Finding Her Purpose

I recently wound up in a conversation with someone who is about a month from becoming a father for the first time. I feel like it's my sworn duty to make sure all soon-to-be-parents are given two valuable (and unwanted) pieces of my infinite wisdom: 1.) Don't spend good money on a good changing table because your kid is just going to cover it in poop and 2.) That thing people say about newborns not sleeping? They lie. A lot.

It's about 135134098535 times worse than anyone tells you it's going to be.

It's not that people are trying to lie, of course. It's that there just aren't words in the English language that adequately describe the level of sleep deprivation that comes with that first month or so. The closest I've ever come is to tell people that it's like you set your alarm clock for 2:00am and then hit snooze when it goes off. Instead of going back to sleep, you walk down the hall, thread a needle, watch a high school drama club reenact an episode of Seinfeld, sell a life insurance plan to a 7-year old, and then go back to bed, only to have the alarm go off again 15 minutes later. Once again, you hit snooze. You repeat the whole process. Over and over. All night long. For a month. Or longer.

I then mentioned to the soon-to-be-father that it really sucks that I apparently got a defective model of baby girl. Mine STILL doesn't sleep. I explained that she just plain doesn't need sleep, as if she's some sort of robot or something.

Somewhere along the line, his eyes got big and he started to look a little worried. "My wife is like that. She doesn't need sleep either and never has."

He was concerned that the baby might take after his wife, but some of the words he said floated out of his mouth bearing flashing lights, sirens, exclamation points, and pure joy.

His wife is a doctor.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A purpose!

A goal!

A use for that no need to sleep superpower!

When we're done paying for med school for Alexis, I'm making her buy me my very own sleeping quarters. I don't care where they are or what they look like, but the kid owes me nearly five years of good sleep.

How Many Times Can I Type, "Really?" A Lot. Really.

I often joke that Alexis doesn't sleep. Mind you, it's not really all that much of a "joke" because she really doesn't and I REALLY REALLY wish she did. Like, REALLY. The kid frequently stays awake far later than any kid her age should, only to rise again bright and early and perky. She certainly has days when her refusal to sleep catches up with her and she evolves into a two-headed bratty monster, but generally she soldiers through it. Happy.

Yesterday was a typical day, one which made it seem like she might just be a robot. She was awake ridiculously early after having gone too bed insanely late. In theory that should have meant that she would take a nap, even if only a short one.

As we piled into the car on our way to a play date, I figured I would toss a few more ingredients into the Take a Nap Stew. I set the music just right. I explained to Alexis that if she took a nap, when she woke up she would get to play with her friends. I even made sure I took the least bumpy route possible.

She spent the entire trip telling me about how she was going to be good and take a nap. Lots of talking. No sleeping.

After several hours of playing hard and having way more fun than a kid should be allowed to have, I thought FOR SURE she would fall asleep in the car on the way home. I even made sure that it would be horribly inconvenient if she did by deciding to make a stop along the way.

She still didn't fall asleep.

Until we were less than 10 minutes from our house. At 7:00pm. When she still hadn't eaten dinner.

She was in a fantastic mood when I got her out of the car. And by "fantastic" I mean, have you seen my head? Because she bit it off and spit it out. I haven't been able to find it since.

Five packs of fruit snacks later, she recovered and then proceeded to stay up way past my bedtime.

Today could best be defined as lather, rinse, repeat. Only, there was no long car ride, so she wasn't presented an opportunity to take a pseudo-nap.

Which is probably why she ate dinner and then promptly disappeared behind the couch. I found her like this:



Anybody brave enough to come over and move her to her bed? Anybody? PLEASE?

And how great is my life that this is my biggest worry at the moment? I mean, really.

It Took Her Long Enough

Way back in July, I struck a deal with the devil. I agreed to buy her the obnoxious camper that goes with her dollhouse, but only if she slept in her own bed ten whole times.

She wanted that camper. Bad.

She wanted to sleep anywhere but her own bed more.

Four months later, she finally made it to nine, but only after repeatedly making 2:00am declarations like, "I don't want the dollhouse car," and "I'll sleep in my bed tomorrow."

This is a kid who knows all about immediate gratification and knows NOTHING about how bribery works.

It took a full month to get that last night, as she finally scored her camper today. She was very excited. I'm depressed to realize it took her five months to accrue ten nights in her bed.

No wonder I have bags under my eyes so deep you could drive a life-sized camper in there.

That's What I Call a Nightmare

I have long suspected that Alexis has nightmares. I figure that has to be a contributing factor as to why she is so determined to drive me insane at all hours of the night. While she may very well be conducting a top secret governmental experiment to see if you can create a dangerous weapon out of a woman just by depriving her of sleep (answer = yes), I think she truly does start out each night fully intending to do the right thing and stay in her own bed. Someday maybe her good intentions will win out and I'll actually get six hours of uninterrupted sleep. OK, maybe not, but I still hold on to a speck of hope.

