Definitions: Nap Time & Quiet Time

Dear Boys,

Clearly you need some clarification about what "nap time" and "quiet time" mean.  I know this because everything you are doing is the exact opposite of what you are supposed to be doing.

Let me elucidate.

"Nap time" means sleeping.  It does not mean jumping, singing, banging blocks together, faux crying or walking out of the room every 5 minutes to tell me you love me.  I love you, too, but I will feel that love much more heartily if you STAY IN YOUR ROOM.  "Sleeping" means you lie down on your bed and you close your eyes and you stay there for an extended period of time.  You do not sing, you do not play with your toys, you do not throw books all over the floor and "ice skate" on them.  Sleeping requires stillness, so when you get up after 30 seconds and tell me you can't sleep, THAT is why you can't sleep.  STOP. MOVING.

If you truly, actually, sincerely try to sleep (remember: that means NOT MOVING) and cannot fall asleep, then it is still quiet time.  Does that mean you should jump on your bed and make siren sounds?  No, it does not.  Does it mean you should pretend to have to pee or poop (or both!) once every 15 minutes and inform me of your attempts?  No, it does not.  Does that mean you should come out of your room repeatedly and ask for new toys?  NO. IT. DOES. NOT.

"Quiet time" means that you must be quiet.  As in, not noisy.  As in, a lack of sound.  As in, SSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.  Stop yelling, stop singing loudly, stop practicing gymnastics on  your bed.  Just quietly read your books, or quietly play with the toys in your room.  Twiddle your thumbs.  I don't actually care.  Just do it quietly.  That is all I ask.

Quiet time is not the time to decide that you HAVE to have the giraffe you gave to your brother a year ago.  I'm sorry you miss him.  It's been a year.  It's time to move on.

Quiet time is not the time to decide that, in spite of the mass quantities of milk and water you downed at lunchtime, you are parched.  Because you are not.  So quit it.

Quiet time is the time for quiet.  Not necessarily because you need it- although, trust me, you do- but because without a brief moment of quiet in an otherwise "Mom, mommy, mom, MOOOOOM!" filled day, I will lose my mind.  That's right, sweetie, this isn't about you.

Mommy needs this time to rebuild the energy it takes to feed and wipe and chase and feed and calm and wipe and entertain and wash and help two boys under five.  You are tiny energy vampires, and without the time to recharge, I can't play trucks with you the way you like.  If I don't have quiet time to eat my own lunch at 2pm, I don't eat and then I am cranky.  If I don't have nap time to load the dishwasher and answer emails and attempt to breathe for 30 seconds, I have a hard time keeping my cool when you ignore my instructions for the seven bazillionth time.

Mommy needs nap time- or at least quiet time- so that I can be a better Mommy.  It will help us all, my little squishies.  So, please.  Stay in your room.  Stop coming out and asking asinine questions.  Stop flying around your room like a broken toy airplane.  Stop pretending to cry.  Stop making those ear-splitting noises.  Just. Stay. Quiet.  Please.  And thank you.

All my love,
xoxo Mama


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p.s. If you missed my latest post over at Rattle and Pen, you can read it here.

The Sick Post & Still More Things They Say

This isn't a real post.  This is me being overwhelmed and, therefore, WAY behind on everything.  Hi! How ya doin'?

The past month has been one long sick-fest in this house.  (Hence the month-long break in any sort of posting or writing 'round here.)  The Big One caught a nasty case of 90-year-old-emphysema-hack at preschool, and then he brought it home.  And he shared.  He shared with all of us.  So kind to share.

So then the Little One caught it, and it turned quickly into croup.  Goddamn, croup is the worst.  It's terrifying and sad and means that the croupy kid gets zero sleep.  Which means that one or both parents get zero sleep.  Which usually means that one or both parents get the thing that started the croup.  Which is exactly what happened.  Sonofabitch.

