Oh god. My two year old is climbing out his crib. A lot. I can't keep him in it. Oh god, oh god, oh god.
This is the end. My only friend, the end.
There will be no more sleep in my house. Naps might be done. And they still need naps! I STILL NEED NAPS. It's going to be all exhaustion and crankiness and edge all the time up in this joint. Oh, god.
For the past couple of days, we have spent every naptime and every bedtime putting the Little One back in his bed every 2 minutes. Last night, we did this for 3 HOURS. And then I woke up at 3:45am to a tiny person standing next to my bed staring at me. It was terrifying. I put him back in his crib with strict "NO CLIMB!" instructions. At 7:15am, he was back. With trains.
Then, at naptime the next day I put the child back in his bed 25 times- TWENTY FIVE TIMES- before I finally gave up because around put-back 23 I'd switched him from his pack n'play to his crib and he fell and cried the 25th time he climbed out.
This sucks.
If I can convince the Little One to stay in his crib (and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to convince him to stay in his crib), there may be a couple months of hope remaining. Hopefully just long enough for us to move out of our current place and into one with separate rooms for each kid.
But if I can't (and it really seems like I can't... I've already counted his actual crib out what with the falling and all)... I'm going to have to switch him to a toddler bed. Which means I'll have to switch the Big One to a toddler bed. Because they share a room and the Big One will not have that kind of injustice. Which means that the magical cages... I mean CRIBS, I've managed to keep my boys in will be no longer.
(And to those of you saying, "OMG! You still have your 4 year old in a crib?!?!" I say, YES. YES, I DO. AND IT HAS BEEN AWESOME.)
What will happen when I switch a 4 year old and a 2 year old to toddler beds simultaneously?
I can only assume the Apocalypse will begin.
So... start gathering canned goods, people. This shit is going down soon, and it is not going to be pleasant.
Showing posts with label nerves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nerves. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
And This Is Why I Can't Keep Up With the Laundry
Here was my morning:
Me: Putting laundry in washing machine.
Little One: Taking laundry out of washing machine.
Me: Putting laundry in washing machine.
Little One: Taking laundry out of washing machine.
Me: Putting laundry in washing machine.
Little One: Taking laundry out of washing machine.
Me: Putting laundry in washing machine.
Little One: Taking laundry out of washing machine.
Me: Putting laundry in washing machine.
Little One: Taking laundry out of washing machine.
Me: Picking the Little One up and placing him outside the laundry room.
Little One: "WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"
Me: Continue putting laundry in the washing machine.
Little One: Sneaking back into the laundry room to continue pulling laundry out of the washing machine.
Me: Removing the Little One from laundry room again.
Little One: "WWWWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
Me: Turning washing machine on and adjusting controls according to desired washing result.
Little One: Sneaking back into the laundry room and pushing ALL OF THE BUTTONS so washing machine is now nowhere near desired washing result.
Me: Removing Little One's hands and resetting controls according to desired washing result.
Little One: Pushing all of the buttons again.
Me: Removing Little One's hands and resetting controls according to desired washing result.
Little One: Pushing all of the buttons again.
Me: Removing Little One's hands and resetting controls according to desired washing result.
Little One: Pushing all of the buttons again.
Me: Removing Little One from the laundry room again and placing laundry baskets in his way.
Little One: Throwing laundry baskets, and clean laundry therein, all over the hall whilst slamming adjacent bathroom door and yelling, "WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!"
Me: Glaring.
Little One: "WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"
Me: Setting dryer according to desired drying results.
Little One: Climbing over laundry baskets and strewn laundry to dryer where he can commence pushing all of the buttons so dryer is now nowhere near desired drying result.
Me: Staring at Little One. "No." Removing Little One from laundry room.
Little One: "WWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
Me: Setting dryer again according to desired drying results.
Little One: Pushing all of the buttons again so dryer is nowhere near desired drying result.
Me: Setting dryer according to desired drying results and wondering why the "Lock Controls" button DOES NOT ACTUALLY LOCK ANYTHING AT ALL WHAT IN THE FUCKING HELL.
Little One: Pushing all of the buttons again so dryer is nowhere near desired drying result.
Me: Pushing start because who cares about the desired drying results kill me now oh my god.
