Trisomy 21 Day

It's World Down Syndrome Day, so it's fitting that Paul is the inspiration for the piece which ran today over at Aleteia.  How I Learned Being a Saint is as Easy as Bedtime.  Enjoy.  And if you're curious, we're still battling him on getting to bed.

Night Shift

New moms get all the breaks. People advise them, "Sleep when the babies sleep," and bring ice cream.  Friends and family suggest date nights and "taking time for me."  

It makes sense.  Rookies need time to adjust to the reality of motherhood, which is not baby waking hours but every hour since the baby first came to be.   I used to joke, parent hours are from five a.m. to twelve midnight, but that was before I had teenagers.

Between teens on dates, teens with jobs, track and field hockey and all the other treats of summer, the window of non-necessary time has shortened on both ends.  My body is missing that extra hour.  Last night, I dreamed I was sleeping.  How tired do you have to be to have your subconscious fantasize about being unconscious?  

My daughter laughed when she saw "Sleep" on my to do list for the day, but I'm serious.

Last night, the four year old came to us at midnight because she had nightmares.  After cuddling, she took herself back to bed at one.  I figured, good for the night.  The light went on at 1:30.  A teen wanted a snack.   The light went on at 4 a.m.  My youngest son needed a change.  He had the grace to curl up at my feet in his blanket after I cleaned him up, but I hadn't the energy or the will to move him.   At 4:30, the four year old returned.  No reason, she just got in bed.

Within fifteen minutes, both children slept perpendicular to the bed, giving me a pillow sized space in between.  I cursed myself for checking the time.   Forty-five minutes until the first alarm.

I could get up, get a jump on the day, get dressed...I'd just opted "No." when  the son with cross country tryouts came running down the stairs to make sure I was awake so he wouldn't be late.

My brain sang a version of the Lego song in the shower.

Everything is awful.
Everything hurts when you don't ever sleep.
Everything is awful
....when you don't get to dream.

A diet coke later, I'm on the road wondering if it would be better if the teenager with a learner's permit took the wheel when he told me I drove like an old lady.   I'd sat at the red light musing about the idea of doing nothing all day for several days.   I imagined floating down a river, sitting at a pool, and feeling strained to open a book, lift a fork or even flip over to tan evenly.   The light turned green.

I told him, there is never a situation when calling someone an old lady is a compliment, it was very early, I hadn't slept and it was closer to home than the school such that his taxi felt taxed to be transportation at this point in the day.  

He had the grace to mend his speech....though the substitute of Wise for Old, wasn't too much of an improvement.

Worse, my body is starting to adjust, to wake up after four hours, expecting to have to do something.

So I've begun strategizing.  There isn't a manual for parents of older children on how to get them to understand, you're closed.  I've tried saying the Internet and the server is down, I'm going offline, off the grid, I'm done, but they don't understand my being tired if they're not.

In the meantime, I've crafted the beginnings of a plan.

First Rule:  Post hours of operation, pad the hours on both ends.  

Second Rule: Have incentives for teens who allow 8 hours that rival Price is Right Showcase Showdowns.  Pay for each hour over six you're allowed to rest.  I've got a coupon for Amazon and one for pizza.  All yours if I get to Carpe Diem the night.

Third Rule:   If all else fails, I'm  finding a cheap artsy movie theatre and wearing dark sun glasses. I will pay for the opportunity to sit still for three hours.  I just hope I don't snore.

7 Quick Takes Friday

1.  Circle of Life...

Wednesday, there was a bunny in our garage. I didn't mind it, it's cute, it's not a pet and no one is going to be fearful of going out to get a bike or a diet coke with a long eared baby ball of fluff hopping around.  

Thursday, there is a four foot long black rat snake in our garage hunting.  

Friday.  Since there was no mongoose lurking outside my door, I called the exterminators. 

2.  Because Life isn't Thrilling Enough

I also had to call 911 yesterday when I smelled gas in the kitchen. I'd relit the pilot lights, run the fans and after 15 minutes to clear the air and still having it, two huge (made my 12 passenger van look puny) fire trucks pull up and check everything out.  Everything is fine. No worries.  But it did mean the evening was semi-shot.

