Quack Quack

Sometimes as parents we have these brilliant ideas that we quickly realize are based entirely on fantasy. Like, going out to lunch with a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old -- neither of whom have proven that they can sit still for longer than 3.15 minutes. Dining out is not something we do on a regular basis, but we were all out together after a dentist appointment, and Chubby's Tacos was right across the street. And I was in a pleasant, "let's do something as a family" kind of mood.

"Do you want to go to Chubby's?" I asked Robert.

He paused and looked at me like I had three heads. "You mean go inside?" he asked.

I thought for a moment. "Yes, inside."

"Um, okay," he said reluctantly.

We walked inside, and I imagined that everyone was looking at us, admiring our fortitude and easy breezy demeanor. The kids were jabbering quietly. We didn't have to wait long in line. I picked out a nice table in the corner. We sat down, the Chubby's lady brought us our food, and everything was right in the world.




Yet, I was suspicious. I felt uneasy, like I was staring at a pot of soup that was simmering nicely but knew would start to boil and run over and make a huge mess of the stove top. I wanted to believe that my kids would behave, eat a decent amount, and keep their bottoms in their chairs. I have this theory in life that if you believe that something is going to happen, you attract that energy, and increase the chances of it coming true. So I was trying really hard to push any thoughts of messiness, loudness, and pickiness from my mind. But it's really hard to do that when you are a mother of young children. And it doesn't help when you are an anxious, foreboding freak like me.

Sure enough, within 3.15 minutes, things began to deteriorate. Maeve had eaten her three bites of chicken, and was refusing anymore. She had also carelessly set her rubber duck (toy from dentist office) on the table, which provided an opportunity for Max to confiscate it. I'm not sure when she will learn to keep her toys clutched to her body at all times. It would certainly make life easier for all of us. Max had also moved from a sitting position to a standing position. This change in stance is always a warning of imminent escalation and discord.




I told Max to drop the duck, as he was intent on making it fly dangerously close to his wayward fork. Maeve sensed that her duck's safety was in jeopardy, and demanded it back, "I wanna my duck!" she said over and over again. I noticed that Robert was managing to eat while occasionally ordering Max to sit down. I had only eaten a couple bites of my taco, but it was not sitting well. How can a person digest her lunch when facing a fight or flight situation? Obviously husbands do not have the same issues with digestion.

Do you ever watch your own life unfolding like it's a horror movie and you are to scared to actually participate? That's what happened next. By this point, half of our lunch was on the floor. Maeve was now standing up in her high chair, shrieking for her duck. And Max was on the run. He had apparently decided to drop the duck -- in the trash can. Despite being paralyzed by embarrassment and fear, I managed to yell, "Stop him!" As if some magical unicorn might materialize to rescue the duck from its dirty demise. Luckily Robert is a more practical person, and got his ass up to chase after Max.




I think at this moment, everyone in the restaurant placed their forks down, opened their mouths in awe, and held their loved ones tightly. Before Robert or any unicorn could intercede, Max dropped the duck in the trash can, and moved his path of destruction to an innocent bystander's table, stealing his salt shaker and sprinting in circles around the restaurant. I asked Robert to get the duck, and again, he looked at me like I had three heads. I looked in the trash can, and pretended to see it. "It's right there! I just can't reach it," I said. Robert falls for that one every time. Maeve forgot momentarily about the plight of her duck, and asked, "Where go Max?"
Instead of fighting or flighting, I chose pretending like we didn't know him. It works in a very temporary way.




Robert did eventually find the duck, and he took it to the bathroom for washing. The poor thing was covered in refried beans and pico de gallo. He also managed to convince Max to help him clean the duck, while I smiled wearily at the gawking diners and quickly threw away our largely uneaten lunch. (Except for Robert -- he had a clean plate). I'm still unsure about what exactly happened to the salt shaker.

On the way home, we were traumatized. No one said anything. I knew we were all thinking the same thing though. "Why in the hell did we just do that???" The answer is quite obvious, and has been for quite sometime. We are a bunch of quacks.