I've talked to the short person many times about her bad dreams. I've heard about monsters under her bed, monsters in her bed, monsters hanging from the ceiling, and monsters in the closet. I still remember the days when I was scared of the dark (shut up), so I try to cut the kid some slack. The dark is a scary place. (Again, SHUT UP.)

Last night the kid managed to make it all the way to 5:30am in her own bed. It would have been fantastic, if not for the fact that lately she's been waking up around midnight, so I had sat up waiting for that which never happened. I do believe I heard her yell "PSYCH!" in her sleep at some point. Anyway, she came hobbling into our room at 5:00, visibly upset.

"Did you have a bad dream?" I asked her.

Her bottom lip quivered as she wiped away a tear, "Yes," she whispered.

I gave her a big ol' momma hug and hauled her up into the bed to cuddle for a few minutes. My alarm was close to going off, so I figured I would try to snuggle her back to sleep before it did. I'm trying to let her sleep as much as she can now, because once she is a teen I fully intend to exact revenge for all the sleep deprivation she's putting me through at the moment.

"Do you want to tell me about your bad dream?" I asked.

"I dreamed about Dora and Swiper and Swiper is really mean and he was swiping my toys and Dora was yelling at him."

No wonder the kid can't sleep through the night. If the Latina Whore and her "friend" were invading my dreams, I'd be huddled in the corner rocking back and forth.

At Least She Doesn't Sneak Out to Go Get a Clay Aiken Tattoo

I always joke that Alexis, at 3 years of age, is already smarter than me. Lately, she's been been making the "joke" more of a "fact."

I'm scared.

We continue to battle her over the whole staying in her bed thing. I imagine we'll be fighting that battle for several more years, because the kid just doesn't like to sleep alone. She goes weeks on end when she does really well, but then she goes weeks on end where she SUCKS. We're in a Suck Phase right now. She says it's because she can't sleep unless she's twirling my hair, but I think the truth of the matter is that she is part of a big governmental experiment to see just how far you can push a sleep-deprived and bald woman until she snaps.

She's REAL close to finding out.

Anyway, she's decided that she wants to wander to our bed earlier and earlier in the night, and has even gotten so brazen as to ask to go to sleep in there in the first place. The answer to that question is very complicated. It takes me a very long time to respond ever time she asks. After pondering it for 0.00000000001 seconds, I usually scream, "NOOOOOOOO!" in her face. Subtle, I know.

Battle. War. Battle. Fight. Battle. She's been going to bed in her own bed and staying there less than half the time.

Then last night, the evil genius figured it ALL out. She knew bed time was coming. She had already voiced her disapproval of Our Completely Unreasonable Rules. Just as I was about to drag her upstairs and chain her to her bed (Kidding. Maybe.), I realized I didn't actually know where she was. Now, it's a big house and we have doors she hasn't figured out how to open yet, so it's not like that was a panic-inducing thing. More of a curiosity. She was in the house somewhere.

I checked the basement. Nada. I checked her playroom. Nada. I checked her room. Nada.

The little brat was sleeping soundly in our bed.

Evil genius.

Boom!

If you are wandering around the house in the middle of the night, you deserve to run into a wall or two. That's my theory and I fully support it, despite the fact that I have rammed my noggin into a wall just about every night for the past three weeks. (I SWEAR that hallway keeps moving. There is no other explanation.) Night lights? Pshaw. A good door to the face collision will have you seeing enough stars to light up the darkest night.

We don't need no stinkin' night lights.

And yet, somehow, I had a moment of weakness right after we moved to this house. In a moment of crazy, I decided to let the kid keep a light on while she was trying to fall asleep. About a week later, I was fed up with wasting enough electricity to light up Manhattan and took away the privilege.

Mr. Husband did not.

Actually, he could not.

There are many ways that Alexis manipulates her dear daddy, and that is one of them. She can absolutely fall asleep without any lights on (she's been doing it her entire life), but she will. not. do. it for him. At all.

Which just makes this whole thing even more insane:



The tent. She was supposed to get the tent for Christmas last year, but then we didn't feel like setting up her twin bed. Lazy who? Oh yeah, lazy us.



The sleep mask. The sleep mask was one of the accessories that came with the tent. I can tell you that the tent makes it pretty dark, but that mask? Makes it a total blackout.

But OF COURSE she still wants the light on. It's the only way for her to know that her tent and mask are actually working.

Or something.

I bet she still sees stars when she smacks into a wall.

There Really Isn't a Graceful Way to Change the Subject

I'm feeling brave.

