Parenting a child who is vastly different from you is exhausting.
The days of sitting outside for hours, listening to my thoughts are gone.
The days of taking a bubble bath with the candles lit are no where to be found.
The days of watching a movie in silence are in the past.
The days of painting my toenails and singing along with one song from start to finish disappeared like Ja Rule’s raps.
The days of buying groceries without interruptions are only dreams that haunt me at night.
My son. He is mine but not like me. He requires attention. A lot. His mind races with words that fall out of his mouth without a filter. He is up at the ass crack of down and fights like a champion when the sun goes to bed. His hands are always on the move. His lips are even faster.
But I can’t keep up. My rhythm is slower. My mind isn’t sparking on all cylinders non-stop. I enjoy the quiet. It’s my serenity. Quiet didn’t become this desired treasure to be obtained after having child, it was always mine. The quiet was comforting. But, it’s gone.
How am I supposed to engage with him at all of hours of the day when I’m not used to having tiny conversation daggers thrown at my way? It’s exhausting. It’s not his fault. I’m the parent. I have to engage. I have to step inside his world and show him that I care and I’m intrigued by his little mind.
He doesn’t shut down. He doesn’t stop. But I can. I shut down when he becomes to needy. The constant need for him to touch my arms, talk about Plants VS Zombies, poop, butts, farts, and boogers. I’m not allowed to be left alone. It’s too much of distance and silence for him. Bedtime is a reward. His mind is at peace and that silence reveals itself. It never last long enough. I don’t have time to watch a movie, read a book, paint my toenails, and sit outside for hours in one day. He’ll start again in the morning. The battle of noise VS silence starts again. I know the outcome. Noise always wins.