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Willy Nilly

I have never had a dog, but I do have the next best thing -- a newly potty-trained three-year-old boy. His primary interest, other than balloons, play-doh, and stomp rockets, is exercising his right to pee wherever he chooses. At first, I wasn't the biggest fan of peeing in places other than bathrooms, probably because, as a woman, I really had not had much practice with this custom. I mean, in times of desperation, I'm not above squatting, but it certainly is not something that gives me excitement or pride. However, as a man, my husband Robert explained to me that peeing without the confines of a toilet is actually not uncomfortable at all. Quite the opposite, it's liberating, convenient, and even a little bit fun.

So I've been making an effort to open my mind to the possibilities for peeing. Max and I often have question and answer sessions about the boundaries and rules for out-of-the-bathroom pee adventures. They go like this:

"Can I pee on that tree?" asks Max.

"Are we in a private place?" I ask him. We look around and see no signs of our nosy neighbors or friendly mailman.

"Yes," says Max.

"Okay, then. You can pee on that tree."

Max requests my help to strip down. He cannot pee unless his shorts and underwear are completely off. And his socks and shoes. Then he does his business with a mischievously gleeful grin on his face.




He also rationalizes his outdoor eliminating by telling us that he's watering the tree. Maeve stands close by and watches with fascination. She points at him, says, "yay!" and claps when he's finished. Then I have to help him get dressed again. But at least I don't have to change his diaper anymore, right?

Sometimes things don't go exactly as planned.

"Can I pee on that leaf?" Max asks.

We both ensure privacy. "Yes," I say. "Go ahead."




It is not clear if his misfire is intentional or accidental, but either way, now I have to redress all three of us since we got peed on. The poor cat is left to groom himself. The leaf didn't even get wet.

I try not to get angry in these situations. I'm proud of Max for achieving this developmental milestone and don't want him to feel embarrassed about a completely natural body function.

Sometimes, however, things get a little more off course.

The other day, while I was doing the dishes, I noticed this scene unfolding out of the corner of my eye:




Max had skipped the question and answer session, and unanimously decided that it would be a good idea to pee in the floor vent. At that moment, I did not care about preserving his integrity. I screamed at him, "What are you doing????" He seemed miffed that the hole in a toilet was appropriate for peeing, but a hole in our living room was not.

Luckily, he hasn't brought up any desire to poop anywhere other than in the potty.



Max is a bit disturbed by the sound of his poop hitting the water. He gasps in surprise. And he flushes the toilet eagerly, as if he's afraid the plopping noises will continue.

Thankfully, Max does not poop with the same reckless abandon as he pees. If he did, I might seriously consider trading him in for a nice housebroken dog. For now, though, I'll keep the three-year-old and maybe buy a pair of rubber boots in case of rain.


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Don't Feed the Bears (Juice Included)

One of the things I know about myself and wish I could change is my tendency to have plans for every single day of the week. It's gotten to the point that when I don't have something scheduled, I feel dark and gloomy and my kids behave like caged animals. I end up sitting on the couch, contracted into a fetal ball, while my kids torture each other. Doesn't that sound like fun??




The good thing is that I have a best friend (aka monster bestie) who feels the same way that I do! So, we get together several times a week, and sometimes have family dates on the weekend. This past Saturday, we decided to go to the Durham Life and Science Museum. Actually, monster bestie decided, and I concurred. That's how it works with us. She's the one who picks the place because I have a hard time making those types of decisions. She even will remind me of things like teacher workdays, and our kids don't even go to the same school anymore! Yes, she is that amazing. No, you can't have her.

The bad part about making plans on the weekend is that you don't consider how tired you might be from your busy week. Everyone was a bit on edge as we were rushing to get ready. And of course we were running late, because we are always running late. I barked at Robert and the kids like I was a drill sergeant, not because I'm naturally a bitch, but because I wanted to make sure we had everything we needed. And maybe I'm just the tiniest bit of a natural bitch, too. "Don't forget their juices!" "You forgot to put the stroller in???" "Max, put your shoes on!" "Maeve, come here NOW so I can do your hair!"

By the time we got in the car, everyone was stressed out and irritable. Except for Robert. He was quiet and would not look at me. That's how he handles chaos, by retreating into some world inside his head that includes no loud, obnoxious wife or whiny children. Meanwhile, both kids were crying, and I was yelling at them to have a fun time.