Or stupid.

I am willing to admit that our "sleep issues" (I use quotes because really it's WHY THE HELL CAN'T WE ALL JUST SLEEP. Issues. Many issues.) seem to have vanished into thin air.

That sound you hear is my brain throwing a VERY big party. With streamers! And confetti! And noisemakers! There's even cake at the party. Good cake!

I don't know what happened, to be honest. Maybe it's the bigger bed. Maybe it's the obnoxious number of nightlights strewn about the upper floor of our house. Maybe it's the hints of an Alexis-designed mural (that probably won't be done for 20 years at the pace I'm moving) in her room. Maybe it's the fact that it's a long freaking walk from Alexis' room to our room. I can't be sure. All I know is the kid has only wound up wrapped around my head in the middle of the night once. ONCE. Once is so close to not at all that it's practically not even worth acknowledging. I'm ignoring you, Once!

Every night as I'm tucking Alexis in for the night, I ask her what she's going to dream about. It was a suggestion one of y'all made back when she was having wicked nightmares, and it's a seriously amazing little trick. I can't prove that it reduces nightmares, but I can prove that it's the bestest time of the whole day. I love hearing the kid report on what she plans to dream about. It usually starts with, "Playing with you." MELT. After that it's usually, "Playing with Barbies . . . watching High School Musical . . ." and a bunch of other stuff that is fine and dandy.

Lately, though, she has been listing the most fantabulous idea for a good dream I could have ever imagined. "I'll dream about staying in my bed all night."

It's about time the kid and I shared a dream. A beautiful, wonderful, perfect dream.

Loving the Moving Guys

If it's not 6:00am on a weekend morning, you probably won't catch me turning on the TV to keep Alexis busy. It's not that I mind letting the TV do a little child entertaining from time-to-time, it's more that I prefer to use other methods (think chains, traffic, rivers, and/or an old refrigerator). The thing is that too much TV turns Alexis into an Angry Little Freak who can't hear a single word I say. I'd rather deal with never-ending pestering while I try to get something done than a little girl who yells, "NO! I WATCH MICKEY SHOW! GO AWAY!"

Mr. Husband, on the other hand, is a fan of the giant glowing babysitter. It's fine with me if he wants to deal with the Angry Little Freak, because it probably means I'm getting a chance to sleep more than four hours. Totally worth it. If he is on duty, he is more than welcome to handle things however he sees fit, just so long as no one is severely injured or dies.

Since I am not around when Alexis watches things like the Disney Channel, I had no idea that I was actually missing out on a little something something. Make that four something somethings.



Why did no one tell me that there are kinda-sorta-maybe-in-a-way hot guys on the Disney Channel? Y'all have been holding out on me.

So I made this little discovery a few months ago, and since then, the "Magic Roofers" have become my heroes. (I have no idea why Alexis calls them the "Magic Roofers" but I do admit I actually thought that was the name of the show up until about two weeks ago. Oops.) Not only are they kinda-sorta-maybe-in-a-way eye candy, they sing songs that don't make me want to find a box of sporks and gouge somebody's eyes out. It's always good when music doesn't make me sporky.

But. But. BUT! Not only do I not hate Imagination Movers, I think I might luuuuurve them. A lot. Ever heard that song, "I Want My Mommy?" OMG! Greatest song ever!

"I love my mommy
I love my daddy
But I’m happy in my bed at night
Cause I’ve got my pillow
And I’ve got my blanket
And I know that everything’s gonna be all right!"

A SONG THAT ENCOURAGES KIDS TO STAY IN THEIR OWN DAMN BEDS!

Be still my heart.

You know this is a cause near and dear to my heart. VERY near and dear my heart. My exhausted, sleep-deprived heart.

So. Here's the thing. Right around her birthday, Alexis started singing that song all the time. Also right around her birthday, she started staying in Her Own Damn Bed (the bed is forever going to be known as "Her Own Damn Bed"--it's an official title of sorts).

Coincidence?

I THINK NOT!

She's still not staying in her bed 100% of the time, but it's close.

And close is spectacular.

I love you, Imagination Movers!

I'm Just Never Happy. Or Well Rested.

I'm not particularly proud of it, but I know for a fact that Alexis has ended up in our bed 349 out of the last 365 nights. That's 349 nights that she has wandered down the hall and spent a portion of her sleeping hours kicking me in the head, yelling at the top of her lungs, fighting with the Bulldog, punching Mr. Husband, pretending to be a Toddler Helmet, and otherwise just making sure that I never get sleep again.

She likes it that way.

I don't.