Thankfully, this round of croup only lasted about three days, but the hack and runny nose and generally shittyness lasted well beyond that.  All told, we were stuck at home because of one kid or another for two weeks.  TWO WEEKS.  Have you ever been stuck in house with two sick kids and a sick you for two godawful weeks?  Let me give you some ground-breaking information: It sucks.

We watched so much PBS Kids and Sprout and Disney Jr. that I thought all of our brains were going to explode.  Even the KIDS got tired of T.V.  That does not happen.  There was water, and tea and juice and soup and no one wanted any of it.  There were blankets and kleenex and snot smears on everything.  And whining.  So. Much. Whining.  The kids were whiny, too.

And then, just when everyone started to get better and feel human again, the Big One got nauseous on the swings during a park date with his dad, and puked all over the car.  And you know what sucks even more than two weeks of house arrest?  Puke in a car.  And trying to get puke OUT of a car.  It's no small feat, my friends.  Booster seat covers- not washable.  Actual seats in the car?  Spot clean, only.  Seat belts?  IMPOSSIBLE TO CLEAN.  Even the end-all, be-all of puke cleaning- the MAGICAL Nature's Miracle (no seriously, it is amazing, and they didn't even pay me to say that)- couldn't get the puke smell out of the seat belt.  That little bugger got soaked 3 times AND wiped down with soap and water AND got a good Febreezing... and it still smells a bit vomity.

If you teach your children nothing else, teach them to vomit AWAY from the seat belt.

Or, better yet, teach them to TELL YOU when they're going to vomit.

But you guys, in spite of all those bodily fluids and all the whining and the general ick, something amazing happened.  Some good came out of this darkness.

And here it is: The Little One learned to use his Coughing Corner.  It's a whole new world, people.

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And here are some cute things my kids are saying lately:

Little One
-fweet = sweet
-pupcakes = cupcakes
-fweeszers = scissors
-schrank = drink

While eating a salami sandwich: "Lawmi!  Deeeeewishus!"

Big One
- mackin = napkin

-Explaining digestion: "When you eat something, if it's too hot, you spit it out.  If it's too cold, you spit it out.  If it's just right, you swallow it and it goes down your mouth, into your froat, and into your belly.  Then it goes around your belly, to your pooper section."

Your pooper section.  The more you know, people!

Armageddon Days Are Here Again

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.

Nap Avoidance

The Big One takes on nap avoidance like a job.  A career.  A mission.  A mission to drive me insane.  AND IT IS WORKING.

The Big One has always been an expert nap avoider.  As a little guy, he would attempt to cute his way past The Window, cooing and gurgling like a tiny cherub.  As he got older, he would ask for one more book, one more song or one more snuggle.  Still cute.  As he entered toddlerhood, he became trickier, begging for a drink of water, claiming he had to go potty, assuring me he JUST. WASN'T. TIRED.  But usually, with enough patience on my part, he would fall asleep and take the nap we both desperately needed.

But now.  Oh, now.  Now, he's spiteful.  Now he's calculated, conniving, and... a genius, really.  Because now, he does everything he can think of to wake the Little One up.  His sweet little brother who is happily snoozing away in the closet just a few feet from him.  And it makes me completely, thoroughly, murderously angry.

(Have I mentioned the Little One naps and sometimes sleeps part of the night in our master closet?  He does.  I'm sure that won't cause any issues down the road.  Bygones.)

The Big One has developed this terrible, horrible, AWFUL sound- a godawful hoot- that carries from here to Shanghai (hello friends in China!!  You've heard it, haven't you).  It is possibly the most irritating sound known to human kind and he can keep it up for hours.  HOURS, oh my hell on earth.  And he has figured out that, apart from making me insane, the sound will likely wake his peacefully sleeping brother... thereby ending nap-time.

You guys, he is brilliant.  Or evil.  An evil genius, perhaps?  Shit.  My kid is an evil genius.  What do I do about that, exactly?  Channel it?  Redirect it?  Shave his head, get him some dark glasses, and prepare to be proud of his intelligence... however it rears it's (potentially ugly) head?