The museum is about 30 minutes away, so I thought that would give us plenty of time to settle down and put on our happy faces. The worst thing ever is to show up for a family date with a grumpy family. It would be like showing up at a birthday party without a present. My rules for family dates are as follows: 1) Everyone should be dressed slightly nicer than average, but not so nice as to attract undue attention. No one wants to hang out with an unkept family or an overly pretty family. 2) Everyone should be in a good mood or at least pretending to be in a good mood. No one wants to hang out with a mopey family. 3) Everyone should be organized and have their shit together. No one wants to hang out with a family who is always asking to borrow wipes or sunscreen or snacks.

But things were not going to go according to my rules today. Robert spent a good five minutes chasing Max around the parking lot of the museum. I pretended that I wasn't with them and walked to the entrance with Maeve. They were not far behind us. Maeve saw the button to open the doors and hurried over to push it. Usually Max has the monopoly with button pushing, but today Maeve had a clear advantage. This was the moment that set the mood for the rest of the day. The doors clicked and began to open. Max reacted like someone he loved dearly had just been shot in the back. "Nooooooo!" he screamed.




To placate him, I had to let the doors close completely, guard the button with my life while we waited, and them let him push it. When we got inside, monster bestie was waiting for us at the check in desk to let us know that she had already purchased our train tickets. Side note: monster bestie has a 3-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a newborn, and still manages to be more organized and on time than I ever am.

"Where to first?" I asked her.

"I thought we could go outside first since it might start raining, and then play inside. Our train ride is at 11:30, so we have time for the farm animals and dinosaur walk," monster bestie said.

I felt a sense of comfort then. Maybe this day would take a turn for the better. Maybe our kids would skip cheerfully together through the museum, while monster bestie and I shared meaningful adult-centered stories. The hubbies would be in the background somewhere, being the best hubbies they could be. Here is a diagram of our family date:




We looked at the farm animals, diligently mooing and baaing for our children's benefit. We walked on a path with giant dinosaur figures hiding behind every corner. I even did my best to read the placards of dinosaur facts out loud to Max. He is very interested in dinosaur information. Monster bestie kept us on a schedule so I didn't even have to worry about making our train ride on time. I could count on her to tell us to pick up the pace if we needed to. In fact, I think she probably could have told us how many feet we needed to walk per minute.




We all had a nice train ride, except monster bestie who sat on the sidelines with monster baby El. Her hubby pointed out that this move was strategically smart because she got a little time to herself. We even hypothesized that she would sprint back to the check in desk to buy more tickets for us so that she could have even more alone time. This is something that I would definitely think about doing, but I seriously doubt that monster bestie thought about it at all. She would be more likely to have regret for not experiencing that train ride with her kids. Yet another mothering gene that I do not possess.

The next stop was to see the bears. I love bears. I've always wanted to roll around with one, but I'm also equally afraid of getting mauled to death, so I love them from a distance. I always have these high expectations of what the bears will be doing, and I'm always disappointed. On this day, they were napping on some rocks and scratching their molting fur. No juggling, giving birth, or doing back flips into their pool. Damn, I'm sure we just missed that stuff!

All of these activities required quite a bit of walking. Max was starting to grow weary. He was alternating with Maeve in our stroller since we don't own a double stroller (hiss hiss boooooo!). At this particular time, he was walking up a long boardwalk, overlooking a marshy pond. I had just handed him his sippy cup of juice and all seemed well until... it wasn't. This is what happens when Max gets tired. A happy, peaceful scene can turn into the Texas Chainsaw Massacre within seconds.
Max said sullenly, "I don't want this juice!" He began running toward the wooden ledge, cup poised mid-air. Things began to move in slow motion now, and I saw the events unfolding like I was a little bird in a tree. I ran after him.




I screamed at him, "Stop!!! No!!!!! Don't do it!" I felt like the entire world stopped for just a moment to see if I could catch him. Not a chance in hell. He threw that cup over the ledge, down to the water below. I think that Max likes to leave evidence of himself wherever he goes. I need to teach him how to carve his initials in a tree instead of littering the world with pacifiers, sippy cups, and pocket-sized toys.