3.  Bummed...Bummed...Bummed. 

May was supposed to be the big movie month with Iron Man 3 and StarTrek II.  We didn't make it last week and somehow, some of the steam for going has been lost, and the reviews for the second flight of Abrams' Enterprise crew has left me feeling like it might not be worth the thirty bucks.  Has anyone seen Iron Man 3? Is it a good flick for a date night? Need to discover something to obsess over until the next season of BBC's Sherlock Holmes comes out.

4.  Facebook asks what's on my mind? Apparently too much. Paul's teacher said, "I bet you're looking forward to Sunday?" and my brain when completely into panic mode ...like What DID I FORGET? IS THERE SOMETHING ON THE SCHEDULE THAT I FORGOT TO WRITE UP? AHHHHH   and she looked at me, "It's your day...Mother's day?" 

Ohhhhhh. Yeah. You meant me. I'm better now.

5.  What do you want to do for Mother's day?

Now that I think of it, I want to assemble the grill, have brisket or ribs or steaks, and set a plan for painting and re caulking the bathrooms.   If any of my children are reading this, I'd also like a gym membership. 

6.  Homeland Security

No, I'm not doing a political post. It's just I'm having to stand guard outside Paul's room to make sure lights go out.  It isn't just him though, my other kids have become accustomed to bedtime extensions that have become the bedtime expectations.  8 has become 8:30 has become 9 has become....after nine.  After nine, I am not interested in parenting. 

So after multiple attempts and parental warnings, my husband employed a tactic to get all of the children's attention. He turned off the power to the upstairs.  Suddenly, beds looked MUCH more attractive.  I'm hoping any child that reads this blog didn't make it this far but dutifully left after #5 to go hold a meeting with their fellow siblings about Mother's day so they don't find out what their father did. 

7.  File under A...for Annoying.

My children put out the trash and recycling. Sometimes they get to it the evening before, sometimes it is last minute the morning of...today was one of those "the morning of" moments.  I go out to run  the kids to school and find an orange paper slapped on my recycling bin at 7:30, the contents within still not picked up.  The note explained that the recycling was not picked up because it was not curbside by 7 o'clock a.m.  So someone works for the county to leave notes to those who don't put out their stuff before 7 after the truck goes by?  I admit, I felt tempted (out of annoyance) to put said recyclables in the trash in response.  I didn't, but are we really saving the Earth if we have a person paid to drive around leaving notes on why recycling didn't get picked up?  

Good Night Everybody

You know those holograms that every future show has that are so life like people fall in love, forget themselves and can even die as a result of entering into the false reality so completely.  I want one of those for my house.  I don't want it because I need more excitement in my life, or because I can't easily travel to far off exotic locales.  I want it so I can project a large Bengal tiger parked just outside my children's bedrooms. 

The tiger will only come out at night.  I will give out the notice that it will eat the first child that comes out of their room after nine.  It's not that they can't hang from the chandeliers and read until their eyeballs collapse, it's that I don't want to see or hear from people under the age of 21 after 21 hundred hours.  Mom is closed.  She's done. She's tired and she doesn't want commentary on if she's using the computer, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream or slumming watching on demand cooking shows.  She wants off hours and from 9 o'clock to 5 a.m, it's the equivalent of Mom miller time.  All children wandering shall be fed to the tiger. 

I know, that sounds harsh, but it's not like I haven't tried.  Even when we've done the whole routine of stories and tooth brushing and prayers and I love yous as I turn out the lights and tuck in people, I've still been forced to play the parent equivalent of whack-a-mole.  They're inventive about this business.  My children come up or downstairs as the case may be for water, toothbrushes, to have me kill a stink bug, remind me to make cookies for tomorrow, to get a towel or a shirt for the next day, to pack their back pack with their homework that I'd been asking them to pack for the past four hours, to tell me what they forgot to say all during the day when I'd asked how their day was, to use the bathroom, to show me a bruise they got on the playground three days ago that they just noticed, or that they've lost one of their shoes, ripped their pants and that their little sister is snoring.   That's just today's sampling. 

