My sister and her husband visited us for 3 weeks until the end of June this summer. My parents arrived the same day my sister and J left. We had fun. A lot of fun. And E and J spent a lot of their time in hotels, which was really generous of them. Mercifully, they have personal space issues that make me seem cuddly. We were able to have fun without feeling trampled upon.
My parents stayed at our house to watch the boys, but M and I left for our trip the day after that. Their presence didn't really affect our space. We did come home to all-family, all the time with the boys, though.
I've been craving solitary time.
I don't want to get hate mail from my hubby, so I'm going to include this disclaimer:
While it is true that M has taken the kids on numerous walks, breakfast outings, coffee breaks, and games in the pool, it's not quite the same as being alone. I miss being in control of a set amount of time in which I could do anything. Nothing.
I am not complaining about M's sincere effort. He really is helpful. It's just not the same.
I'm BIG BIG BIG on personal space, and summer really challenges those boundaries.
When the boys were babies, new babies, even, I boycotted the omnipresent baby monitor. I couldn't stand it. In fact, I closed the nursery door AND my bedroom door, figuring that if the kid really needed me, he'd let me know. They both had healthy vocal cords, and I don't think I ever missed a cry for a clean diaper or a bottle. (I might have ignored a couple until M responded, though).
I had those developing fetuses inside my body for nine months. I was in no rush to glom back on to them, extra-uterinely. The umbilical tether had been severed. In my mind, they were on their own. Every man, mom and baby for her/himself.
From the moment I could set them down, I could. Of course, Sam was a touchy baby and wanted to be HELD all the time. I endured extra screaming just so I could earn some moments away to put him down and let his head flatten in the back.
Now, that they're older, everyone in our house has his own room (theoretically). Obviously, this is a luxury, but also a big priority. I try not to go into the kids' rooms--not even for laundry--as they are the boys' private spaces. They are entitled to a place not subject (or as subject) to my definition of clean, to my idea of organized, to my prying eyes.
Our bedroom doesn't seem to merit the same respect. Night after night, I find contraband in MY bed--Legos, post-lights-out books, drawing pads, crossword puzzles. Sometimes, the kid himself has fallen asleep on my side of the bed. There's toothpaste spit in my sink and I KNOW that is not mine. Why does a closed door not mean KEEP OUT? How do I punish continual assaults on my domain?
This summer, our bedroom is even more under attack. In something out of an Arrested Development episode, the kids have been sleeping camp-style on the floor of our room. Camp Iwannalovememommy, said Buster's campshirt, I think.
This, in my mind, takes on an horror-film-esque quality where the stumps of the boys' umbilical cords start to grow outwards towards me.
When the boys started school, I remember a PTA note about a cry room. I thought it was for baby siblings to sit in while school-aged kids were walked into class. Someone actually had to explain to me that it was a room for moms to go commiserate about the trauma of leaving their children at school. What the WHAT?
Now, back at camp I wannalovememommy, I'm hopeful that the novelty/necessity of sleeping on the hardwood floor of my room wear off soon. I'm totally over tripping on feet on the way to my middle of the night bathroom/water stop. I'm over being awoken by S's sleeptalking and E's hellacious toothgrinding (we really need to see a dentist about that.) I'm annoyed that what's mine is now everyone's. I go to bed cranky, and I wake up cranky. I never get that liberating night-time door close that separated me from the rest of the world. I miss that satisfying click that shuts out the mess of my house, the laundry, the parental responsibilities, and shuts in the adult world of me, M and Clooney.
Last night, I was the first person asleep in this house. At 11 PM. That is unacceptable. I've clearly become the camp counselor at Camp Iwannalovememommy who has lost control of the campers. They'll take over the camp in some sort of Whedon-esque remake of 1970s camp horror flick. I'll be tied to a pole to be eaten by fire ants.
I'm making a decree now: At the end of summer, everyone's going BACK to their own rooms. Even if they have to go there to cry.
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