A woman standing behind us feared the worst. She asked very solemnly, "Did someone jump?" Max, on the other hand, wanted Robert to shimmy down the post of the ledge and retrieve his sippy cup. And so did I, for that matter! I hated the thought of leaving our sippy cup floating around in that pond for all eternity.



Realizing that retrieving the cup was impossible, we all decided to flee the scene. As we walked back toward the main museum, I had that uneasy feeling you get when you've done something horribly wrong. I was convinced that everyone knew. I was convinced that everyone was staring at us. Monster bestie had raced ahead to find a spot to nurse monster baby El. Monster bestie's hubby nudged me then, and said, "Look! We are definitely getting thrown out."



It was a museum official! Heading to the pond with a walkie talkie in hand. "We have a report of a juice cup in the water. Animal down! I repeat, animal down!" monster bestie's hubby said in his best walkie talkie voice. He reaffirmed my worst fear -- that somehow this foreign plastic container had maimed or wounded an innocent animal. Almost simultaneously, my fight or flight instinct took over. We couldn't get caught! "Come on! Let's get out of here," I said. Max kept asking if that man was going to get his juice. I shushed him repeatedly, he was giving us away.

I wished in that moment that monster bestie was there. She'd know what to do. I wondered where she went to nurse.



Later on, she told me that she had forgotten her cover, so she nursed standing up in the bathroom stall. This doesn't exactly fit in with the story, but I really wanted to draw a picture of her nursing in a public restroom. For the record, I wholeheartedly disagree that any woman should have to nurse in a place where you deposit your waste. Nursing is not a bathroom duty. But I get that not every woman feels comfortable with her boobs on display. Thank goodness we all have this choice!

What is the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Do not let your tired, cranky child out of the stroller? Do not give your child sippy cups near the ledges of marshy ponds? Do not visit the bears, even if they do fabulous tricks?

Those all seem a bit extreme. But I think I'll go with them.




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Location:Just a Typical Saturday

I Need My Fingernails!

One week ago:

Once in a while, Robert and I decide to cut the kids' fingernails so they don't claw people to death. Neither of them like this task very much. Robert and I don't like it either. You have to simultaneously restrain the child, grasp the hand, and avoid getting head butted in the process. Oh, and try your best not to cut off any fingertips in the process. Worst feeling ever when you make your own kid bleed...

I usually make Robert trim Max's nails because I'm afraid to do it myself. No, seriously. He's strong! And each clip you make, he wails like you are performing an amputation.



We make him pick up the fingernail clippings and throw them away. He studies them in the same sort of way as he does boogers -- like they are oddly grotesque but also quite fascinating. He will admire his hands afterward, with tears still glistening in his eyes, and say, "They're clean!"

Yesterday:

The fingernails do tie in to this story, you'll see.

Max has the most excruciatingly annoying habit of asking for 17.3 million things while I'm driving. Maeve only asks for 5.2 million things, so I don't tend to complain about her as much. He asks for something to drink, something to eat, a pacifier, a toy that is completely unreachable or nonexistent, a very old french fry, and sometimes even for locations, people, and situations. "I want to go to grandma's house." "I want to go see my friends." "I want the baby to shut up."

Yesterday, he wanted a juice box. And Maeve chimed in for one too.



I am in no way advocating to cater to your child's every whim while driving. But I find that ignoring their requests and therefore hearing about it over and over again drives me insane, which really isn't safe either. So I do my best to hand them things at red lights and scream at them that I'm driving and that they are going to get us killed over a juice box. And then I usually make a comment about the relative unimportance of thirst compared to being upside down on the side of the road.

Silly me, I made the mistake of being considerate and putting the straw in his juice box before handing it to him. How could I have been so stupid? He became enraged at my folly and demanded a new juice box with an unopened straw. I gave the other juice box to Maeve.



I thought I would get some peace and silence for a few minutes while they slurped down their juice. But I was wrong. I heard Max struggling while trying to unwrap his straw. I expected him to either toss the juice box over his shoulder in frustration, or hand it back to me and ask for my help. The unpredictability of a three-year-old leaves me in constant fear of the worst reaction but also hopeful to a fault for the best reaction.