But since that might be frowned upon by modern parenting standards, I'll settle for a holographic version of reality for just me, a faux version of my own house with the clock reading 9:01 pm, and all the kids either in their rooms or asleep....ahhh...the soothing unreality of unrealized dreams of people dreaming projected in real time.  Nobody pinch me.  

Pillow Talk

Sometime after a child manages to climb out of the crib, he or she decides that Mom and Dad’s bed is the only place to hang out after dark. Consider our latest two-year-old, who views head butts as a means of greeting a sleeping adult. At four in the morning, usually one is only dimly aware of having the covers invaded. Most of our earlier two year olds were content to snuggle up to the parent of their choice and hope general fatigue would prevent eviction.

Not so this one. She Who Would Be Two must have an audience on which to work her kewpie doll toddler magic, so Mom or Dad must wake up.

Wham!****

Curiously, the intensity of pain increases as one becomes more alert.

Oh, ow, ow, Ow, Ow, OW, OW, OW! I’m up. I’m up. Ow! I’m up.

She Who Would Be Two, having accomplished objective one, has started phase two of her plan, singing a soft sweet lullaby as if nothing happened. She hopes to melt any potential irritation brought on by a throbbing head and tender nose with cuteness. She looks at me and giggles. It works. Her Father and I the Mom have a standing rotation of alternate nights as to who gets to handle wandering monsters. Nothing happened last night.

It figures.

“Come here.” I the Mom take her in my arms and pull the covers over us both, hoping she will drop off quickly and then I can carry her to her own bed. I the Mom am completely gone in less than a minute.

It’s boring sitting in the dark with two sleeping adults who should be up and playing games with She Who Would Be Two.

She dimly recognizes that if she pushes too hard, either Her Father or I the Mom will carry her back to her own bed. So She Who Would be Two tries finding a comfortable position. For the uninitiated to the world of toddlers, this involves stretching to one’s maximum height and lying down perpendicular to the adults, ensuring that most of the real estate of the mattress is in the toddler’s domain. (It’s just more comfortable that way).

Adults vaguely aware of losing property rights, scoot and contort their bodies in an effort to remain unconscious for as long as possible, even allowing legs or arms to drape off the edge or surrendering all covers and pillows as a concession for being allowed to continue sleeping. Alas, appeasement seldom works. She Who Would Be Two remains listless.

There is a phone next to the alarm clock, keys, wallet, a CD player and a lap top. She Who Would Be Two has watched her parents use these. They look like fun. I the Mom somehow register that in the middle of the night, something is not right and open one eye to discover the wallet has been emptied. She Who Would Be Two has also turned off the alarm and placed a call. She is still talking on the phone. Someone is answering her back.

Fully alert, I snatch the phone from her hands. "Hello." I say into the phone a bit too loudly. "I'm sorry my daughter..." It is a recording. I hand the phone back to my tearful daughter and tell her to hang up. She is satisfied with an "How Rude." look at me as she hangs the phone up.

Taking back the keys and the wallet, she pouts at me. She's in the wrong and I feel bad. She sucks her thumb and shuts her eyes in a contented smile and pulls the covers up. I was going to move her. Looking at her sweetly almost sleeping, I can't believe I would be so cruel. Then I'm mad I'm such a sap.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The early get up and agoing alarm has sounded, waking She Who Would Be Two but not Her Father. She cries.

The conscious adult I the Mom must then make the calculated judgment, difficult at a predawn time. Should I get up? Should I take her to her bed? Can I go back to sleep? If I get up now I could….insert tedious task here.

Changing diapers, offering water and tucking in doesn’t earn much time in the morning, but it does stand the outside chance of predisposing She Who Would Be Two to go to sleep or at least lie quietly in the bed for a little while. Following the dutiful adult routine, the now completely zombified I the Mom returns to bed, just in time for the second nag alarms to sound their evil call. Hitting the snooze, I crawl under the covers, sleep is coming fast, I the Mom can feel it.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I wake again, feeling the tender part of my nose, a parting gift from She Who Would Be Two. Making a fist to smash the alarm, I the Mom blink and survey the room. There is a new trail of toys showing the path the toddler took to get to Mom and Dad’s room. Picking up a stuffed monkey puppet, naked Barbie, three shoes, sippy cup and bed spread, I the Mom swallow a yawn while considering the morning ahead.

