kiddie farming or something, because the fact is, parenting is damned near impossibly hard sometimes, and it’s far far more difficult when you’re alone, or even alone a lot. We need vacations. We need breaks. We need to be understood. We need our husbands, the loving, doting, fantastic fathers of our amazing and maddening children, to take the fuck OVER on occasion, to see how things are for us, to recognize that, even if the laundry is piled on the couch and there are cheezey-dos on the bathroom floor, it’s fine because we have STILL put in far more effort, blood, sweat, and tears in a single day than they do, regardless of the difficulty level or suicide rate of their particular vocation. We need to be held, loved, thanked, massaged, coddled. We need to be mothered. We need someone else to come in, take over, and relieve us of our unimaginable burdens, just briefly, just long enough to let us breathe, step back, assess the situation from a different viewpoint, and decide for ourselves, as we will always always always do, that it’s what and where we want to be before we dive headlong right back into the melee that is motherhood.