Sign of the times

 

After yesterday's heavy post, I thought something more light-hearted was in order--it is the holiday season, after all, even if it doesn't quite feel like it yet.
 
Scott and I are both staring down the final week of the semester and with that, comes the pile of final exams, straggling projects, and the final grade calculations that really make this part of the job so painful. We've been bringing a lot of work home, too, which makes for cranky parents, and headachey, stressful weekend time. We are a good team, my husband and I, but we are so used to intuitively stepping in and juggling that sometimes we forget to stop and ask for help, which leads to some less-than harmonious moments. But I always try and take those moments as opportunities to strengthen our relationship, and our partnership as parents, even if it takes some distance and perspective to figure that part out.
 
It's no secret that I don't work well from home. I envy those mothers (and fathers too) who are able to erect those mental blinders and get work done while at home and while the kids are there, no less. When the two of us are at home together, I'm the default go-to person as far as the kids are concerned. Scott could be in one room, and I in the next, and the kids will inevitably seek me out, like heat-seeking missiles, or as if drawn by some invisible magnet. Part of me cherishes this, because I know it won't last forever, but another part of me finds it a little maddening, especially when both their parents are available and I'm trying to get some work done. It doesn't help that Scott is one of those parents who manages to keep those blinders up and focuses incredibly well on the task at hand, even with the kids falling apart around him.
 
"Didn't you hear them fighting?" I'll ask my husband, after spending ten minutes doing damage control in the office, and he'll look up from his work, lost in thought and confused.
 
"Fighting?"
 
Or,
 
"Papa is right in the next room!" I'll say impatiently, pointing in the direction of the adjacent room just in case the kids have forgotten the layout of the house. Then, grumbling, I'll slip into the martyr role and get up to pour T. a glass of orange juice, or help L. figure out why the computer is frozen yet again. This happened maybe three times on Saturday, while I was trying to finish some writing at the dining room table. Anyone who does any writing will know how frustrating it can be to have your train of thought derailed over and over again by small things. I felt like T., who gets stormy and impatient if anyone interrupts her when she's reading a book out loud. She'll clench her fists and exclaim loudly and then start reading from the beginning, all over again.
 
Except I'm not nearly as patient, and starting over isn't something I enjoy. I also realized this weekend that I often enable the situation by being too quick to jump to my feet to fix what's wrong, instead of letting Scott step in and help or, when he's not quick to respond, asking him point-blank to step up. But by the time I explain to the kids why the constant interruptions are so difficult for me, my train of thought has been almost hopelessly derailed, so, I reason, why not just fix that glass of orange juice, or toast that piece of bread, or pour yet another glass of water for L.? Maybe this is the way I've always been wired as a parent, snatching up a fussy L. or a wailing T. from their cribs and clutching them to my chest instead of letting my babies learn (maybe) to settle themselves. But this is the way I've always been, and old habits die hard.
 
This Sunday, all the put-upon, frustrated, why-can't-I-get-any-work done feelings exploded a little and then were resolved in a heart-to-heart about becoming better at asking for help (me) and learning to react more quickly (Scott) . Later, when we were both working during the kids' quiet times I devised a foolproof system for wordlessly re-directing the kids in Scott's direction when they needed something (he was supposed to be officially the "go-to" parent for that  block of time--something that never seems to stop the kids from coming to me first). We're big sign people around our house--we use signs to help both kids remember routines, and we use signs a lot with L., to help him learn that there is more than one way (yelling) to convey his emotions at that moment.
 
So I made my own sign, and I propped it up next to my pile of papers on the dining room table.
 
 
Mama Off Duty. It wasn't foolproof in the end but it made me feel a whole lot better.
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