Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Transitions are Just, well, ugh.

We are going through a rough patch with our boy.  He would much rather it be summertime, if you asked him.  Staying up late, sleeping till he wants to crack open those baby blues.  Morning snuggles while watching Nick Jr. Leisurely breakfasts in our pajamas. Late lunches bracketed by loads and scads of playtime.  Sunny afternoon bike rides on the sidewalk.  Evening baseball games on the TV with dad. It is a good life for a little boy when mom is home all summer and we become a lazy pair together.  This summer I let our boy live a decidedly unscheduled life.  After a hectic and stressed school year, we all needed it. This summer was exactly what the doctor ordered.  We were relaxed, rested, and happy. 

However.

The transition back to schedules, routine, early bedtimes and early risings has not been easy.  I repeat.  Not. Easy.  My laid back little guy refuses to listen to a thing I say.  To the point that we do nothing but bicker from the moment I pick him up from the sitter to the moment he falls asleep.  We bicker over buckling his seat belt, taking off his shoes, playtime after school, what is for dinner, how much he eats, putting on pajamas, kissing daddy goodnight, climbing into bed, even kissing me goodnight.  It is exhausting.  I said out loud the other day that it has gotten so taxing I actually dread coming home. 

Don't get me wrong.  I adore this man child.  My family makes me happier than anything on earth.  My home is my sanctuary.  But this year, our transition is not going well.  It is the dirty secret of parenting that none of us want to talk about.  That we can love our child and hate the time we are in.  I know that it will eventually even out, and he will go back to the lovable little guy we want to hang with.  The school year will bring order back into our laz-a-day life.  I will not give up this fight.  I know that part of our boy is craving the structure we are bringing back into his world, even if he is fighting it with all his four-year-old might.  We just need to get him back.  Before we know it he will be willingly putting away the silverware again, leaving his shoes lined up by the backdoor, and tossing dirty clothes in the hamper. And his scowls will disappear.

Fingers and toes crossed!

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