Toddler Tired

There is a physical and mental exhaustion which cannot be reached by humans unless they are stay-at-home-moms in a household where there is a toddler running around. I seriously doubt if it can even be described in words. But, if you find yourself answering to that title, you know what I'm talking about. You. Know. (I purposely exclude those of you who have been in that position in the past but are not there now, because, thankfully, the memory is forgiving of this stage of life, remembering only chubby little fingers, lopsided smiles and huge slobbery kisses). I have been here before, and I know, intellectually, that these hard toddler days will pass. But from the throes, it is hard to have faith that such a time will come.

The day with this little incoherent mess begins with Mom trying desperately to understand what "uh-uh-uh" means before it turns into "EEEEEEE! AAAHHH! WAAAAA!" Then, the partially undressed child is taken to the changing table, where he begins attempting to remove every item touching the surface of the table, while simultaneously trying to stand and do a backflip off of it. Breakfast is relatively calm, because the child is strapped into a seat, from which the most damage he can do is throw the occasional morsel to the floor or disperse the milk from his sippy cup in a four-foot radius. The real fun begins after breakfast, when the child is released from his constraints. He immediately runs into the pantry and sweeps everything off the bottom shelf, making sure to turn all the cracker boxes upside down, insuring the powdery crumbs on the bottom fall to the floor. When Mom removes the child from the pantry and turns her attention to the mess, he makes his way over to the cabinets and begins emptying them as quickly as he possibly can, stashing many of their contents in the incredibly nasty trash can. As Mom exits the pantry (hopefully remembering to close the door behind her), she discovers this new mess, shoos the child out of the room and turns her attention to this newest domestic disaster. In the meantime, the child makes his way into other parts of the house to visit other trashcans, wreak havoc in siblings' rooms, remove every book within his reach from the bookcase and every writing utensil from the desk drawers, and splash in a potty or two, if anyone has been so careless as to leave a bathroom door cracked, even just a fraction of an inch. Before long, other members of the household demand that something be done with the menace. Mom pries some inedible object out the the child's mouth and attempts to hold him in her lap for a period of time, looking at pictures of puppies on the Internet. The child will abide the cuddling only momentarily and then goes completely limp, in an effort to slide off the mother's lap onto the floor. Once more free, he dashes off to his room, where he sets some noisy toy in motion as a cover for his empty-all-the-dresser-drawers mission. Mom catches him at this, shoos him out of the room and starts picking up the clothes and blankets, which had once been neatly folded and dust-free. When Mom leaves that room, she finds the toddler carrying some unsafe item or other from the laundry room. She stashes it in a high place just in time to hear the sound of breaking dishes coming from the kitchen. She rushes into the kitchen (hopefully remembering to close the laundry room door behind her) to find the toddler (wielding stolen silverware from the dishwasher) and a barefoot dishwasher unloading sibling surrounded by white shards of a once-nice, recently thrown ramekin. Of course, the toddler is to blame. After she vacates all the unscathed, shoeless wonders from the kitchen and says a prayer for nap time to come soon, she cleans up the broken dish. While she is doing that, the toddler slips over to the off-limits staircase and begins his assent. Mom scoops up the child and straps him into his highchair for a short break snack. When the food throwing begins, she gets the child down, just as an older sibling heads out the front door. The toddler throws himself against the door in a wailing fit, and Mom begins a myriad of unsuccessful distraction techniques. A ball eventually works. But, as Mom plays catch with the little guy, he slips past her, when she bends to retrieve a stray pass, and begins unloading the crate of things she needs for work. She relocates the crate to a higher shelf, even though it is not a good fit and seems as if it might fall if breathed on too hard. That's when the child finds one page of his sister's report, which accidentally slipped to the floor, and crumples it up into an unrecognizable mess. Mom attempts to smooth papers and feelings all at once, while the toddler makes his get-away. The momentary silenced "uh-uh-uh, " sends Mom into search mode. She finds the child in his father's office, sitting on Dad's lap, looking at pictures of puppies on the Internet. It seems briefly precious. Then, Dad puts the child on the floor and asks Mom some question or another. By the time Mom leaves, Older Sister is in a tizzy, because she can't practice the piano properly with the little man madly banging alternately on the highest and lowest keys. Once at older siblings' various lessons, the child demands to be held when set down and set down when held. Mom cannot possibly win. And, when she and her brood get home, she discovers that, despite all the cleaning and picking up during the day, the house is a complete wreck. She has accomplished nothing. She will endure one more food circus, bathe the slippery rascal, who continually tries to stand up in the tub, finally (and happily) put the child to bed, and give in to the exhaustion, by sinking into her zebra print lounger with her laptop, almost unable to form coherent thoughts, knowing she will do the same thing over again tomorrow. This woman is "toddler tired." She is afflicted body, mind and soul, and she wonders if her sanity will hold out much longer. 

It's a good thing he's super-cute!