Why There Are No Brain Cells Left

Over breakfast: “Can I have a spoon, please?” When given spoon, gently places it next to cereal bowl. Starts eating with fingers. “Please use your spoon.” “OK.” Uses fingers to put cereal in spoon, then puts spoon in mouth. Puts spoon down next to bowl. Starts eating cereal with hands. “Please use your spoon, sweet potato.” (Attempt at parenting with kindness.) “OK!” Continues to eat with hands. “Please stop eating like a monkey, and use your spoon.” (Attempt at parenting with humor.) “A monkey! HAHAHAHAHA!” Continues to eat with hands. “Mama, what do monkeys eat? Are they carnivores like us? Or do they eat--MONKEY BREAD?” “USE YOUR SPOON!” (Attempt at parenting with volume.) “WHAAAAAAAAA! Mama, don’t use a mean voice to me! I want to hang out with a nice mama, not a grumpy mama!”

And the wee one: “Yaaahhhh!” “What do you want, little one?” “Whaaaa!!!” “OK, do you want me to pick you up?” Pick up; she immediately starts contorting her body; flinging it back and forth like she wants to get down. Put her down. “Rrrraaaaahhhhh!” accompanied by mama pant-leg clutching. Pick up. Body contortion. Put down. Scream. And so forth.

These two sets of interactions occurred simultaneously, and this is how I frequently start my day. Some women I know have reserves of calm, pools of serenity which surround them as they go about their mama-work. They are able to turn each of the neverending queries into an opportunity for education. They are immune to the ear-blistering shrieks of the small ones. I am working on this. I am not so naturally gifted, but I’m trying, and on most days I do a good job. But then there are the days where the shriek volume is set to extra-blistery, and the migraine fairy camps out on my shoulder, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in. On those days I am flabbergasted that the human race has made it this far.