Instead, he went in a completely different direction.



Maybe next time we trim his fingernails, we should put them in a plastic baggy and keep them close by. You never know when you might need them to open a straw wrapper.

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Monkey Business

Both of my kids are climbers. I don't exactly have pictures of them in action because I'm too busy trying to save their lives instead of hunting for my camera. So I've drawn a few diagrams to show just how precarious life can be with monkeys for children.

Last week, after picking up Max from school, the three of us walked to our van, holding hands and perhaps even whistling or singing a little tune. I was in a good mood. I was happy to see Max after spending a quiet morning with Maeve. It was lunchtime. The sun was out, and we were just happy to be alive. Looking back on the scene now, I realize that many terrifying events are immediately preceded by ignorant bliss. Thank goodness, because if we always knew what was going to happen next, would any of us get out of bed in the morning?

I opened both van doors, and told Max to get in his car seat. I picked up Maeve and started to buckle her in, but within mere seconds, I heard Max screaming in a most startling way, "MOMMY!!!!!!" Immediately, fear and panic set in. He sometimes has the habit of running off down the street, and I thought for a split second that when I looked up, I would see him splattered in the road. But his voice did not sound distant; it sounded... up. I stepped away from the van and heard him again, "Mommy, look!!!!" Max had crawled up and was now standing on top of the van. He was not scared or upset -- he was overjoyed. Several people in the parking lot had stopped what they were doing to stare at Max's victorious feat. I screamed at him to get down. "It's not funny!! You might fall and break your leg! Or fall on mommy and break my leg!" He seemed truly mystified that I wasn't more impressed.



Maeve has either inherited the climbing gene as well or has learned the necessary skills from her brother. Occasionally during the day, I have to pee. I try to hold it for as long as possible, because taking the time pee opens the door for all sorts of mayhem to take place. And no, I don't sit on the toilet for five minutes and check my email. I get right to business. But my kids don't need five minutes to find trouble. They only need five seconds. It was mysteriously quiet while I was peeing, which concerned me right away. I had to pee a lot though, cause I had been holding it for so long, and the whole process seemed never ending. I wiped, flushed, washed my hands, and held my breath. When I walked out of the bathroom into the kitchen, this is what I saw:



Maeve had scaled the drawers and gotten herself on the countertop! And she was dangerously near the edge, stomping her little feet, saying, "Weeeeeee!!" Max of course became immediately jealous and wanted to get up there too. Maeve threw a fit when I made her get down, and seemed equally confused as to why I didn't get the same joy from her game.

Now I know that this might seem a bit far fetched, but I have a fear that the two of them are going to team up one day to conquer something really big. It will more than likely be on a day that I have to poop. They'd need more time to conspire. I imagine looking for them all over the house, and hearing a very far away pair of voices saying, "Look, Mommy!!" Finally, I would go outside. Maybe they'd be playing in the yard, kicking a soccer ball like normal children like to do. But instead, I will find this:



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Letting Go of the Balloon

The difference between my kids can best be described by these two pictures.








Max has always been, well, easily provoked. Emotional. Sensitive. Maeve, on the other hand, is smiley, easy going, and predictable.

Max also seems to be the one who worries. A lot. Everything in his complicated three-year-old life is a drama. Even the most seemingly insignificant things cause a ridiculous amount of anxiety. And that usually leads to him screaming. And that eventually results in me screaming. As for Maeve, she looks at us like we are nuts. Like she doesn't really get us or care to get us for that matter.

I'll give you a few examples. Max is newly potty trained. He's doing a great job. But, the practical and sometimes messy reality of the bathroom oftentimes causes him to lose his shit (sorry, I'm a sucker for puns). In particular, he finds it very disturbing when he misfires and pees on the toilet seat. And he doesn't just say, "uh oh." He stops midstream and insists that I give him toilet paper to clean it up. He laments. He looks at the toilet seat with this tragic expression, as if he just discovered a dead rat in the toilet. "Oh, NOOOO! There's pee! Oh no oh no oh no!" Maeve stands in the background with this look on her face, and though she doesn't say it, I imagine that she's thinking, "Who cares????"