Little One: "WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
Me: Walking away and shaking head. Contemplating noon drink.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This... Kind of.
I failed as a parent yesterday.
I don't actually feel like I'm a failure at parenting in general, but specific days of feeling like a failure are becoming more commonplace. I don't like it.
Here's the thing: I feel like a pretty decent parent, actually. I love my boys and I know they love me. They are confident, strong, playful, joyful little fellows. They get along pretty well (as far as I can tell as an only child parent with boys 20 months apart). We have regular family meals and trips to the park. I feed them good food. We have 90s jams dance parties. We laugh a lot and there are a lot of wonderful parts of each and every day. Every night I find myself thinking wistfully of them after they've gone to bed and I often go and peek at their adorable little sleeping bodies and peaceful little faces. I adore my kids and I love being their mama.
But there are also the days when I've used up every last wisp of patience by 9:30am. Days when I repeat the phrases over and over that I repeat every single day, "Please stop jumping off the couch. Please stop jumping. Stop jumping. Stop jumping! STOP JUMPING!!!!" Days when, the second I turn around from pulling the Little One off the table, the Big One has climbed on top of the same table and jumped off. Days when I literally watch the clock waiting for meal times when I know they'll be strapped down in their seats, or nap time when I know they'll be contained, if not peacefully asleep. Days when there are no naps and they are beyond cranky and obstinate. Days when I seriously consider going to a bar- by myself- when my husband gets home at 10:30pm just so I can be somewhere where no one is asking anything of me. And there is beer.
I used to have a shockingly large amount of patience. My students used to comment on it. I was described, repeatedly, as serene. As a teenager. But somewhere along the line, my patience disappeared. Perhaps while teaching I used up the amount allotted to me for the early years of parenting. Perhaps, along with iron and calcium, my babies absorbed my patience into their own bodies. Perhaps every parent of two young children feels this way.
All I know is that I do not have the same level of patience I once had. I hear my own voice coming out and think, "Ugh. She needs to chill out." But holy begeezus, people, I CANNOT CHILL OUT. I try, but I fail more often than not. It's just so much some days. These little creatures are 19 months and three. They are Dennis the Menace all the time. Having two boys with a serious case of the naughties test the boundaries every second of every day is a lot. It's a lot.
I'm exhausted by the end of every day. Some days I'm exhausted by the time breakfast rolls around.
A friend messaged me the other day asking for advice on keeping his two and half year old occupied and happy now that she was out of preschool. When I got the message, I literally laughed out loud. I thought, "Holy shit, brother. If I knew how to do that, my daily life would look very, very different." But as I sat down to craft a helpful response, I realized I DO know how to do that. I know how to do all the right things and plan a day for a restless toddler. I've done it. I was pretty good at it, actually.
It seems it's TWO restless toddlers that have me thrown for a loop. They are just far enough apart that they can't do the same things and neither one is trustworthy yet. Going to the park gives me a coronary- I have to choose which kid to watch on the play structure (answer: the Little One) and hope that the other one doesn't leap to his death. Trying to do art is risky- paint is out of the question (unless it's finger painting with yogurt in the bathtub, which is actually kind of awesome), and crayons are pitched across the room and at walls by the Little One (thank you, Magic Eraser). Regular puzzles are instantly destroyed by the Little One and the Big One is too old for peg puzzles. The Little One pours out bubbles and sucks on the wand. The Big One doesn't want to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider seventeen times in a row. The Big One could read for a solid hour, but the Little One yanks books out of his hands. They can't play blocks next to each other without destroying each other's creations and then trying to rip each other's faces off. And the Big One tackles the Little One any chance he gets.
And so some days, I turn to the almighty quieter. The babysitter of shame. The magic box. And I swore I would NEVER do this. I was going to be SO conservative with how much T.V. my kids watched. The Big One almost never watched T.V. before the Little One was born. But then, I had two kids under two. And I had to figure out how to keep the Big One busy while I put the Little One to sleep. Enter: PBS Kids. And now, the Big One ADORES the T.V. Begs for it. He usually only gets his pediatrician recommended top dose of two hours, and even that seems like a ton. But then those days come along and I have to find a way to make dinner without the Little One getting pummeled... and then he gets more.
