My two year old needs more attention. All the parenting resources out there warned me that upon the birth of my second child, child number one would morph into a desperate, attention seeking nutter. Since Jonas already terrorizes on a level unsurpassed by most two year olds, and managed to get even worse when I was on bedrest, I, in my hopeful naivety, thought - it can’t possibly get any worse.

Maggie arrived, the newness wore off in approximately 10 days, and he upped the ante. He started getting into things. We have known for about a year now that there is no such thing as child proofing when Jonas is around. He will find a way to accomplish that which he has set out to do. So, while I am nursing Maggie on the couch, Jonas is busy squeezing diaper cream all over his room. He is using the permanent black marker we keep on top of the fridge to draw on the table. He is hiding pacifiers and baby blankies. He is climbing the walls- literally, then jumping down shouting his garbled version of, “To infinity and beyond!”

When he realized that I was ignoring many of the obnoxious things he was doing (just like it says to in the parenting books) he discovered that Mom will come running if he is in real danger. He figured out how to loge his legs into the back of the baby swing. He would then hang there screaming desperately for help before he had to let go and his little head smashed into the linoleum below. Clearly, it was in my best interest to put down my darling, nursing babe and rescue my older child. Why? Because I didn’t want to see him get hurt? No. Because I wanted to avoid the pesky trip to the ER that a concussed child seems to bring about.

The next day he decided he needed my attention just after the baby nurse had called me on the phone. While I was trying to find the pens I had hidden from him so I could schedule an appointment in my planner, my firstborn ran into the kitchen, opened a drawer and pulled out a serrated bread knife ensconced in a plastic sheath. Before I had time to react, he had pulled off the sheath and was running up the stairs. I’m sure the baby nurse was wondering why this new mommy was huffing and puffing so since she couldn’t see me bolting up the stairs after him, trying to walk that fine line between apprehending the fugitive without becoming a victim or skewering said fugitive through the stomach with a bread knife because he tripped while being pursued. He was in time out for quite awhile after that maneuver.

I tried to hold firm to all the parenting schools of thought that “good” mothers subscribe to. I gave him extra attention when my dear daughter was asleep. I took him out on little Mommy-Jonas dates. I begged him to come be read to while I nurse. Not much seems to be helping. It has rocked his little world to have to share the center of Mommy’s universe. He is so happy when he has my attention, so excited, so thrilled to be with me. Lately he even locks himself in our tiny little half bath with me when I need to go potty. You know anyone who willingly encloses themselves in a 5 by 2 foot space with someone passing a stinky BM has got to be starved for affection. So the Mommy Guilt sets in.

Clearly, I have been yelling too much. I have, at times, ignored my offspring, trying to hold on to the last shred of sanity I have left. I have left him in time out a little too long, and read naptime stories a little too fast. I have failed to really get down on the floor and play with him when he needs me to. I haven’t run to his side when he has enthusiastically invited me to “c‘mon” to his room. Why? Because I’m tired. I am out of energy.

At the level of sleep deprivation I am working with, most days my goals of being a “good” mother have been altered to a slightly deranged “if he is alive and there are no visible marks of abuse on his person come bedtime- I have succeeded.” Not impressed by my lack of maternal patience? Well, this is reality, folks. And reality has knife wielding toddlers and lots and lots of guilt.