Reasons Like Seasons

Angry people do angry things. They throw papers off of the table, Scatter dinner across the floor, And refuse to brush their teeth, Unconcerned by the consiquences. The older one sings a song Despite requests for quiet. He repeats, louder each time, Disrupting the ever-shrinking peace. The small one cries. Not the cry of the sad, but the cry of the angry. Angry that he is small; angry that he cannot speak, And his anger seethes out, staining the hopeful darkness of the night. No one rests. No one sleeps. Everyone lives in the angry, vengeful rage. And yet, we still dream of sleep... Peaceful, restorative sleep. Perhaps, one day, it will come, As easily as the sunset, As quiet as the moon. Until then, we suffer, Victims of our own choices. Victims of the children we were born to love.

I love the fall. I love sweater weather, school in full force, and the promise of holidays to come. So now, as October rolls into full force, I am reminded of November, the month during which, for several years now, I have posted on social media each day, from the first to Thanksgiving, one thing for which I am thankful. Today, I am reminded of all for which I am thankful, even though it is still October. Please indulge me as I explain. I had the luxury last week of going on vacation with my husband and boys for the first time without grandparents allowing us to tag along, and I am thankful for the generosity of my husband's parents as well as our ability, finally, to afford this vacation on our own. While we were away, we swam and ate and saw the sights. I am thankful for our able bodies, good food, and the beauty of the world. I also had to do much of the inane and everyday tasks that I would have to do at home anyway. I  am thankful for fully-stocked grocery stores, Target,...

I think joy comes with forgetting With living in the moment With time that separates itself From everything else From the noise And from the heartbreak. I can forget when I read: Lost in a story Whether true or make-believe. I can forget my faults, my limitations And find peace with myself. I can forget when I teach: The world shrinks down to that room Those students And the outside dims. Time races. I can find my strengths, my abilities To question, to explain, and to respect. I can be at peace with myself. Thinking robs the joy Fills time with what ifs and should haves Awakens the beast Of utter discontent. But one cannot live in forgetting. And so I ache for the moments when I forget Only knowing them When they have already gone away.

His angry words burn like glowing daggers. His small frame shines with the might of armies. He tramples my soul with his dissatisfaction. His anger overflows. He is my husband, my father, my brother. He is me and mine. A snarled reflection of all that I hope to be. A fragrant symbol of repeated failure. I am responsible And I have no words. Nothing kind, nothing gracious Only anger and fear to face the same. We stalemate at the edge of the evening. It is night, and yet no one is sleeping. Anger is wide awake.

Today was a good day. I got to go to work early, nothing exploded, and I left before 4:30. Both boys were fed before either one managed to go to pieces, and I got to ride my bike, which is more exciting than it sounds. My small people and I rode to the park, where I ran into a woman who used to attend a yoga class I frequent and who was the recipient of an extra car seat I had sitting around taking up precious real estate in my seemingly tiny apartment. She has a daughter not much younger than my second son, and together we talked as our children played together. We chatted about having small children, about her job, about my recommendations for starting children to school early or holding them back. We laughed as our small people demonstrated their mastery, or lack thereof, in throwing a frisbee. We had forgotten each other's names, and we were both too embarrassed to ask, but together, nameless, we enjoyed motherhood and the park with our chilpdren. Upon coming home, I found ...

At work, I cannot see incremental progress. I know intellectually that our program has improved, that I am a better teacher than I was in the past, but because there is still room to grow, because I am not all that I want to be, I stress and fret and am never satisfied. At home, I cannot see incremental progress. I know intellectually that my children are small, that they will not stay one and five forever, but because Boy One throws a fit, because Boy Two pulls all the clean clothes onto the floor, I stress and fret and am never satisfied. I do not know the solution to my problem. I do not know how to manipulate how I perceive time and my own shortcomings or how to find more peace within myself. I do know that I love my children and respect my students, all of whom are talented and beautiful, flawed and deeply human. May I find a way to grant myself that love and that respect. May I find a way to see the progress without drowning in the incremental.

Bedtime is at 7:00. (And unicorns are real and M&Ms have more vitamins than kale.) It is now 8:27. We have officially been getting ready for bed for more than an hour and a half. One boy is sleeping. One boy is throwing blankets off of the top bunk. One mommy is silently gripping her sanity, holding on for dear life. Can someone please tell me that this will eventually get better? After screen time was over, Boy One threw a fit to end all fits because he wanted to watch another episode of Rescue Bots. After smearing blueberry yogurt basically everywhere, Boy Two demanded more food, none of which he was willing to eat in his high chair. After working for close to ten hours, I wanted to drink some wine and watch an episode of The Good Wife. Obviously, my expectations for life are far too high. Now, at 8:35, both boys are finally asleep. I am physically and mentally exhausted. And tomorrow will not be any better.