I hate it. I hate that sometimes it's a relief to turn on the television. I feel like a fraud. A bad mom. A failure. I know that a lot of people would roll their eyes at me for feeling like this. I know that a great many kids were raised on Sesame Street and they turned out just frickin' fine. I know that ultimately it's not a big deal. But I intended to do other things with my kids. I intended to have the patience and the forethought and the goddamned time to be a parent that doesn't rely on T.V. But it ain't working out that way.
Yesterday was not a good parenting day. I'm not proud of my "solution." I know it's not a solution and that it's not good for my kids. But I felt like it was a preferable alternative to yelling. So there we have it. Another Mother of the Year award for me.
I don't actually feel like I'm a failure at parenting in general, but specific days of feeling like a failure are becoming more commonplace. I don't like it.
Here's the thing: I feel like a pretty decent parent, actually. I love my boys and I know they love me. They are confident, strong, playful, joyful little fellows. They get along pretty well (as far as I can tell as an only child parent with boys 20 months apart). We have regular family meals and trips to the park. I feed them good food. We have 90s jams dance parties. We laugh a lot and there are a lot of wonderful parts of each and every day. Every night I find myself thinking wistfully of them after they've gone to bed and I often go and peek at their adorable little sleeping bodies and peaceful little faces. I adore my kids and I love being their mama.
But there are also the days when I've used up every last wisp of patience by 9:30am. Days when I repeat the phrases over and over that I repeat every single day, "Please stop jumping off the couch. Please stop jumping. Stop jumping. Stop jumping! STOP JUMPING!!!!" Days when, the second I turn around from pulling the Little One off the table, the Big One has climbed on top of the same table and jumped off. Days when I literally watch the clock waiting for meal times when I know they'll be strapped down in their seats, or nap time when I know they'll be contained, if not peacefully asleep. Days when there are no naps and they are beyond cranky and obstinate. Days when I seriously consider going to a bar- by myself- when my husband gets home at 10:30pm just so I can be somewhere where no one is asking anything of me. And there is beer.
I used to have a shockingly large amount of patience. My students used to comment on it. I was described, repeatedly, as serene. As a teenager. But somewhere along the line, my patience disappeared. Perhaps while teaching I used up the amount allotted to me for the early years of parenting. Perhaps, along with iron and calcium, my babies absorbed my patience into their own bodies. Perhaps every parent of two young children feels this way.
All I know is that I do not have the same level of patience I once had. I hear my own voice coming out and think, "Ugh. She needs to chill out." But holy begeezus, people, I CANNOT CHILL OUT. I try, but I fail more often than not. It's just so much some days. These little creatures are 19 months and three. They are Dennis the Menace all the time. Having two boys with a serious case of the naughties test the boundaries every second of every day is a lot. It's a lot.
I'm exhausted by the end of every day. Some days I'm exhausted by the time breakfast rolls around.
A friend messaged me the other day asking for advice on keeping his two and half year old occupied and happy now that she was out of preschool. When I got the message, I literally laughed out loud. I thought, "Holy shit, brother. If I knew how to do that, my daily life would look very, very different." But as I sat down to craft a helpful response, I realized I DO know how to do that. I know how to do all the right things and plan a day for a restless toddler. I've done it. I was pretty good at it, actually.
It seems it's TWO restless toddlers that have me thrown for a loop. They are just far enough apart that they can't do the same things and neither one is trustworthy yet. Going to the park gives me a coronary- I have to choose which kid to watch on the play structure (answer: the Little One) and hope that the other one doesn't leap to his death. Trying to do art is risky- paint is out of the question (unless it's finger painting with yogurt in the bathtub, which is actually kind of awesome), and crayons are pitched across the room and at walls by the Little One (thank you, Magic Eraser). Regular puzzles are instantly destroyed by the Little One and the Big One is too old for peg puzzles. The Little One pours out bubbles and sucks on the wand. The Big One doesn't want to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider seventeen times in a row. The Big One could read for a solid hour, but the Little One yanks books out of his hands. They can't play blocks next to each other without destroying each other's creations and then trying to rip each other's faces off. And the Big One tackles the Little One any chance he gets.
