Preschool Story Time vs Toddler Story Time

Toddler Story Time

The Pros:

Before lunch.

Plenty of time to look for books before lunch.

Knowing your kids are the best in the bunch.

Cute babies.

The Cons:

Two out of control kids whose mothers never dealt with them.

Bossy nanny who insists my son hit her charge; completely false.

Texting moms and nannies.

Librarian who talks down to the kids.

Preschooler Story Time

The Pros:

More stories.

Children the age of Evan.

No texting moms and nannies.

All children are sitting and listening.  (Except Sean who I have to tell to sit down.)

More time to get things done before story time.

The Cons:

At our lunchtime.

Same librarian, but hey, at least the kids like him.

TALKING MOMS. 

Seriously, how do you expect your children to listen and be a good audience if you aren’t?  I understand a comment here or there, but there were at least three conversations going at all times.  During the songs, there were like six conversations going on.  We all need our social time with our friends and other moms, but this is not the time or place.  I can’t believe I would prefer the texting moms to you, but at least they were quiet.

Go Forth, Little Children, and Spread the Word.

I knew when we decided to raise the boys Roman Catholic, I was looking for trouble.

The Husband and I agreed on it before we were engaged, when we were planning our future together.  So when the priest at the premarital counseling asked, we could tell him, without crossing our fingers, exactly what he wanted to hear.  The Husband and I had debated it, and I promised my sometimes atheist, sometimes agnostic (depending who he was talking/listening to) husband that we would always be willing and able to explore different spiritual paths if our children decided they weren’t going to be Catholic.

Being raised as a laid back kind of Catholic, I was fully open to the prospect there were more ways to God than one.  My father was Nazarene, and he was the person I went to for spiritual advice.  I went to my mom for moral advice.  My best friend from high school was Jewish.  In college, most of my friends were D.O.C or U.C.C. or Wiccan.  I took Bible courses so I could argue my beliefs with my Protestant friends.  But I knew I had slipped away from being fully Catholic to some hybrid that no one could understand but God and me.  So I knew I was going to have issues sending my boys to Catholic school or Sunday school.

I just figured I had a few years before I had to bite my tongue over the ridiculous of Original Sin.  (If you want to debate this, just let me know.  I personally despise St. Augustine and what he did to our beloved Christian faith.  Jerk.)

We’re sending Evan to a Lutheran pre-Kindergarten.  While I was a little nervous that the new director was a missionary for years and years in Mexico (Did I mention my Catholic family is so anti-converting, they don’t even convert their heretic spouses?), I assured myself that all they could teach four years olds was simple Bible stories and God loves them.

Until last week.

When Evan came home.

The Husband: So what did you learn about in school?

Evan: Jesus loves me.

The Husband: Yes, that’s right.

Evan: Jesus loves me and you and Seanny and Mommy and everybody.  I need to tell everyone that Jesus loves them.  Can I go to all the houses and tell our neighbors that Jesus loves them?

At this point, I’m hyperventilating in the kitchen wondering if we still had to pay the rest of the tuition if I yank him out now or if I had to create a scene about teaching my four year old to apostlize.  I bet I could get their goat if I compared them to Mormons.

The Husband: Well, Evan, I’m pretty sure everyone knows that, so why don’t we play cars instead.

Evan: Oh, ok.

Me: (whispering to The Husband) What are we going to do?

The Husband: He’s four.  I’m sure he misunderstood.  We just won’t let him do it.  Though it would be funny to see him knock on doors.  Where’s his Bible?

I narrowed my eyes.  The Husband was taking this much better than I, and if I wasn’t so sure I was the Evil Genius in the household, I would bet he was enjoying this.  Atheist.

Later I mentioned it to my dad, who chuckled.  Obviously I’m the only one concerned.

Dad: Did you ever think, Fae, that they might have been talking about “Love thy Neighbor?”

Me: Of course not.  Because that would be too simple of an answer and would mean I was freaking out for nothing.

Dad: Well, anything is possible.

I’m getting a new family.

And I wonder who is the patron saint of nonconverting.