Here's another one. I bought Max several balloons for his 3rd birthday last March. A few days after the party, I agreed to let him take them outside. Even though I knew better. Even though I knew he'd let them go. I knew he'd freak out. And I hate letting balloons go. I worry that when it pops, a duck might peck at it and choke or that a fox might eat it and get a bowel obstruction. For the record, I have NO idea where Max gets his fretful personality from. Well he did exactly what I thought. He laughed gleefully for a few moments and I thought, "maybe this will turn out okay." But then the unimaginable happened. The balloons got stuck in a tree. "Oh NO!!! Look, mommy," he shouted, pointing at the balloons. "They're stuck!!!" I tried to console him. I made up stories about how the balloons actually WANTED to be stuck in the tree. How they LIKED it. Max believed none of it. Every single day since that fateful morning, every single day, when we go outside, Max asks about those damn balloons. He can't even see them anymore because they slowly and painstakingly deflated and are hidden in dense leaves. But he knows exactly where they are. He asks about where the mommy balloon is. He asks if the balloons are sick. Sometimes he tries to get Maeve involved in his worry over the balloons. She looks up into the tree, and very much unimpressed, gets that look on her face again. "I just don't care," she thinks.




Let me give you more evidence, even if you are already convinced. I bought Max a blue water bottle for school. Ever since then he has been very particular about the color of his sippy cups and pacifiers. He acts as if the very color of the cup affects the taste of the drink. And he doesn't ask pleasantly, "Mommy, can I have the blue cup please?" He demands it like his life depends upon it. As if I'm secretly plotting NEVER to give him his blue water bottle ever again. As usual, Maeve stands idly by, looking at the scene unfolding, not giving a damn about what color her sippy cup is.




Okay, one more. I really don't mind bugs. Especially dead ones. But even living ones are fine as long as they aren't crawling unexpectedly up my leg or biting me. I've never shown a fear of bugs to my kids. In fact, I'm more likely to gather the little critter up for closer inspection. Max did not inherent my love of creepy crawlies. He flips out over a bug rivaling the stereotypical mom at a park with a bee buzzing around her head. He screams like someone is chasing him with a family size bottle of sunscreen. When he sees a dead bug, a new level of angst emerges. He still does the freaking out part, but then when I reassure him that the bug is fully and everlastingly dead, he quiets down and begins his typical rhetoric. "Oh, NOOOO. It's dead!!" he says, pointing at the bug, circling the motionless crispy body like a preditorial preschooler. We then have to gather the dead bug supplies, including a paper towel and a cup. I pick up the remains with the paper towel, place it in a cup, and then Max very quickly carries the cup to the nearest bush (aka mass bug grave) and tosses it to its final resting place. Sometimes I will say a few words. "Oh little beetle, we love you. And I'm sorry you were mauled to death by our cat this morning." Maeve will watch this charade with mild curiosity and obvious disdain. Very obviously not caring too much about the bug funeral.



I love both of my kids for their individuality. I mean, I'm obligated to say this right? I also have to admit that sometimes Maeve is easier to appreciate. Easier to understand. Max takes so much work. Uses up so much energy. But after the day is over, and I'm thinking about all that we did -- thoroughly cleaning the toilet, making up stories about balloons in the trees, hunting all over the damn house for a blue cup, and bidding farewell to a sun baked beetle friend -- I realize that although not easy, Max is very rewarding to understand. And never, ever indifferent about anything.

Tonight, Max came home from the grocery store with a balloon. I felt the physical symptoms of a panic attack -- my heart started to race, my throat narrowed, my palms became sweaty. I took deep breaths, calmed myself down, and prayed really hard that when he let that balloon go, it would keep on going, all the way to beetle heaven.

What do your kids stress about? Do you have a worrier in your crowd?