And so some days, I turn to the almighty quieter. The babysitter of shame. The magic box. And I swore I would NEVER do this. I was going to be SO conservative with how much T.V. my kids watched. The Big One almost never watched T.V. before the Little One was born. But then, I had two kids under two. And I had to figure out how to keep the Big One busy while I put the Little One to sleep. Enter: PBS Kids. And now, the Big One ADORES the T.V. Begs for it. He usually only gets his pediatrician recommended top dose of two hours, and even that seems like a ton. But then those days come along and I have to find a way to make dinner without the Little One getting pummeled... and then he gets more.
I hate it. I hate that sometimes it's a relief to turn on the television. I feel like a fraud. A bad mom. A failure. I know that a lot of people would roll their eyes at me for feeling like this. I know that a great many kids were raised on Sesame Street and they turned out just frickin' fine. I know that ultimately it's not a big deal. But I intended to do other things with my kids. I intended to have the patience and the forethought and the goddamned time to be a parent that doesn't rely on T.V. But it ain't working out that way.
Yesterday was not a good parenting day. I'm not proud of my "solution." I know it's not a solution and that it's not good for my kids. But I felt like it was a preferable alternative to yelling. So there we have it. Another Mother of the Year award for me.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
The Goblin King.. er, Queen?
You know those days when your two kids feel like 64 goblins?
Yeah. That.
We have been awake for all of two hours and the Little One has already tried to chop his fingers off with the box fan, electrocute himself by removing an outlet cover, cover the house (and himself) in both my Rosebud Salve and cream blush, and has participated in a 20 minute cry-a-thon.
This combined with the fact that my children have decided to listen to me never has made me feel a lot like David Bowie's character in Labyrinth. (Oh, I'm sorry, is my nerd showing?)
Perhaps this should be my solution:
Yeah. That.
We have been awake for all of two hours and the Little One has already tried to chop his fingers off with the box fan, electrocute himself by removing an outlet cover, cover the house (and himself) in both my Rosebud Salve and cream blush, and has participated in a 20 minute cry-a-thon.
This combined with the fact that my children have decided to listen to me never has made me feel a lot like David Bowie's character in Labyrinth. (Oh, I'm sorry, is my nerd showing?)
Perhaps this should be my solution:
Well... laugh.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Please Make the Lambs Stop Screaming
I just experienced my first full-on, committed, psychotic, no-holds-barred, kicking, screaming, hysterical big boy tantrum two days ago. It lasted 40 minutes. And it started because I wouldn't give him free reign with the squeegee in the shower.
So he kicked the shower walls and threw his towel on the shower floor. Then it escalated because the towel I gave him to replace the now soaking-wet one was too small. The Too Small Towel tantrum lasted a full 20 minutes on its own. Then it escalated further when he finally went to use the too-small towel and realized that he was already dry (having air-dried whilst tantruming). So then the tantrum became a Where Are My Drips; I Need New Drips tantrum.
(FYI: Attempting to explain evaporation to a screaming, kicking, writhing 3 year old is not effective. The more you know.)
Finally I decided that I just needed to get him in bed, at which point getting him dressed for bed turned it into the I Need To Go Hide tantrum. Because naked hiding is, apparently, the only logical option when one's towel is too small and one has no drips.
Round two happened yesterday. This one was over blueberry yogurt. It lasted 35 minutes. Apparently we are making progress?
Holy shit. I have no idea what is happening, but it is highly unpleasant.
(Ed. Note: The title of this post is stolen directly from the mouth of a good friend and fellow mama.)
So he kicked the shower walls and threw his towel on the shower floor. Then it escalated because the towel I gave him to replace the now soaking-wet one was too small. The Too Small Towel tantrum lasted a full 20 minutes on its own. Then it escalated further when he finally went to use the too-small towel and realized that he was already dry (having air-dried whilst tantruming). So then the tantrum became a Where Are My Drips; I Need New Drips tantrum.
(FYI: Attempting to explain evaporation to a screaming, kicking, writhing 3 year old is not effective. The more you know.)
Finally I decided that I just needed to get him in bed, at which point getting him dressed for bed turned it into the I Need To Go Hide tantrum. Because naked hiding is, apparently, the only logical option when one's towel is too small and one has no drips.
Round two happened yesterday. This one was over blueberry yogurt. It lasted 35 minutes. Apparently we are making progress?