Dark Confessions

I wanted to write this post last week because it was bad last week, but then I stumbled on some truths that I didn’t know if I wanted to share.  Once I open my mouth, it’s like an avalanche.  Ask anyone who knows me.  But I feel I have to write because it’s going to seep in, like it always does every time, like smoke seeping into clothes, furniture and walls.  It’s seeping into me.

I noticed I was loosing patience with the boys.  It wasn’t like I had a hard day or they were being especially on the throttle.  I couldn’t smile when they were being actively cute-crazy.  I just wanted to be done.

Then I noticed I was tired.  Bone wary tired.  In a time when I shouldn’t be.  Even if I napped or drank lots of water, even if I took it easy.

Then I noticed I was sad.  Not sad in that was a sad movie or the sadness that comes from watching horrible events on the news that make you feel helpless.  No, this was a sadness that went to the core of my soul.  A depression.

Crap, I’m depressed.

Since I have a history of depression, I know I have to take this seriously.  I have to mark on my calendar when I’m depressed.  I have to analyze my thoughts.  I have to do something or I slip away, slowly but surely, from everything that I love and everything I am.

I’ve made a brief nod to my teenage depression, where it got so bad that I was actually coming up with plans of killing myself.  Frightening plans of when, Monday nights because everyone would be at the Boy Scout meeting, where, my bedroom, how, cutting.  I was able to ask for help when I realized I was starting to look for the perfect dress.  Stupid and creepy. 

Then I had depression in college, but my parents were able to cue in the warning signs, insisting I go to a counselor, who helped me tremendously.

So last week when I began writing, I was going to say that I never was depressed during pregnancy.  I had the two bouts before, and I had a bout of post-partum after Evan.  But other than that I was fine.

Then I started thinking.  When I was pregnant with Evan, I insisted that The Husband and I start martial counseling.  We needed it.  We weren’t able to go more than a few times because I had a horrible work schedule that was never posted until the day before the week began.  You can imagine how hard it was to set a haircut appointment, much less a counseling appointment.

Then during my pregnancy with Sean, The Husband and I had our worst time in our marriage.  We fought a lot.  He would yell and call me names, but the worst part was he would just leave, disappearing how ever long he wanted, never calling, leaving me to worry.  I wanted us to go back to counseling, and he refused.  I went any ways, learning more about myself and about The Husband.  It looked like all Hell was about to break loose when The Husband all of a sudden reigned in the month before Sean was born and for some reason I never got post-partum even though I was waiting for it, ready to battle it.

(As a side, we did end up going to counseling for a year, a year after Sean was born.)

Now I’m pregnant again.  Even though I knew our marriage wasn’t strong to begin with (And yes, people, I debated, prayed, meditated on this little fact before I got myself knocked up).  Now there are other issues, like The Husband having to work in California weeks at a time (which I understood and we make the most of) and money is tighter than it has ever been in our marriage (which causes stress on both The Husband and I).  And now I’m depressed. 

I want to rail against it because this is not the right time.  I’m pregnant!  I have two boys that depend on me to be strong and with it, ready to play and laugh, moving at the speed of light with them.  I have a household to run.  I have other issues I have to deal with, like the real possibility I’m co-dependent.  I need to be strong.

If money wasn’t so tight, I’d march myself into a counseling office.  But that’s not really an option right now.  So I have to come up with other ways to deal with this.  Don’t worry; I plan on telling my OB/GYN this week at the appointment so she is well aware of the situation.  The Husband has been informed.  I figure I should cram in some exercise somewhere into my schedule and make it a real point to actually be out in the sun to soak in some rays, since I hear that’s suppose to help.  And I might have to use you all as a sounding board as I try to work through this because the best therapy I ever had was just to talk.  I hope I don’t come off as bitter when I do.

I’m just so upset over the whole thing.  I really didn’t need this right now.  I don’t want to cry every day.  I don’t want to feel like a shadow.  I don’t want to disconnect.  Depression is a horribly selfish disease because you can’t look beyond that stupid disease no matter how hard you try.  The twist is that you no longer take care of yourself because you are the disease and you just want it to die. 

So here I stand in front of you, not knowing what to say, wondering about how lame this post is, wondering if I said too much or too little, knowing it really isn’t my best work, worrying about what you’ll think.