Don't Poke the Bear

            I have a confession to make, and it’s not related to the expired Xanax stashed in the medicine cabinet.  Here it goes: my happiness is entirely dependent on my kids’ happiness.  Yes, I realize that sounds pathetic and psychologically unhealthy, so let me clarify that this was not always the case.  At one time in the not-so-distant past, I was a lawyer, a writer, a friend, a wife, a runner, a baker, a reader, and many more things.  I had hobbies, relationships, socks that matched and pants that zipped.  I hope, someday, to return to that normalcy, where my happiness and self-worth are based on a myriad of things, largely within my control. 

            Today is not that day. 

Today, I have a newborn.  And a toddler.  And a kindergartener and a second grader.  So while I am still theoretically a lawyer, wife, writer, etc., I’m sure you understand that I’m not able to focus my attention on those aspects of my identity.  I sleep less than six hours a night, survive on sandwich crusts and stray Cheez-its from the diaper bag, and spend more time extracting milk than a dairy cow.  I stumble around in clothes covered in spit up and a ponytail disguising the lack of shower.  In other words, I am in survival mode.

            One thing has the ability to make my days infinitely easier or drastically harder—my kids’ happiness.  One toddler tantrum can rouse the baby from the first nap she’s taken all day that wasn’t in my arms.  One meltdown from an overtired kindergartener over the playroom she just doesn’t want to clean can wipe out the fifteen minutes I could have spent eating the cereal I never finished at breakfast, and one dramatic tirade from a 7 year old who lost too many teeth to eat the apply I absentmindedly packed in her lunchbox can distract me from the diaper I’m changing just long enough to get pee all over the only pair of shorts that currently fit me.

            What’s my solution to this?  I don’t poke the bear, no matter which of my kids is being the bear at the moment.  That means I cut the crusts off the sandwiches before I’m asked, let my toddler carry her pacifier and vast menagerie of stuffed creatures wherever we go, put the baby down for (supervised) naps on her tummy so she’ll sleep longer, and look the other way when the big kids “sneak” an extra episode of Jesse.  Am I concerned that this overindulgence will result in overly demanding and spoiled kids?  Slightly.  But mostly I’m just tired.  And besides, it’s temporary. 

            At the end of the day (which incidentally is a hard time to pinpoint when you’re feeding a small but very loud human every 2 hours around the clock), I’m happiest on the days where we had the fewest tears and tantrums and the most giggles and hugs.  I know someday soon I’ll take joy in writing a killer appellate brief or hitting a PR on a 10k, but for now, I’ll measure my success in the quiet happiness of four really cute girls.