So, why is it that on the extremely rare occasions that she actually stays in her own cozy bed, I still can't sleep? I awoke this morning at a painful 3:45am, realized she wasn't on top of me, and couldn't fall back asleep. The reason? My brain, in its sleep-deprived state, was worried that something was wrong. Did she fall out of bed and crack her skull, leaving her brains to ooze all over her delicate IKEA not-really-wood floor? Had she stopped breathing after dreaming about pairs skating with Sidney Crosby? Had she figured out a way to break through the baby gate that blocks our stairs, pried open the front door, and was at that moment, wandering our snowy, frigid neighborhood in search of Dora? Had she opened her window and made like Superman, flying through the air on her quest to save the world from the evil Steely McBeam?

And yet, part of my brain was functional enough to realize just how crazy it was to even consider that she was doing anything other than sawing some logs in her bed. Thus, I had an internal argument.

"Just go check on her."

"That's stupid. Go to sleep."

"Just go check on her."

"I told you, that's stupid. Go to sleep."

Back and forth. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

For an hour. For an hour my brain refused to shut off and grant me the bliss of peaceful sleep.

Then a miraculous thing happened. Meg (the Bulldog) did the most helpful thing she could have possibly done, perhaps the most useful thing she has EVER done: she farted.

It's amazing how fast you can jump out of bed to check on a kid when the heavy weight of Bulldog toots hover in the air.

Really Not Funny (at the Time)

The scene: Last week. 2:30am. The Burgh family and their many prisoners were all sleeping soundly in the Parental Unit's bed. Suddenly, a scream shattered the monotony of rolling thunder-like Bulldog snores. The Toddler shot straight up in the bed, screaming as if someone were plucking out her toenails with pliers.

Mother-type figure (while burying head under pillow): What's wrong, Alexis?

Alexis: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Mother-type figure: Alexis, use your words. What. is. wrong.

Alexis (stammering): I wan . . . want Mick . . . key bed.

Mother-type figure (drowsily): What?

Alexis (still crying): I want Mickey bed.

The mother-type figure wondered to herself if an elephant has sat on the Toddler's legs, preventing her from walking the path to the precious Mickey-covered bed in her room--the same path she had traveled in reverse just an hour earlier. Perhaps someone installed One-Way Hallway signs? A stop sign? A brick wall?

Mother-type figure: Then go get in Mickey bed.

Alexis (sobbing): WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Mother-type figure: If you want your bed, go get in your bed.

Alexis (sobbing): WAAAAAAAAAH!

The mother-type figure slammed the warm, cozy blankets to the side, snatched the Toddler up into her arms, and stormed back into the kid's room. She sort of (but not really) gently laid the Toddler down into the aforementioned Mickey bed, and thrust the rat-faced blankets up over the Toddler's chest.

Alexis: Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

The mother-type figure: You have GOT to be kidding me.

Just about precisely 24 hours later, the mother-type figure learned that the Toddler was not, in fact, kidding as they replayed the entire scenario all over again. She was not amused.

Breaking Out the Curses

This past week, Alexis has been a little sh*t. You know I don't normally swear around here (and am slightly editing because) this whole shebang is for Alexis and I don't really want to argue with her some day about whether or not it's OK to say whatever word (Ha! As if there is any way out of that lovely discussion!). Frankly, that's the only word that describes what she's been doing lately. She's been a little sh*t.

Long, long ago, in a land very near here, there was a child who was a fabulous sleeper. Her Mother had been very regimented about the whole Stay in Your Bed and Don't Bother Me at Night Law of the Land and it had worked. Weeks would go by with the child peacefully sleeping through the night and leaving the parental units alone between the hours of 9:00pm and 6:00am. It was a blissful existence.

And then came Christmas.

Christmas where the little family spent a week in a hotel and the simplest sleeping arrangement was to have the child sleep in the big bed with the parental units. Apparently the sweet child grew very in love with this arrangement because upon the return home, she refused to sleep through the night and she refused to stay in her own bed all night long.

Months went by and the Evil Mother battled the child night after night after night after night before finally deciding that letting the kid wander into the Parental Unit's bed in the middle of the night was preferable to dying of sleep deprivation.

And so it came to be that Alexis ended up in our bed every. single. night for months on end.

Every night. For months.

Until this past week.

Suddenly, on Day One of the Staycation, Alexis stayed in her own bed. Sleeping. Until 8:30. Why yes, she didn't just stay in her bed all night, she SLEPT IN.

Be still my heart.

On Day Two of the Staycation, she did it again. And again on Day Three. And Day Four. In fact, she slept late IN HER OWN BED every single day of Staycation.

The little sh*t KNEW we didn't need to get up and thought it would be fun to screw with us.

Mr. Husband has to be up at 5:30 tomorrow morning, and I have to be up at 6:15. $100 says Alexis wakes up screaming at least four times and ends up wrapped around my head like a Toddler Helmet before 2:00 am.

