If the hard days with twins have taught me anything it’s that I can teach even a moderately hostile captive audience, but not mad miniature dictators. My kids have trended towards the latter this last week.
I’ve lived through the massacre of one too many food items and once valued household objects; dealt with the vast majority of all the diapers shit in here; and I’m trying to handle the grueling workload of potty training, being the human speaking clock; enduring the awfulness that is hair brushing and nail clipping; and being THE entertained provider while I maintain zero upkeep on myself. I’ve lost all romanticism regarding kids and I might even be regressing into actual parental nihilism.
How much more can I even tolerate before they learn to be just a smidgen more functional?
The hard days help me answer that: I can tolerate an insufferable lot. But I do need a break. Right now I envy every working mom and everyone with a reliable, on-call babysitter. Despite how hard it is to leave your babies, and I know it is, sometimes that absence is really self-preservative and not everyone gets that.
The hard days remind me there is no romancing this game of rearing two small, insufferable people. The joys of parenting twins bring highs beyond highs and its lows that are desperately abysmal.
The hard days, at least for full-time stay at home moms twins, are the litmus test of being a human selfish enough to bring new life into this world. You deal with your own failing patience and become a guilt ridden testament to your imperfection. I play a shitty game of perfect, but these are the days I have to roll in exactly that shit and absorb what lessons I can about it.
Well, how to persevere because I want this, how to preserve one’s shards of sanity to keep doing this, and keeping myself afloat because I have to when alone and surrounded by spawn who need me for -everything- (even while they creating a bigger, angrier mess). Sure, I’ve learned how to cook better and cheaper, how to keep a house moderately operational, and how to mask I’m feeling dead inside until I can get a few hours away from everyone. But I’m drowning in the screaming, obstinant rage produced by deeply compelled little people who out number me. I’m both a queen and a slave every single day. And it gets old being a paradox.
Yes, the workload with the girls as infants was incredible, it was more sheer exhaustion. This, on the other hand, is chaos brought to me by my 2.7-year-olds twins who are 2x the schizoid fun of late toddlerdom, early preschool aged terror… And while I don’t have to worry about them falling asleep on something plush and dying, the cornucopia of other worries has exploded, the mess is unrelenting, and their mood swings are far worse with less predictable rationale. There is ZERO turn off to the tantrum but time and patience that is infinitely waning.
I realize now that age three is probably going to be far more terrible than the terrible two’s ever thought of being. But I hold out hope four will be just a smidgen easier, and I hope five is just better. I realize ‘easy’ and ‘better’ are relative but there is something to be said about how much work little kids are. From my station, toddlers² and/or preschoolers² stages are terrible, no good, rotten age ranges.
And that’s okay.
I can’t be perfect at everything and not everything about parenting is likable, but we can persevere…