Wolfie has turned another corner, and I can now bear to be in the same room as him for more than ten minutes. We’re back to sweetness, silliness, and a beautiful lack of raging tantrums. It seems like he comes into a good space just as I’m about to put him up for adoption. I feel bad when I hear other mothers exult in the beauties of motherhood, and discuss the discouragements as though they’re easy to handle. My discouragements don’t feel so easy to handle. I just want to throw the towel in and go pack my bags sometimes. For real. I would take Zoe with me, but I know that when she starts asserting her will and being sassy, my fuse will get short again.
I have a cockamamie theory. If I have enough kids, things will get easier. Two kids already feels easier than one, partially because I don’t have the energy to perseverate on Wolfie’s every move, since Zoe needs me, and partially because I have the consolations of a newborn to tide me over when dealing with the demands of a toddler. I figure that a third child will be hard logistically (three carseats means a new car, means always have two kids unobserved as I pile children into the car, etc.), but perhaps easier spiritually. Instead of harping on every failing, I can enjoy what I can, and pick my battles more wisely because I have to.
I wonder if motherhood feel like an uphill battle, and then a cinch for other people? It is difficult to envision another vocation in which one has so many oscillations between carefree sailing and takes-every-bit-of-strength-I-have trudging.
On a related note: I think I might be pregnant. Depending on how far along I am, we might be having Irish twins. Fun!