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A Confession

I think I’ve touched on this before but I don’t know that I’ve elaborated on it.

I struggle with my children. I don’t mean teaching them right from wrong or getting them to do things, though both are hard.

No, I mean playing with them. I don’t know how to play with little kids. I don’t get what to do with cars or baby dolls. When I play with blocks things are symmetrical and balanced, not catywompus and just piled up on blind faith alone.

I spent most of my childhood with my nose in a book or on the computer. And Thomas is getting to the age where he wants to read and work on the computer and I totally get that. I’m finally able to relate to my oldest.

But my youngest? Not so much. He’s at the age where he wants my undivided attention but I don’t know what to do with him when he has it. He does like reading but he never lets me finish a page or a story before he’s moving on. He’s all about the pictures and I’m all about the words. I just don’t get that. I can’t relate to that.

So yesterday with the block towers was pretty exciting for me. I was just the right amount of manic to be able to relate to him a little bit. I’m a better mom when I’m manic.

But mostly, as much as I love my baby, I can’t wait until he is old enough that I can relate to him more.

And then he does something that melts my heart. Something only small children do. Tonight is was when he came running at me with his arms stretched to the farthest reaches of the universe begging for a hug. I was ready, on one knee with arms outstretched, to receive the affection. Recently he’s learned to give proper kisses, lips puckered, smack on contact, though he holds them for awhile when he really means them.

And I think to myself, do I really want to wish this babyhood away?

I don’t think it helps that I’m a loner. I keep mostly to myself and like it that way. More accurately I’m like a cat. I only want your attention on my terms. If it’s my idea I can be affectionate and pleasant. If it’s not my idea, you’re better off just leaving me alone. Maybe let me know you’re interested in hanging with me, but then back off so that I can make it my idea. I’m this why with everyone, everywhere. Not just my kids and husband, but extended family. coworkers and friends. This doesn’t make me a good person, I realize.

I like to use the phrase that my husband detests: “Up my butt”. As in “Luke is up my butt and won’t leave me alone”. Sometimes I just want left alone and he’s well, constantly up my butt every waking moment. Drives me insane.

I don’t think I was meant to mother young kids. Baby’s I can handle. Older kids, fine. Young kids, not so much.

So there is my confession.

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