Holy shit. I have no idea what is happening, but it is highly unpleasant.
(Ed. Note: The title of this post is stolen directly from the mouth of a good friend and fellow mama.)
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Worry Wart
I'm a worrier. I've always been a worrier. I vividly remember laying in bed at the age of fifteen worrying about the possibility (not even an actual plan- just the possibility) of having to take driver's ed and thinking that it would probably be easier if I just died in my sleep. Um. What the hell is that? Who in their right mind, given the choice between driver's ed and death, chooses frickin' death?!? Clearly I was not in my right mind. I was fifteen.
But I'm still a worrier. I no longer see dying in my sleep as the preferable alternative to, say, going to the dentist. But I worry. A lot. I fret. I'm a fretter. But here's the thing. 90% of the stuff I worry about is STUPID SHIT. It's probably understandable when I get nervous belly and break out in a cold sweat because my baby has woken up with croup in the middle of the night. That seems relatively normal. But having an almost identical reaction to starting a new job? That seems excessive. And dumb. And possibly worthy of medication.
Internet, I am a wreck. I am a wreck for no reason, whatsoever. I am a wreck because, essentially, I have a hard time with change. I struggle with transitions. It appears that I am no different from my children and am, essentially, a giant toddler.
This realization is unpleasant.
When I think back to all the things I've had idiotic, ill-placed panic attacks about, they all have to do with change. I suck at it. And I've sucked at it for as long as I can remember. I like to be in my comfy place. I like predictability. I like familiarity and routines. I like home and family and stuff that is NOT BRAND NEW AND HARD AND SCARY. Which is sad, really, because life is hard and brand new and scary the majority of the time. Especially with kids.
What's extra funny is that I seem to be able to handle some really difficult things relatively well. I haven't been perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but things have been pretty rough around these parts since the Little One was born, and I've handled the majority of it pretty well. Then we decide that I need to get a part time job- stat!- and I fall apart. What's that all about?
My parents have always told me that, as a kid, I handled every injury in the exact same way. According to them, paper cuts and broken bones received the same broo-ha-ha. A gross overreaction in the case of the paper cut, but a damn brave little gal for the broken bone. Perhaps my responses to life are measured in much the same way. When things get really ugly, I seem to be handling it pretty well. When things are just mediocre, I go off the deep end. Crap.
All this to say... I'm starting a new job. Another new job. For a couple weeks I will have three jobs, (which... AHHHHHH!!!!) but I'm leaving "that store" in three weeks (because I miss my husband and my children and weekends and I cannot take any more "Mommy! Don't leave me to go to that store!!!) and will then only have two jobs. One of which will be periodic and at my leisure. With weekends. Mostly.
So. Another new job. Tutoring. And I'm crazy nervous and I shouldn't be. It has everything to do with what I've always done, but instead of 150 kids, I'll have two. And I will be working with them one at a time. I can do this. I know I can do this. But I'm suddenly terribly frightened that I'm going to fail them, AND I DON'T WANT TO FAIL THE LITTLE CHILDREN. They're little, you guys. Just getting started on this crazy business of life and school. If I mess this up, they may never get to Harvard. AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT. Damn it.
But I'm still a worrier. I no longer see dying in my sleep as the preferable alternative to, say, going to the dentist. But I worry. A lot. I fret. I'm a fretter. But here's the thing. 90% of the stuff I worry about is STUPID SHIT. It's probably understandable when I get nervous belly and break out in a cold sweat because my baby has woken up with croup in the middle of the night. That seems relatively normal. But having an almost identical reaction to starting a new job? That seems excessive. And dumb. And possibly worthy of medication.
Internet, I am a wreck. I am a wreck for no reason, whatsoever. I am a wreck because, essentially, I have a hard time with change. I struggle with transitions. It appears that I am no different from my children and am, essentially, a giant toddler.
This realization is unpleasant.
When I think back to all the things I've had idiotic, ill-placed panic attacks about, they all have to do with change. I suck at it. And I've sucked at it for as long as I can remember. I like to be in my comfy place. I like predictability. I like familiarity and routines. I like home and family and stuff that is NOT BRAND NEW AND HARD AND SCARY. Which is sad, really, because life is hard and brand new and scary the majority of the time. Especially with kids.
