Parenting FAIL

I’m a pretty good mother. At least, I think I am a good one. Ze kids are smart, they thrive, they have good manners, their sense of humor is really awesome, and–even if some days I want to run screaming for the hills–they are all around good kids.

Just for those that don’t know: I have four children.

The first three are close-in-age, and then there is a fourth (the baby) who turns three today, the 28th of December. He’s sweet and made of sugar and love and I nom-nom-nom on him daily. When I found out I was pregnant with him, I worried about how the dynamic of our family would change.

I worried about a bunch of things, to be quite honest. What’s motherhood without worry? And failure?

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Fail #1: POTTY TRAINING

Mikey, our firstborn, was so stubborn and hard to train that I eventually just gave up, resigning myself to having a five year old in diapers (he was only three at this resignation, but whatever.) That’s all it took to break me. From that point forward I would loathe potty chairs, training tactics, Underoos, and all things involved with the bathroom. It was during this time that I even had issues with going to that bathroom, but that’s another post and probably another blog.

I hadn’t so much as told Michael that there was a bun in the oven, when I found out I was pregnant with David, before I started stressing over the act of potty training. Given my past experiences I was setting myself up for more failure.

And, if there’s one thing that I do well it’s fail at potty training.

David is 3 today. David is still in diapers. David’s mother is a potty training failure.

Fail #2: SLEEP TRAINING

The other department I fail in, parenting-wise, is getting a baby/toddler to sleep on his own. Actually, the only one who did go to sleep on their own was Olivia. But she’s totally Miss Independent. Actually…now that I think of it, she potty trained on her own, too. I guess my boys are just hard to put to sleep because I recall having to lie down and slither out of the room–quietly–each and every night. Not the girl, though; I could just lay her down and leave the room. Minutes later she would be sawing logs.

Lately, around 3:00 a.m. Davey gets out of bed, with a bounce, stands at the gate, and calls out, “I wanna go downstairs.”

I stumble out of my bed, and moan, “Go back to bed, Mama’s coming.”

Then I fall asleep only to wake up to a little boy poking my face.

“Lips. Eyes. Eye browns. Eye lashes. Mama’s got ears, too!”

Prior to him having his big-boy bed, he would wake up multiple times, and exhausted I’d give up and just put him in my bed.

But, you know what? Who cares. The boy poops in the diaper, I change him and it’s all good. The boy wakes in the middle of the night, I sleep with him and it’s all good. The older kids are proof that these things pass. Eventually there aren’t any more diapers to purchase. Eventually a kiss on the forehead suffices before the door is closed for the night.

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