The little sh*t.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz . . . .

There are many most excellent ways to start your day: sleeping in, eating breakfast in bed, with a nice long uninterrupted shower. All good.

We were not so fortunate as to have started our day in anything resembling a good way. Rather, we were awakened 30 minutes before the butt crack of dawn by the cutting sound of a toddler saying, "I want Baby Shell." Yeah, OK, that doesn't seem all that bad, but she was in our bed, so the very-much-so out loud words were right in my ear. LOUD. I stumbled down the hall to the Toddler's room to fetch her doll, which was sleeping quite peacefully in the bed that is apparently awful to sleep in past midnight. I guess it turns into a pumpkin or something because the Toddler hasn't managed to stay in it all the way through to single digits for a while.

Back I stumbled with Baby Shell, handing her to the now sitting up toddler. I snuggled back into bed, all warm and cozy, and just as I was about to doze off again, "I want Miffy, please."

AGGLE FLAGGLE KLABABBLE. (That's my new way of swearing without swearing. It makes me laugh, so roll with it, please.)

Miffy is this enormous stuffed animal that I UNFORTUNATELY won from Madame Queen eons ago. Miffy was supposed to go to the local women's shelter and was, in fact, all boxed up and ready to go when Mr. Husband spotted her. And stole her. And wouldn't give her back. Miffy lives by his side of the bed, so he scooped the stupid thing up and gave it to the Toddler.

Just as we were about to return to the land of sweet dreams, the Toddler started talking again. I don't know what she said exactly as my brain was screaming AGGLE FLAGGLE KLABABBLE. SNURP. Little Miss Sunshine was Wide! Awake! and Ready! To! Go!

We ignored her. And ignored her. And ignored her. But then the butt crack of dawn arrived and Mr. Husband had to get up and get ready for work. Of course the Toddler followed him downstairs so she could demand that he turn on whatever nonsense is on Noggin at the butt crack of dawn. And of course she refused to go back upstairs when Mr. Husband had to leave for work. Her little booty was parked on the couch with Baby Shell in one hand and a plate full of waffles in the other.

I let her get babysat by the television. I am not proud.

Just as I was ready to throw some clothes on the kid and dash out the door, her decision to wake up ridiculously early suddenly crashed down on her like a ton of bricks. "I go to sleep," she said.

"If I can't go back to sleep, you most definitely aren't. Let's get your clothes on, please."

"WAAAAAAAAAHHHH." Commence the Sleepy Kid Fit Dance. I love that dance. It's the one where no matter what you do, they want you to do the opposite, even if what you do is exactly what they just told you to do. Next time she's just going to daycare in her pajamas, because the battle was most certainly not worth it. At all.

Somehow the kid managed to be decent, if not actually good, all day at daycare. I'm not real sure how she does that, but I think it's exceptionally unfair that she behaves for the people that are paid to hang with her and then has the audacity to save her grumps for us.

And -OH- how she saved the grumps for us. I spent a very large portion of the evening listening to her scream, "I'M NOT GRUMPY!" at me.

Little hint for the world, if you respond to, "You're grumpy," by screaming and having a hissy fit? YOU ARE GRUMPY. Don't deny it. Just say sorry and move on. (*Ahem*Mr. Husband*Ahem*)

Is it too much to ask that I get to sleep in, eat breakfast in bed, AND get a long uninterrupted shower tomorrow morning?

The Midnight Train Ride with an Eight-Armed Toddler

I most seriously wish someone had done a better job of warning me about the sleep deprivation that comes with having kids. It wouldn't have stopped the train from leaving the station, but I sure would have enjoyed that time BEFORE it left the station a little bit more. Right now I would say the deprivation is about 30% my own fault, but 70% of the blame falls firmly on the little shoulders of a certain short human who insists that she should recite War and Peace in her loudest toddler voice at all hours of the night.

Last night was an extra-special kind of night that included a late start to the Going to Bed Party for yours truly. I was all sorts of busy playing softball with some cool Pittsburgh bloggers and didn't get home until after the Toddler and Mr. Husband were already in bed. No problem, except that as I creeped up the stairs on my way to Zzzzzzland, I heard faint noises coming from The Toddler's room. So I did what any self-respecting parent would do, I rushed into the bathroom and closed the door to hide from her.

She found me.

She was pretty insistent that she needed to suction cup herself to my hip, so after a few minutes of ridiculous debate, I took her to bed with me. And we both fell asleep and lived happily ever after.

Except, not.

I have the distinct feeling that until the Toddler manages to grow some hair of her own (I think she has scheduled that activity for the year 2012), she is going to obsess over mine. The girl cannot keep her grubby little fingers out of my hair. Twirl, twirl, twirl. Pull, pull, pull. Yank, yank, yank. Twirl, twirl, twirl. So as soon as I tried to lay my head on the pillow, the overwhelming magnetic force of my fabulous hair drew her all the way over to my head, and the fingers dived right in for some twirly twirl.

