Losing it

My husband is taking his Constitutional Law exam right now. He's been up every night studying into the wee hours. Curiously, I'm the one with the congestion and hacking cough. Again. On Thursday he'll take his Property Law exam, and the following week, Torts II. I've been amazed watching him studying night after night, with his outlines and his books spilling over our desk. His attention just zooms right to the computer screen or to the page and everything else is completely blocked out.

I can't do that.

Children squeal, scream, bicker, and play around him, but he is oblivious to them. When I'm in the middle of their chaos, my blood pressure elevates, my shoulders tense up, and I explode. Can't you see I'm trying to work? I say, a tad more shrill than I had hoped. My children sense when I struggle to attend to something other than them. The moment the phone rings, they are by my side, asking questions. And when I try to blog, my diva decides to make up a new dance.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" She insists, "Watch me!"

I try to distract them, to take out toys and books and paper and crayons, anything for a few quiet moments to concentrate on something other than art projects and picture books. Of course, even when I succeed in involving my children in an activity of some sort, I am treated to a constant logorrheic play-by-play. I know these are the best times of our lives, and they fly by so fast, and I should cherish each moment of my childrens' lives, but who are we kidding here?

Am I really expected to cherish each and every single moment of their childhood? Can't I gloss over the moment where my baby massages oatmeal into her hair? Can't I doze off during the thirtieth picture of blue, grey and highlighter scribbles representing the thirtieth variation of "Mommy in Hat"? Do I truly need to be "in the moment" when my baby starts kicking during a diaper change.

There are many times in my children's lives, many phases in their development, I secretly wish would last forever. I have watched my little cherubs for hours, awed with their beauty and perfection (ptui ptui, ptui, hamza, hamza). I have read thousands of books and stories, and admired tens of thousands of artful creations. My children do not lack in creativity. Nor do they want for energy. Yes, yes, a blessing each and every one.

But right now, I'm overblessed, and could use a few moments for myself.

In the middle of final exam frenzy, I caught a cold, more of a springtime sniffle, but I felt horrid. My nose ran, and I coughed until my ears rang. We were invited to a fellow law school student's home for lunch. "You can't get him sick before finals." My husband wisely noted, so I agreed to stay home for some needed rest and recovery, while my husband took the kids to synagogue and lunch. Only, the baby was sniffling, too, and there was no way he was going to take all three of the kids. So my day of rest and recovery became a day of isolation and insanity.

The baby and I did great, at first. We read, and played, and napped, but by noon, I was starting to run out of ways to keep her entertained. All I wanted to do was sleep. All my baby wanted to do was play. By three in the afternoon I was eagerly awaiting the return of my husband and two older kids, so that I could finally get some rest. By five in the afternoon I was beginning to panic, and by six in the evening, I began to cry. At seven they returned to a completely frazzled and puffy-eyed mother, too tired, angry, and sick to say anything more than, you left me home alone and sick with the baby for ten hours.

My husband apologized profusely and explained the circumstances: the long lunch, the inevitable stop at the park, the genuine desire to keep two whiny kids out of my hair. But the damage was done.

Sunday was not much better. My husband had to study, and it was my motherly and wifely duty to shlep the kids around and keep them out of my his hair. It was another Sunday of piano lessons, little league, parks, playgrounds, and pizza. I brought them home, made dinner, gave baths, and put everyone to bed. And everyone complied except the baby who had a late nap, and didn't fall asleep until nine. Have mercy, I begged.

This morning, the diva woke up coughing and sniffling.

My husband left early to take his exam, I drove the carpool, and came home with not one, but two little attention-demanding girls. My diva was sniffly enough that I thought better about taking her to school, but she was well enough to want to draw, play, and talk all day. Only, I wasn't well enough to keep up with her demands on me.

After lunch, it all came to an explosive head. I gave the baby a sippy cup full of water, and while I tried to sit for a few quiet moments, big sister began to narrate her drawing for me and ask me how to spell out the story she wished to tell. "How do you spell 'once'? How do you spell 'upon'? How do you spell 'a time'?" And so on. Meanwhile, the baby started whining for milk. "Leche!" she demanded. No, I explained, Agua! "Leche!" She demanded, louder. No, baby, I explained, you need to drink agua. It's good for you! "Leche!"

I put the sippy cup on her table and sat at the desk ignoring the "how-do-you-spell"s on one hand and the louder and louder demands for "LECHE!" on the other. I was quickly approaching the cracking point that most mothers reach at some point in their lives.

And crack I did. Like a raw egg on pavement, like china in a Greek restaurant, like a mom under pressure.

I marched over to the baby, opened up her sippy cup, and dumped the water over her head. I then filled it up with milk, screwed the lid shut, and handed it right back to her. She looked at me completely shocked for a moment, her eyes wide, and her mouth agape, water dripping down her face. But she took the sippy cup, and drank it without any fuss.

For a moment, I was completely shocked and horrified by what I had done. But only for a moment.

"Mommy, how do you spell 'house'?"

* * *

The insanity has been mitigated by short visits from family and friends. My aunt from San Antonio came with her son, my cousin, while the kids were out with their father, bringing books and a brief ray of San Antonio warmth. Another cousin came from Florida a few days later. He was here on a short business trip, but we had a chance to share pizza and stories. My children and I really enjoyed spending the few hours we had with him.

I also had the briefest of visits with a surrogate mom from San Antonio, visiting her real kids for the weekend.

Exams will be over soon. I look forward to turning all three kids over to their dad while I get a chance to recover my sanity and recharge my batteries.

Hopefully, it will be enough to get through the second year.