Impossible

It’s all unstoppable forces and immoveable objects around here in the mornings. It’s the baby’s cries and screams unless he’s being held right now and it’s “But I can’t, mama” and “No, I don’t want that one” and a million other toddler demands. It’s spills and smears and spit-up. It’s screeches and shouts. It’s elbows and knees. It’s completely melting down or shattering and knowing that I can’t take a moment to recover because I can’t just magic the two of them away for a moment. So I stop crying or yelling and I coo at the baby and I apologize to the toddler, explaining my emotions and frustrations in simple toddlerspeak. It’s regret that I slammed the door or threw the still-inside-out Batman underwear across the room.

If we can only get past those first hours, the needs that start before I’m even out of bed, the needs that do not let up until we are all dressed and changed/pottied and downstairs and fed, we can make it. There’s a backyard for digging, a dirt road for walking, beach boulders for climbing, libraries full of puzzles and toys, grocery stores crowded with people to charm. Lunch and nap time and Dada’s return home. A partner in parenting.

It’s just those first three hours that leave me sobbing and empty and completely in over my head.

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