I don't know about the rest of the world, but I can't fall asleep with a Toddler suction cupped to my head and twirling my hair. So, I engaged Operation Great Wall of Pillows. That's where I snap up a whole bunch of pillows and build a wall between the Toddler and my head. Sometimes Operation Giant Wall of Pillows works wonders and the Toddler ends up falling asleep while she's trying to climb it. Sure, she kicks Mr. Husband in the head 50 times doing it, but that's OK. He's not the one that got up with her every three hours for months and months so she could suck all the life force out of a boob. It's his turn for a little misery.

The Toddler must have been particularly alert last night for Operation Great Wall of Pillows was not such a success. Apparently the wall was missing some giant chunks of mortar because those chubby little hands kept managing to poke through. First they poked through up high. Then down low. Then on the left. And on the right. She suddenly had more hands jabbing around than a high school boy trying to unhook a bra strap, completely oblivious to the fact that it's a front-closure sort of contraption. I couldn't see the clock through the Great Wall, but I'm pretty sure the hand-to-hair combat went on for over 30 minutes.

I found myself wishing the Bulldog's butt was lying on my pillow instead of the Toddler.

This is an all-time low for me. Part of my brain knows that Bulldog butt stench is debilitating and potentially deadly, but the other part thinks that might be better than suffering through the pain of having each and every follicle of hair pulled out, slowly, and one at a time.

Can I get back on that train and take it to Zzzzzzland?

No Whine for Me

I was all set to whine and whine and whine about the middle of the night Attack of the Toddler Mouth episodes that have been going on as of late when I realized something.

It's Spring.

Almost Summer.

The temperature has been hovering mostly between the 40s and 70s, give or take a few days when Mother Nature forget to take her happy pills.

Guess who likes to keep the house windows open all through Spring and early Summer? The same people who live in a townhouse where we are ever so lucky as to have a fully attached neighbor. Who also likes to keep his windows open. Ten feet from our windows.

Huh.

I bet our neighbor is hating the middle of the night Attack of the Toddler Mouth episodes even more than I am. Last night he was ultra lucky and probably got to hear one side of a conversation that most likely sounded like this:

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I want Mommy."
"SIT DOWN."
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I want milk."
"MILK."
"No. I want water."
"NO WATER."
"I want Baby Shell."
"No Baby Shell!" *throws poor doll across room with enough velocity to take out an eye or two*
"I WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANT . . ."
"SIT DOWN."
"GO AWAY."
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I want Mommy."
"I want candy."
"I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaant . . . "
"I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaant . . . "

If the neighbor could have heard my side of the conversation, I'm sure it all would have made even less sense. However, I'm sure he only heard one side because between the Toddler and me, there is only one of us that hasn't learned to respect the laws of inside voices and the regulations regarding very minimal speaking at 11 o'too late in the night.

Maybe I ought to close the windows tonight. I'm sure there will be another hour-long Toddler Screamapalooza.

Of course, this is the same neighbor that decided he should hang some pictures on the wall (the wall that we share, mind you) at 11 o'too late in the night a few weeks ago. The hammering was in the smaller bedroom. Less than four feet from our sleeping Toddler. Who was awakened at 11 o'too late by the sounds of a hammer pounding on the wall right next to her.

Screw it. If I ain't sleeping, ain't nobody sleeping.

Tested and Failed (Again and Again and Again)

Earlier today, I was paging through the Infant Owner's Manual (What? You didn't get one? Clearly, you didn't tip the nurses in the delivery room well enough.), marveling at the number of things nobody ever told me. For example, everybody talks about the whole no sleep with a newborn thing, but HELLO! that is not the worst of it! Newborns and their inability to sleep several consecutive hours is logical, predictable, and I think, tolerable. It's when the one-year old randomly wakes up at 3:30 in the morning and won't go back to sleep that kills you. (Right, Jayesel?) Seriously. With a newborn, there are no expectations. Nobody expects you to cook, clean, look human. By the time they hit that first birthday, though, you're supposed to have your act together. The expiration date on whining is long past due and you're left stumbling through your days in a sleep-deprived fog. Fast forward to two, and it's a whole other level of cruelty that goes on with sleep deprivation.

(Alexis--Feel free to accept that as a challenge and stay in your own darn bed all night tonight just to spite me.)

Another thing missing from that Owner's Manual is instructional guidance on how to survive the daily tests kids put you through. Sure, the tests change from day-to-day, but why didn't anyone warn me that the rules to the tests change from minute-to-minute? I've lost like eight consecutive games of LELLO CAR! because I didn't know cars on TV were eligible, or that you can call the same car several times in the span of five minutes. So.not.fair.