What's extra funny is that I seem to be able to handle some really difficult things relatively well. I haven't been perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but things have been pretty rough around these parts since the Little One was born, and I've handled the majority of it pretty well. Then we decide that I need to get a part time job- stat!- and I fall apart. What's that all about?
My parents have always told me that, as a kid, I handled every injury in the exact same way. According to them, paper cuts and broken bones received the same broo-ha-ha. A gross overreaction in the case of the paper cut, but a damn brave little gal for the broken bone. Perhaps my responses to life are measured in much the same way. When things get really ugly, I seem to be handling it pretty well. When things are just mediocre, I go off the deep end. Crap.
All this to say... I'm starting a new job. Another new job. For a couple weeks I will have three jobs, (which... AHHHHHH!!!!) but I'm leaving "that store" in three weeks (because I miss my husband and my children and weekends and I cannot take any more "Mommy! Don't leave me to go to that store!!!) and will then only have two jobs. One of which will be periodic and at my leisure. With weekends. Mostly.
So. Another new job. Tutoring. And I'm crazy nervous and I shouldn't be. It has everything to do with what I've always done, but instead of 150 kids, I'll have two. And I will be working with them one at a time. I can do this. I know I can do this. But I'm suddenly terribly frightened that I'm going to fail them, AND I DON'T WANT TO FAIL THE LITTLE CHILDREN. They're little, you guys. Just getting started on this crazy business of life and school. If I mess this up, they may never get to Harvard. AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT. Damn it.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Leaving On a Jet Plane
Oh. Dear. God. In one hour, I am leaving on my first plane trip since having two kids. I know this is not a big deal. I know lots of people do this all the time. I know I need to calm the hell down. It's a straight-through flight and my husband will be with me. Nonetheless, this trip terrifies me to the depths of my very soul.
Perhaps I'm frightened because the last time we were on a plane, my oldest son was 15 months and spent the majority of the flight hopping up and down on my husband's and my toes and hollering because we wouldn't let him run free. This behavior was wildly unusual for him then. Not so much now. Perhaps I'm frightened because now he's two and he regularly hollers and hops up and down when he doesn't get his way. Perhaps I'm frightened because our plane leaves at bedtime and we have to attempt to feed the toddler and the infant, then get them to sleep, only to wake them up when our flight lands at midnight. Perhaps I'm frightened because my toddler- despite his toddlerness- is relatively easygoing. My infant is not. I fear him on this flight. Perhaps I'm frightened because we will be driving a minimum of two hours every day of this trip. Perhaps I'm frightened because I know neither child will get to nap or eat on their regular schedule. We will be at the mercy of schedules and visits and people who don't remember what it's like to have two small children. Perhaps I'm frightened because I know that all of this is a recipe for HELL.
Yup. That's it.
I'll keep my fingers crossed and remember that if lots of people do this all the time, it can't be that bad. Though I must say, I'm not optimistic. Luckily, I'll be with my in-laws, so I can totally be myself and express any frustration I might have. Oh... wait...
Perhaps I'm frightened because the last time we were on a plane, my oldest son was 15 months and spent the majority of the flight hopping up and down on my husband's and my toes and hollering because we wouldn't let him run free. This behavior was wildly unusual for him then. Not so much now. Perhaps I'm frightened because now he's two and he regularly hollers and hops up and down when he doesn't get his way. Perhaps I'm frightened because our plane leaves at bedtime and we have to attempt to feed the toddler and the infant, then get them to sleep, only to wake them up when our flight lands at midnight. Perhaps I'm frightened because my toddler- despite his toddlerness- is relatively easygoing. My infant is not. I fear him on this flight. Perhaps I'm frightened because we will be driving a minimum of two hours every day of this trip. Perhaps I'm frightened because I know neither child will get to nap or eat on their regular schedule. We will be at the mercy of schedules and visits and people who don't remember what it's like to have two small children. Perhaps I'm frightened because I know that all of this is a recipe for HELL.
Yup. That's it.
I'll keep my fingers crossed and remember that if lots of people do this all the time, it can't be that bad. Though I must say, I'm not optimistic. Luckily, I'll be with my in-laws, so I can totally be myself and express any frustration I might have. Oh... wait...
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