Tornadoes=Temper Tantrums

It's one of those eerie moments where the world outside the window is dark and chilling, black clouds are blanketing everything, and you see a herd of twisters lowering from the sky, destroying everything in their paths.

And worse, they're coming right for your house.

The hairs on your arms stand on end and a certain panic sets in, and, immediately, more than anything else, you're desperate to make sure every member of your family is accounted for. Moving with a haste you've never moved at, you rush into the basement, kids in arms, to find the most appropriate place to hide.

Then the panic deepens when you find that there just aren't any safe, good hiding spots, and the freight trains are growing louder as they close in on you.

This is it. The moment that will undoubtedly end it all.

So you crouch wherever you can--be it in the water heater room because there are no windows, or just in the bathtub--holding your children against you as the sound of terror and destruction sounds right outside the window. With tense muscles and a racing heart, you cling to them, praying that if death is involved, you'll all get to experience it together so that no one is left behind.

But they never hit.

Eventually, as the raging quiets and your heart rate slows, you look out the window to find that they've either dissipated or completely missed your house.

Maybe these dreams are inspired by recent terrible events in Missouri, etc., or maybe it's just because I can't get a handle on things. Either way, it's a reoccurring dream I've had a lot since the time I was very young, with the exception of a few varying details each time. The dreams come and go in spurts, sometimes occurring every night for weeks before they go months, sometimes years, without coming again.

And they've returned again. So I was curious what they meant this time.

When I was a kid, I thought it was just because I had a fascination with tornadoes (the dreams were always stressful, dark, and scary, but they were kind of cool, so I never considered them "nightmares."), and instead of scrambling to get my kids, I was desperate to find my cat so that I could protect her.

But now that I'm an adult, the exciting factor is gone, and this morning I realized there's probably more to it than a creepy childhood fascination.

So, thanks to Dream Moods, it all makes sense. Especially the first part, which I've bolded.

Damn those temper tantrums.

To see a tornado in your dream, suggests that you are experiencing some extreme emotional outbursts and temper tantrums. Is there a situation or relationship in your life that may be potentially destructive?

To dream that you are in a tornado, means that you are feeling overwhelmed and out of control. Your plans will be filled with much complications and you will be met with a series of disappointments.

To see several tornadoes in your dream, represent people around you who are prone to violent outbursts and shifting mood swings. It may also symbolize a volatile situation or relationship.

And the award for Worst Mother of the Year goes to...

I have a serious problem.

And admitting it is the first step. (No, I'm not talking about my addiction to carbs)

If you're not in the mood to read the ventings of a hair-brained, stressed out mom, then you might want to stop right here. If you fancy pity-parties from someone who is a little beside herself for no good reason other than mothering children, you're at the right place, my friend. Just remember I warned you.

Sometimes I don't feel cut out for this whole motherhood thing. And it's not because I don't love it. I do. I wouldn't trade what I'm doing for anything else in the whole world--not even being the author of a New York Times best seller. It's almost scary how much I love my children and my heart literally skips a beat when I look at them.

But I'm exhausted and stressed and overwhelmed, and I'm just not sure how to recharge, because it all builds. And builds. Taking care of three tiny kids all day is challenging, especially when it feels like their goal is to bring me down to the utter depths of losing-my-mind-ville. (Wouldn't that be a cool Facebook ap?)

And today they won. They shot me a hundred times over, then did a victory dance on my twitching, unkempt body. (Did I say unkempt?)

And here's what gets me: I'm sure my kiddos aren't any more difficult than anyone else's four-, two-, and zero-year-olds. Every mother of multiple children goes through this, especially ones who don't have any extra help. Everyone has children whose ultimate goal is to make your life miserable (but can mysteriously show they love you at the same time) by defying your every demand until you sound like a broken record and want to vomit at the sound of your own voice.

I'm not even sure I know how to talk at a normal volume anymore (Jacob Silj comes to mind, hehe). Because it seems that the only way they'll listen to me, in the rare instance they do, is if I raise my voice. And I hate raising my voice.

So if this is so normal, and thousands of other moms are dealing with the same, completely normal and acceptable things I am--

hands/arms always full * anything and everything interrupted with yelling, screaming, crying, or reoccurring "mommy"s (Family Guy anyone?) * being pulled on, yelled at, hit, spit on, target practice, laughed at (in the humiliating way), and defied from five a.m. until eight p.m. * taking ten minutes to load the car and feeling like I've just packed for a month-long trip just to go to the grocery store * never-ever getting a single break (not even while sleeping since I have a nursing baby) except for maybe a five minute run to the grocery store or to the post office when the husband gets home from work

--then WHY do I feel like the only one who's losing it?