I failed yet another test last night. Alexis and I were taking a walk through the neighborhood. As per her usual routine, Alexis was pointing out everything she saw and telling me what it was. And, as per usual, she decided it was time to test me by seeing if I knew what various things were.

"What's dat?"

"A tree," I replied.

"What's dat?"

"That's a house," I told her.

"What's dat sound?"

"That's the birds chirping," I reported.

"No, it's elephant," Alexis corrected with an incredulous look of disdain that I could be so stupid as to get that question wrong.

How am I ever going to pass all these tests if I don't even know the difference between a bird and an elephant?

Even Fairytales Have Their Whores

Once upon a time, in a beautiful land not so far away, there lived the Princess Toddler. The Princess Toddler was known throughout the kingdom as a fickle sleeper who demanded that her accommodations be just so. In fact, months ago she sent a decree to all who served her demanding that absolutely nothing be placed in her bed. Nothing large like a stuffed bunny and most certainly nothing small like a little pink puppy should ever touch the place she rested her weary little head. Each night, the Princess Toddler would inspect her sleeping quarters and if any items were found that were in violation of her decree, she punished her servants with a severe tongue-lashing and effective forms of torture such as sleep deprivation.

Then tragedy struck and the Princess Toddler lost her best friend. She struggled to adjust and found herself trying desperately to make new friends. Unfortunately, the Princess Toddler fell in with the wrong crowd and unwittingly befriended a hooligan by the name of Baby Shell.

Baby Shell was an insecure type, lacking in self-respect and morals. She frequently could be found engaging in questionable relationships with Furries such as Meg the Stuffed Bulldog, Big Bunny, Pink Puppy, Widdle Bear, Tigger, and Pooh. If we're being blunt, and I think we should, Baby Shell was a whore. She would sleep with anyone, just so long as they were furry and inanimate.

Baby Shell used peer pressure to convince the Princess Toddler that she too should engage in relations with the Furries. Before long, the Princess Toddler wrote a new decree. This time she demanded that her servants facilitate a sort of furry lovefest. Suddenly, the Princess Toddler's bed was filled with each and every furry beast there was to be found. In fact, her bed was so filled with Furries that there was nowhere for the Princess Toddler herself to sleep. So, she stayed awake and made her servants stay awake with her.

Now the Princess Toddler struggles to find a way to be true to herself while staying friends with that whore Baby Shell. Time will tell if the Princess Toddler will ever find her way back to sleeping bliss. In the meantime, the servants endure their torture, praying for the day that Baby Shell's grasp on the Princess Toddler's pysche is released, and dreaming of the day when all the Furries will go back in the toy box.

And sleep. They dream of sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep.

Getting What I Deserve

Remember this?



Yeah, I know. Who could forget it? Anyhoo, I totally got what I deserved for sharing that image with anybody. Last night I had the most wonderous dream about freaktastic dolls coming to life and attacking. Picture the Thriller video starring dolls. That thing up there? Starred in Michael Jackson's role.

Somewhere in the midst of this dream, my own personal roving Toddler apparently decided she was so over her own bed and wandered into our room. She brought her sweet little baby doll with her. I don't know exactly what transpired since I was busy protecting my face from evil doll claws, but I do know that when I woke up at 3:00 am, there was a FREAKIN' DOLL ON TOP OF ME.

No lie, Alexis' stuck her stupid doll on top of me before she went around to Mr. Husband's side of the bed to climb in.

Much screaming.

Not much sleeping.

I Know How I Rank

Last night, as I was turning off the lights in preparation for tucking Alexis into her miniature bed, she stumbled upon my sticker stash. The sticker stash that I have been using to reward her for staying in her bed all night, and that I aspire to one day use as a reward her for a successful potty breaks should pigs fly, Mars go into retrograde, and the miracle of pottying in the toilet ever actually happen. She clutched the edges of that sheet of stickers, staring hard with squinted blue eyes, trying to determine exactly which Dora sticker she should ask to have.

I told her, "You can have one in the morning if you stay in your bed all night."

She continued to stare and then excitedly spewed, "Dis one! Dora! Boots! Puuuuuweeze?"

I was tired, and I was weak, so I decided to let her have a sticker right then and there.

I carefully peeled it from the backing and she hurriedly adhered it to the back of her hand. With a grin, a "Dank you!" and a kiss, she snuggled into her sandpaper-like Mickey Mouse sheets. She softly stroked the precious Dora sticker, whispering excitedly to herself, until she finally fell sound asleep.