Can I collapse the schedule to grab another fifteen minutes or will slowness now result in a hectic day where every event would be easy if only I had fifteen more minutes then. Just as I’ve abandoned common sense and put my feet into the cave of the still warm blankets, She Who Would Be Two is back.

“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two says expectantly with all the innocent sweetness and full sincerity she can muster.

It’s not going to work this time I the Mom think as I set my will. I’m going to sleep.

“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two repeats.

When she ages, maybe I'll rechristen myself I The Mom Who Sleeps.

Maryland is for Crabs

My mom sends Christmas Pajamas every year. Sometimes she worries that P.J’s aren’t the most exciting gift to get at Christmas, but they are seriously looked forward to every year by everyone.

This year, it was a Lobster motif. The pants had lobsters on a navy background. They were fun. The younger ones had those onsies with footies. After three days of wearing the lobster pajamas, I declared the sleepware needed a break, and a wash!

Getting dressed for bed, my three year old daughter was visibly upset. She marched up to me in her substitute night gown for the evening with a dark frowny face. “I Want My Crabs!” she snapped.

To Dream Perchance of Them Sleeping

Some nights bedtime is like playing Whack A Mole at the carnival, except it’s the gophers that have the mallets and they’re playing Whack a Mom or Make a Mom Wacky, depending upon how late it gets. After bathing, brushing hair, brushing teeth and bedtime stories, prayers and kisses, I’m done…and if I want it all done by 8:30, the bath water has to start running at 7:15 …am.

Summer has not helped matters. With no place to have to be, the kids have far less incentive to sleep. We have tried explaining, parents have an evening expiration time, at which point, they no longer wish to keep functioning as Mom and Dad. We need downtime…when we could read, write, eat Moose Track Ice Cream without sharing. The children think such things would lead to parental idleness.

Getting them up early to face the consequences of late nights as grown-ups must sounded promising. But tired children fight. Tired children growl. These “See now you’ll understand and listen to me because you’ve experienced the consequences of your actions” lessons never work out the way we intend.

We’ve sought to be creative about this process, alternating nights between boys and girls for shower purposes, pairing readers with non readers to speed up the routine, even ignoring some of the choices for sleepwear that indicate no change of clothes had taken place. I'm not a crazy person; I just want all sentient and non sentient beings under the age of 18 in their rooms and officially out of our jurisdiction after 8:30 pm.

The strategies we've employed have all worked about equally well, which is to say, they function for the duration that they enjoy the added glow of novelty. Turning off every light and sitting in darkness has just meant we got to field requests for water, kisses; finding books/stuffed animals, extra stories, etc. while being unable to see. Threatening carnage on the first child to come down the stairs has always meant we had to deal with a preventable crisis, the direct result of offspring following our never before enforced draconian edicts.

Oftentimes, the kids employ craft to stay out of their rooms at night. They give Dad back rubs. They bring him milk in a tall glass, ask him about his day, and offer him cookies. With me, they figure sheer numbers will keep me from getting to them individually for at least 20 minutes, and they’re right. Lacking the energy to enforce my will, I decided to try being Dad.

“Can I have a glass of milk?” I asked my nine year old. He got me one.

“And a foot rub?” I asked hopefully. Two children immediately began massaging my feet. It occurred to me, I could have a spotless home if I allowed the kids to stay up as long as they kept working.

My feet being massaged, three more children showed up. “Oh good, you’re just in time, I need a few people to fold the clothes.” I beamed. “I’ve decided, you may all stay up if you fold all the laundry.” I point to Mt. Everest sitting in the red room awaiting a good hour of work. “And then the dishes.”

The sounds of swiftly shutting doors and lights being flicked off left me thinking, “Darn, should have just stayed with the foot rub.”

If this didn't make you nod off, you might let them know over at Humor-Blogs.com