Gosh, nothing means more to me than when I'm having a stressful day and my four-year-old, who I just yelled at and sent to time out, hugs me and randomly says "I love you." I love the fullness I feel when they're in my arms, and that fullness can cure anything. But at every other moment throughout the day, the pressure is building, and by the end of the day I want to explode. And sometimes do.

And I don't know a healthy way to let off the steam. I honestly, truly feel like other mothers handle it so much better than me. I mean, we are moms. That's what we do. I've accepted that my days will be like this for a long long while, and that until Luke is older I just will not get a break because it's impossible. I've accepted the fact that they will get up at five a.m.

So why, when they do, do I flip out as though it was the most horrible thing that could happen?

Is it because I'm so exhausted that I can't function? (What the crap am I doing up right now when I should be sleeping?? Oh yeah...basking in the quiet) Or is it because I'm just not cut out for it?

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I have a bit of a temper. And it flares bad when the kiddos stress me out. I'm talking, one tiny thing goes wrong and I fly off the handle. Steam shooting out of my ears, face reddening, uncontrolled curse words flying from my mouth as though I've been taken over (though mostly under my breath).

Like I said, I have a problem. And even though I roll my eyes at my husband when he brings it to my attention (Because, really, who wants to hear that you're a danger to your possessions every time a door is slammed?), I do want to get better.

I want to be more patient. I want to be calmer with my children when they are impossible. I want to be okay with the fact that it never-ever ends. I want to be able to handle it deep inside when I feel at the very end of my very frayed rope, instead of feeling like I've absolutely lost control and the only outcome is exploding or running down the street screaming. And since the latter would be considered child abandonment, explosion it usually is.

I need your help, ladies. Anyone. I've got to get a hold of myself and learn how to "just breathe," or I might end up like this lady here.

Does anyone have any suggestions for stress relief--suggestions that are actually doable with three small children and no way to get away? What has worked for you?

And, please, please tell me I'm not alone here. I know most of you are a stone's throw from perfect, but if there are any others out there with an extremely short fuse, tell me I'm not alone. That way, I just might forgo nominating myself for the Worst Mother of the Year award.

(And no, there is no such thing. I hope. Because if there was, I'd have to prepare an acceptance speech, and I hate public speaking.)

The Terrible Horrible No-good Very Bad...Mom

Today was a lose for me, as a mom. We got the flu in our house yesterday, starting with Sam. He's better now, though he still doesn't have much of an appetite, but today I've been feeling it. I'm not even sure if that's what I have, since I'm not throwing up or anything, but I've just felt really cruddy in general, and weak and dizzy and exhausted, and my stomach hurts when I eat anything.

Anyway, it was just one of those days. You know, where the kiddos stay in pajamas all day, the dishes don't get done, the house doesn't get clean, dinner doesn't get made... And when I'm not wiping butts and feeding kids or rocking babies, I'm just lying around on the couch telling myself I don't really need sleep.

I'm filthy. My kids are filthy. My house is filthy. And all I want to do is snap my fingers and make it all better: my kids, myself, my husband. So what do I do?

Lay around instead.

And I want to shower. And exercise. But what do I do?

Lay around.

I feel so unproductive and like a waste of space, counting on tomorrow because today is already out the window. And then it all gets tied up with the prettiest bow that crap can be topped with: my son telling me hates me.

I was in the recliner trying to rest and Sam wanted so badly to sit there with me and cuddle, and I was fine with it as long as he kept his legs to himself. I told him 3 times not to kick me. But have you ever heard of a four-year-old that can actually keep their legs still? I haven't, and I got upset after the third time. So, rather than wasting my breath again, I forced him off the chair and told him to go sit on the couch.

Immediately, already, I'm hating myself, wondering if I should get the medal for worst mom in the world because I denied my first born child cuddling rights (though I doubt it'd be a medal. Probably more like poop in my face or something). And then, with hurt in his eyes, he sits on the couch and says, "Don't talk to me anymore, because I hate you, Mom."

Ugh. Talk about a dagger, right in the heart. That hurt. Literally. And that was the first time he's ever said it to me (though he has said it to Dave in the past).

Now, I've always been a big hater of the word hate (pun intended), especially when in reference to a person...and even more, a loved one. I grew up never allowing myself to even think the words "I hate you" in the direction of my parents, and I am proud to say that I have never uttered those words to them.

My son is four and he's already told me that.

I guess the positive side to this is that he really doesn't know any better, when it all comes down to it. He's just mad and doesn't grasp the true meaning of the word hate, and I really do get that.

But it still hurts.

Sigh

There's always tomorrow.