A few hours later, I heard the familiar sounds of tiny toddler feet shuffling quietly into our room. "Water, please," she whispered. It seemed a long way to walk for a drink of the exact same water that was in her cup right next to her bed, but there's really no point in arguing at 2:00 in the morning. As she handed the bottle back to me, I said, "Go back to bed, Alexis." She shuffled her bare little feet a few inches toward the door then paused. As she peered down at her tiny hands, softly illuminated by the glow of the alarm clock, her brow furrowed deep with thought.

Slowly, carefully, she peeled the Dora sticker from the back of her left hand and handed it to me. "Cuddle, please?" she hesitantly whispered.

My little Dora minion was willing to sacrifice a favorite sticker if it meant she could cuddle with me in my bed. Who could say no to that?

When You're Scatterbrained and You Know It, Go Random

I have too many ideas floating around in my head and can't seem to focus on just one, so I bringeth the randometh updates:

- Alexis has made it a habit to sleep though the night in her own little bed on the weekends and loudly meanders into my airspace on weekdays. You know, the days when I have to get up by 6:30. I'm going to pay her back for it by giving her first born child a professional drum set for his or her second birthday.

- The stupid ants continue to be a problem, albeit nowhere near as bad as last year. Despite my widespread use of drastic measures, I'm finding one or two of the little jerks crawling around in our house every day. Of course, along with those one or two lively ones are five to six dead ones, so I think that means I win. Sort of.

- A mother truckin' worm had the audacity to taunt me yesterday by poking its self out of a hole in the new aquarium. It was a big guy and I would have LOVED to have donned the gloves, grabbed the tweezers, and smashed his little booty. The only problem was that he (she? it?) was about 1/2 inch from the icky, ugly, nasty, gross, ucky brittle starfish. That starfish creeps me out far more than the worms (it's in there because their good scavengers and do a decent job of keeping the tank clean, functionality over beauty, baby) and my hands, even with gloves, absolutely positively will not be going that close to it. Stupid genius worm.

- I chuckled a little bit at Sandy's comment on yesterday's post that she was impressed that Alexis sat still that long for the daffodil photos. Heh. I can suggest that the Toddler sit in a particular spot, just like I can suggest that Mount Rushmore be moved to Alaska. Trust me, Mount Rushmore will move before that kid just sits around and lets me take pictures of her.

What really happened is that I went over to our hillside to take photos of the daffodils. I'm hoping to do a half decent job of keeping a garden diary this year, even if it is all in the form of photos. Of course the crew saw what I was up to, and all butted in like the self-centered creatures that they are. Alexis, for her part, was squealing, "Ook, Mommy, flowers!" while gently groping their delicate little blooms. I decided to use it as an opportunity to photograph her widdle hands since I'm obsessed with them. All told, she might have sat there for 37.6 seconds. Mr. Canon is a Rock Star of a camera and will take photos really really fast, so he captured a few dozen during that 37.6 seconds. When Mr. Canon does sweet things like that, it makes me want to make out with him. And hide my undergarments in his case.








Why, yes, Meg is a photo whore.

- Reminder: If you haven't entered the contest, get moving! If you have, go do it again! There are two prizes up for grabs and there will be choices involved with those prizes. Since I'm in a pleasant mood, I'll even give you a hint to one of the choices (shhh, Karen, don't tell!).

If You Need Me, I'll Be Worshipping at the Church of Dora

I think it's a pretty well-documented fact that I loathe the little Latina known as Dora. It's not that I'm opposed to her Spanish-speaking ways. After all, I speak Spanish and have started to teach a little to Alexis (She's been known to proclaim, "Claro que si" for no apparent reason--I did that, thankyouverymuch!). It's not that I have a problem, per se, with commercial characters. I tolerate Mickey Mouse and Pooh just fine. My problem with Dora is that I have no doubt that her puppet masters have smoked a whole lot of crack. If those scripts aren't written by a bunch of drunken doped up teenagers, then . . . I don't know what. You'd have to be blind and deaf not to realize that Dora's writers are about as in touch with reality as Britney Spears after a night of hanging out sans underwear in a gas station bathroom.

And yet, I suddenly find myself suddenly MADLY, DEEPLY IN LOVE with Dora. Really. I want to give her a big wet kiss on the lips. I want to stroke her hair, hug her, even caress her very-kickable, football-shaped head. I want to make out with Dora. There, I said it.

Remember how we bought Alexis Dora bedding? Remember how I made a big deal out of the new sandpaper sheets? Guess who has bought into my sales pitch?

Oh, yes.

My kid? Has been staying in her bed all night. She has even resumed sleeping through the night. In fact, she has only called for me in the middle of the night twice since we bought the tacky linens.

I have actually gotten a solid eight hours of sleep several times in the past week. And for that, I will forever worship Dora.

Long live Dora! And her crappy bedding!