Parental Exhaustion Suggested

I have not actually read Dante’s Inferno, however I am confident that one of his circles of hell must include having two children in middle school at the same time.  I have not been this parentally exhausted since the crying-poop years of 2001-2006.  There is a reason that so many shows and books are dedicated to the woes of middle school: it sucks.  And it sucks even more watching and pushing your kids through it. 

My night last night is indicative of all the nights since school started.  4:58pm call from home asking if they can have a soda.  The next three minutes spent in a debate as to why caffeinated soda is not a good choice at 5pm and to stop calling me to ask if they can drink soda.    Get home, SG has some sort of tooth emergency.  We have at least three of these a week and when that girl gets her braces off, I will cry in relief.  There was nothing but she felt like it was something could I immediately walk through the door and look in her mouth?  If she would just let me go to the bathroom, maybe change my clothes, I might be more sympathetic.  Quick dinner while we encourage William to stop talking and start eating as piano guy will be there any minute.  Piano guy is there, piano lesson for the boy followed by guitar lesson for SG.  SG starts guitar, homework begins with W.  He failed another Social Studies test, so while going over economies we are also correcting types of government on the failed test.  He can’t keep either straight.  He gets teary, I want to get teary.  SG comes in and starts her math homework.  Math homework is a two person process for her.  I am now doing math and social studies and making lunches.  Oh and she tells me she has to do a SS review for a big test tomorrow.  I ask why she wasn’t studying for it this weekend.  She goes dark.  Why wasn’t it written in your agenda?  No reply.  9pm she finishes her last math problem and heads up to shower and go to bed.  I move to the living room and sit in a chair.  I am empty, glaze-eyed and as a hollow as a pumpkin about to be carved.

The nightly war room.

This is every night and this is a night we didn’t have to be out somewhere.  I am going to bed after telling the children I love to get their heads out of their ass or step it up, or please just let me sit here a minute.  I am emotionally, physically and spiritually exhausted.  My wine and chocolate consumption is through the roof and it is not helping.  We have Sunday meetings to look at grades and walk through what we have to do this week.  We menu plan because last week we didn’t and I am embarrassed to tell you how many nights we ended up eating tater tots.  We are on this sinking ship of middle school and while I am bailing as fast as I can, the two of them are watching me as they lean casually up against the mast and talk about how tired they are and how hard school is.  What hormone is it that turns kids into sloths?  My children are producing all of it.  I wish they sold spray-on ambition like they do sunscreen.  I would dose them both head to toe each day.

In addition to the nightly shenanigans, we have also had illegal social media apps found on a phone, bullying and social drama at school, the start of a brand new sport and someone needing to go to tutorials every morning.  If having a baby and toddler at the same time gave us the crying-poop years are these now the holy-crap-I-can’t-keep-my-head-above-water-years?  And I know they will be grown and gone before I know it and the house will be quiet and small and I will be sad.  I know.  And yet driving home I routinely think “please no homework”, “please someone have had a good day”, “please, can I just put on my pajama pants” and “for the love of God, if I could just pee before I need to look in someone’s mouth.”

There was one time when the boy was a newborn and SG was a toddler where we all ended up sobbing at the check-out at Target.  The boy was crying because he was hungry, SG was crying because she was two and I was crying, sweating and leaking while trying to calm everyone down and pay for my diapers as everyone in the store was judging me and I remember just wanting to sit down and sob.  This very nice lady came over and put her hand on my arm and said “Honey, it gets easier, it really does.”  That simple reassurance gave me the hope to power through.  I really would like that reassurance now but what I am getting is laughter while I recount my episodes, or nods of agreement when I say HOLY CRAP ten times a day, or tiny smirks in the corner of people’s mouths.  Someone please put your hand on my arm and tell me it will get easier!  I don’t care if it is a lie; say it!!  Until then you can find me in bed by 9pm staring straight up at the ceiling thinking HOLY CRAP.