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Location:Letting Go of the Balloon

Snow Angels

I want to make snow angels in my bed. No, this is not code for getting it on. Literally, I want to make snow angels in my bed. Note, there is no we or us in that sentence. However, instead of making snow angels, I practice lying as motionless as possible on the very edge of the bed with one boob exposed for nursing purposes. Here is a diagram of what our house looks like at nighttime:








The following conditions must exist in order for all of us to be asleep: the zombies have robbed us of our souls. Except for Robert, he can sleep under any circumstance, even a zombie apocalypse. Usually what happens in our house at night is like a game (a warped, twisted game where NO one wins) of dominos. First, one of us will wake up, say Max.

"Mommy! Water!!!" He will yell, and thrash his arms and legs (think crazy hyper snow angel). Attempting not to move any unnecessary muscles for fear of waking up Maeve, I say, "Shhhhhhhh! Here!" I grab his sippy cup off the nightstand and toss it in his general direction. But of course Maeve wakes up despite my efforts and cries, "nur nur!" (aka put the boob back in my mouth right now!!!). This in turn prompts me to look over at Robert's side of the bed to find him conveniently missing, so then I scream, "Robert!!! Get in bed!" Usually this kind of scene happens at least three times before he actually "hears" me and comes up the stairs. When he does climb into bed, I'm so tortured from being woken up every ten minutes that I say, "What took you so long?! Do you think that parenting ends at bedtime??? Hahahahaha, NOT in our house." I actually sometimes laugh in a terrifying, out-of-control kind of way. Robert usually says nothing, which is an extremely smart decision.

Co-sleeping (which I now consider to be a form of indentured servitude) didn't start out like this. It started out in a love-struck and very sweet kind of way.








It all made so much sense. I wanted to breastfeed exclusively for the first few months, loved snuggling with my baby Max, and was way too lazy to get out of bed, walk down the hall, sit up in a CHAIR in the middle of the night, and nurse my baby that way. Everyone was a winner! Don't we look so peaceful in these pictures? Don't we look deep in restful slumber?

We did not intend this to be a long-term situation. In fact, Max had a lovely nursery.




But both Robert and I grew to love having Max right there with us, and the thought of putting him in a crib in a room all by himself seemed barbaric and emotionless. I researched our unconventional sleep habits and found out that what we were doing was actually quite stylish. When people asked why in the world our baby slept with us, we would say, somewhat dismissively, "Um, it's called attachment parenting." That usually shut people up pretty quickly. This is the only time Max was ever in his crib:




So, I ask myself, what happened? How did co-sleeping change from tranquilly easy to exasperatingly difficult? Well, baby Max grew into toddler and then preschool Max and we had the bright idea of having baby #2 (but oh, how we love her so dearly). Instead of moving baby #1 out of the bed before baby #2 arrived, we figured that, kind of like chocolate, the more the merrier! And so, our "family bed" was born.
I did not even waste the time or money to decorate a nursery for Maeve. We had even gotten rid of our crib. The only thing in her "room" is a changing table.




The wallpaper border is of famous golf courses (it came free with the house!). It feels very inspiring. I did hang up a purple glittery M earring holder. That has been the extent of my efforts.

Now, I'm not saying that the family bed has been completely hellish for us. There have been a lot of very cute moments. I try to take lots of pictures of these moments so that I have something to look at when I'm awake at 3 am.












However, if you look VERY closely, you will notice that BEFORE baby #2, there is a very content and (key word here) sleeping parental body in the picture, whereas AFTER baby #2, there is the distinct absence of any sleeping parental body. This would be because I'm never sleeping and Robert is passed out on the couch with Duck Dynasty playing WAY too loud on the TV. And I HATE that show, by the way.

So, what's the solution? Easy! Put Max into his own room, night wean Maeve, and put her in a crib! My friends tell me about this idea all of the time, and I usually nod my head, and say, "I know, I know." I say this guiltily and have trouble making eye contact. It is embarrassing how many times I've complained about my sleeping situation and have heard such a simple answer.

But the problem is, I just can't do it. Maybe something inside of me still loves our family bed. Maybe I have some deep rooted fear of being separated from my children. Maybe I just like having something to bitch about.

Or maybe it's because I have a different idea of the perfect solution to my problem. I've drawn another diagram to illustrate my fantasy.






Yes, I'm making snow angels. And then, I promise, I'll go right to sleep.

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