Ugh.  I miss nap.  I NEED nap.  He needs nap.  Sonofabitch.

Parents Are Trained Ninjas

Never before have you seen such stealth, such skills, such quiet-ensuring acrobatics as those of a parent with sleeping children.

DO NOT MESS WITH THE NAPS, YO.

Even children who sleep peacefully through every night, through alarms and loud movies, through dropped glasses and neighbor's parties- even the most sound of sleepers- will wake up at the slightest blip of noise when it is nap time.  Drop a bobby pin, baby's up.  Ankle pops when you take a step, toddler's awake.  Sink drips, and nap time is over.

It is for this reason that parents develop super-skills in order to facilitate uninterrupted sleep.  We know every creaky stair, every idiosyncrasy of each squeaky door handle, each popping floor board.  We know how avoid every possible noise in the household for a full 3 hours in order to protect nap.  I have seen parents backflip, snatch objects from midair, and slither through their houses like Hattori Hanzo.  SKILLS, I tell you.

For some reason, however, it is during these precious, precious hours that all things noisy happen.  The big kid is finally down for nap, except- OOPS!- it's the recycling truck, and it's glass pick-up day!  The baby finally settles down, and then- uh oh- the UPS man rings the doorbell.  Both children miraculously fall asleep (!!) at the same time (!!!), and then things on your counters and shelves start spontaneously committing suicide, jumping to their deaths onto the tile mere feet away from both sleeping children.

Gah.

If only the ninja skills were transferrable.  And the garbage trucks would read the dirty looks you give them when they show up at 1:30pm.

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.

Morning Parenting

I have come to the conclusion that my parenting before coffee is sub par at best.  I am not a morning person, and attempting to even speak is sometimes taxing the first hour I'm awake.  Handling two cranky, hungry children the second I exit the warmth of my bed at 6:30am makes me want to burst into flames.

And yes, I know, 6:30am is significantly later than many children wake up.  I know many of you are up at 5am every single day.  I used to get up at 5am and it's a hideous, ungodly hour.  I know it could be worse.  But as previously established, I'm a whiny little bitch.  And this morning hustle pisses me off.

I've had this problem for as long as I can remember.  As a teenager, I used to sit in the corner on the kitchen floor nursing my silent contempt for the world while my dad made coffee.  My mom avoided me altogether.  No one spoke to me or looked me directly in the eye.  When the coffee was ready, my dad would hand a cup down to me- without speaking- and I would sit and drink.  Once I'd finished, I could face humans (kind of).  My freshman year in high school, I completely ruined a friendship because my friend of 4 years who generously gave me a ride to school every morning was incredibly bubbly in the morning.  She wanted to talk... a lot.  So my solution was to be a super-duper bitch until I stopped talking to her at all.  Brilliant plan, no?

I'm telling you, morning time before coffee is my kryptonite.

So now it comes to bite me in the ass again.  Kids are morning people.  They enjoy getting up early and demanding breakfast.  They want to run and jump and play LOUDLY at 6:30am.  They want me IMMEDIATELY upon opening their eyes.  All I want to do is sit in the corner of the kitchen floor until I finish my coffee, but now I don't even have time to make my coffee until they have breakfast in front of them.

I get up, pee if I'm lucky (and the piercing screams haven't started yet), get one kid out of bed, get the other kid out of bed, get the big one on the potty and into underwear (which are usually buried at the bottom of the basket of laundry I CANNOT SEEM TO FOLD), then get the little one into a new diaper.  Then we enter the kitchen and I plop the little one on the floor where he beelines for the drawer o' kid dishes and proceeds, for the 80 billionth time, to pull everything out onto the floor (where I trip on it).  The big one starts asking to watch TV and continues to ask every 5 seconds until breakfast is ready.  I begin to make the oatmeal the big one loves while he whines that he doesn't want "opameal" and then step on a tiny plastic fork.  I get milk cups out for both kids and the little one chugs half, then immediately starts to slam his on the floor until I take it away.  The big one returns to ask for TV again and proclaims, again, that he doesn't want "opameal."  The oatmeal is ready so I portion it out, then put the two little bowls in the freezer to cool off.  At this point, I attempt coffee making while trying to herd both kids over to the table where I can strap them down.  Bibs, cups, "opameal" and oh-my-god why can't all of this happen at a more reasonable hour?!?

Yes, it has been pointed out to me that I could get one of those fancy-schmancy coffee makers with a timer so that I can wake up to pre-fab coffee.  Or that I could get up before the little darlings so I could caffeinate myself and be a reasonable human being when they get up.  And those are both probably good ideas.

But then how could I WHINE like this?

Morning parenting blows.

Oh. My. God.

Dear Whiniest Child On The Planet,
In the name of all things holy, PLEASE.  STOP.  WHINING.  You and your brother did not sleep last night and, frankly, I can't take it.  So please stop.  If you don't want the tofu, don't eat the tofu.  Simple.  But please stop asking for it, then pushing it away, then crying for it, and then pushing it away again.  Ditto for the Cheerios.  Make a decision and stick to it.  Please.  I realize this is difficult for a two year old.  I know I am asking a lot of you.  But please, PLEASE just be calm and decisive today.  And quit whining.

Or at least take a very long nap.
Love,
Your Mama

Sleep Training Sucks Balls

I hate sleep training.

The result, I love.  A baby who can soothe himself to sleep is gift from heaven.  But listening to your child cry and keeping yourself from stopping it is excruciating.  It's awful.  

My six month old son is still not sleeping through the night.  He never sleeps more than 5 hours at a time- no matter how much he's eaten- so it's time to buckle down and commit to the sleep training once and for all.  We've half-assed it so far, but we need to make sure he can soothe himself.  I know it's ultimately better for him, but I still feel like I'm torturing him.  

We sleep trained my older son at four months and, though it sucked, it went relatively smoothly.  After a few days, he learned to put himself to sleep.  If he woke up in the middle of the night, he would fuss a bit, then soothe himself.  Done and done.  My second son has been a bit different.  Not so easy as the first one, this guy.  Luckily, he's cute as the dickens.  He's never had trouble going to sleep in the first place, but has always woken up more than I'd like and isn't able to calm himself at that point.  Normally, he'll sleep from 7pm until 10:30pm or 11pm, then nurse and go to sleep until 3am or 4am, then nurse and wake up anywhere between 6am and 7am.  Not horrendous, but it's rare that I get 4 hours of sleep in a row, and this is totally kicking my ass.  Last night he woke up 45 minutes after I put him down and would NOT be calmed.  I'm not nursing him back to sleep every 5 minutes.  It's time.  

I'm doing the good ol' Ferber method and going up every 5, then 10, then 15 minutes (and so on...), but I tend to have stubborn babies and it's not going quickly.  Yesterday, after two full hours he was still crying.  He wasn't hysterical and there was no blood-curdling screaming, but the last time I went up to pat his back, he startled and then realized I was there.  He looked at me with such relief and reached for my hand before smiling the biggest, most beautiful smile.  And then I had to leave.  And he started crying... again.  Holy guilt, Batman.  Nonetheless, his actions tell me one thing: he really just wants me there.  Many would say that there's nothing wrong with that.  I can be there, so I should be there.  But the truth is, I can't be at his side every time he stirs in his sleep.  He will continue to wake throughout the night for... oh, FOREVER, so he needs to be able to calm down on his own.  His smile last night bolsters my confidence.  He was wasn't inconsolable, wasn't feeling so miserable that he was past smiling.  He was just pissed off.  Pissed off I can handle.

Sooo... I am officially on the Sleep Training Roller Coaster.  It's a bumpy ride, folks.