Lesson #32: Did I Mention You Will Never Sleep Again?

I'm sure I've mentioned that my kids wake up long before dawn has even thought about cracking, no matter what time they go to bed. Every. Single. Day. I ever so naively thought that once they got a bit older I would at least be able to sleep through the night. One might think that with a 3 year old and an almost 6 year old, this would be an achievable dream. One would be incorrect.

Let's recap my week, shall we?

Early in the week, my older son came into our room around 1a.m. saying that he had a tummy ache. I had him climb into our bed to cuddle up for a bit. Wrong move. Not five minutes later he said, "Mommy my tummy really hurts! I think I'm gonna throw up!" I immediately leaped out of bed and threw on the lights, telling him to get up so we could get to the bathroom. Just as he sat up the dreaded heaves began.
I encouraged him frantically, "Come on buddy! Get up so we can get to the bathroom! Don't throw up on the---" Too late. We made it to the kitchen trash before the next round, and finally made our way to the bathroom. After some late night cleaning I camped out in the living room with him so we could be close to the bathroom, just in case. I should mention that we don't own a full sized couch, just two love seats. I'm not very tall but I'm juuuuust tall enough that I can't quite fit on the love seat. I "slept" (I use the term loosely) with my head on the arm rest and my legs alternately jacked up to my chin and hanging off the end. As if all this wasn't excitement enough, we were roused from sleep around 5:40 by the pungent aroma of our dog taking the mother of all dumps on the living room floor. Awesome. Oh, and the kicker? While I was in the shower later that morning, the boys turned off the bathroom lights and ran away, leaving me in pitch darkness. Fun times.

Fast forward to the next night. I was awake from 12:30-2:30 because my 5 year old's junk was "bothering!" I'm not exactly equipped to give advice on how to fix what has come to be known as Penis Problems, so I wasn't much help. Long story short, we made a couple trips to the bathroom and I finally ended up giving him some Children's Motrin, which apparently did the trick. In the morning I asked him how it was feeling. He said, "Great!" and that was the last I heard of it. The joys of raising boys are just endless.

Last night it was the 3 year old that had me stumbling through the darkness. "My blankets are wet!!!" Oh yay. Fun fact: If a Pull Up is on backwards you might as well have put the child to bed naked because it's going to absorb about as much pee as a cheap paper towel. Note to self: check his work when he dresses himself. About two hours later, he woke up crying again because he was cold. He alternated between screaming about wanting to wear jammies and screaming about not wanting jammies for about 5 minutes straight as I struggled to keep my eyes open and my sanity intact.

I said the other day that it will be great when they're teenagers and I can finally sleep in again. My dad quickly pointed out that I still won't sleep because I'll be up half the night waiting for them to get home.

I guess it really is true. Once you have children, you will never sleep again. Ever. I guess that's what they make coffee for. Coffee: Getting bleary eyed parents through the day since 1696.


 

Lesson #31: Parents Just Don't Understand

Trying to understand the behavior of a 3 year old is like trying to understand Ozzy Ozbourne speak… In Japanese… Under  water. It Just. Doesn't. Make. Sense.

One night I told Little Dude it was bath time. He immediately went right into the bathroom and undressed himself from the waist down. Sweet! Things were off to a great start…Then there were some incoherent whines about his shirt. I thought he was having trouble getting it off, but when I began to assist he shrieked, “No!!! I don’t want my shirt off!” Apparently it was of utmost importance that said shirt stay on while he peed. I acquiesced, leaving the shirt on. But when I set him on the toilet he bellowed, “NO I don’t want to go pee!” Right about then Momma got down to bid’ness:  took the shirt off and plopped him in the tub. At which time he immediately began screaming that he did NOT want a bath... What??? Five seconds ago you were so excited for it you undressed yourself.

The soundtrack of the entire episode I’m about to share with you was the earth shattering, hysterical murder scream that my kid emits anytime he cries. There is never a mere cry. Not a whimper to be heard. Oh no no. He goes from zero to Janet Leigh without missing a beat.

He stood in the tub and screamed incoherently, repeatedly throwing a leg over the edge in an attempt to escape. I kept my cool, explaining that he could stand or sit, but that he needed a bath because he was dirty from playing at the park. And so he stood… and screamed hysterically while I washed him. You would have thought I was giving the kid an acid wash the way he was screaming. I accidentally dropped the washcloth in the tub and despite his distraught state, he was quick to pounce and throw it at me as hard as his little muscles could, sending a stream of water all over me. Kid-1, Mama-0. Then it dawned on him that there was an entire tub full of water he could splash at me. Kid-2, Mama-0. Of course, none of this distracted him from the screaming and he continued to rage on as he launched his attack.

Finally he was clean-ish and I surrendered, pulling the plug. He immediately flipped the drain lever back, threw himself on the floor of the tub and refused to get out. Ummm… You just screamed bloody murder for 5 minutes straight as I washed you, all the while trying to jump out of the tub, and now you refuse to do exactly what you've been fighting with me about doing for the last 5 minutes??? My attempts at removing him were pretty much in vain. He pulled the slippery fish move: throwing his arms straight up in the air so that I couldn't get ahold of him. Finally I wrangled him out and after trying to run away from me, he ripped the bath towel out of my hands and chucked it right into the tub. Which still had water in it. Kid-3, Mama-0.

After a really fun (read: not fun at all) dry off, which consisted of much kicking and screaming (him, not me), he refused the Pull Up and ran away in hysterics. I carried him naked to his room, armed with the Pull Up. He ran straight to his bed and hid under the covers, naked as the day he was born. Let me just tell ya: Trying to put a Pull Up on a kicking, screaming 3 year old is like trying to lasso water. It just ain’t gonna happen. I gave up and sat on the floor. A minute later, thumb in mouth, he said, “I want to put my Pull Up on.” Finally! Mama’s on the scoreboard!

In the game of life we parents may score a few points here and there, but they will always win. Then again, one could argue that just being in the game is pretty great too.

Lesson #30: The Shower Is A Dangerous Place

Some people can shower at night. I am not one of them. Trust me. Anyone who's seen me first thing in the morning would agree: this hair is not made for night showering. Because of our schedules, I often find myself showering when my husband is either sleeping or not home. Since I'm not a shower at night kinda gal I am held hostage by the shower on a daily basis. Inevitably there is an ominous crash, thump or cry while I'm trapped in my shower. It's like playing craps every morning, and let me just tell ya: luck definitely ain't no lady.

When my son was an infant I used to bring the baby monitor in the bathroom with me. Even though that thing was jacked on high, I'd swear I heard him crying at least three times every shower. I'd jump out and press my ear up against the speaker, only to hear... nothing. As he got a little older I could barricade him in the living room with baby gates and closed doors. It never failed though: I'd be getting good and soaped up when the dog would start barking maniacally. I'd yell to my son, trying to get him to answer me so I'd know he was ok and not being kidnapped by a band of pirates or something, but he never did. I'd leap out of the shower and run into the living room in a complete panic, dripping wet, only to find him in one piece, looking at me like the crazy person that I clearly am.

Once he figured out he could knock down the baby gates it was all over. Now that there are two of them running amok, the stakes are oh so much higher.

One morning in December we were preparing for some friends to come over with their kiddos to make ornaments and decorate cookies. Cookies were baked, the house was nice and clean, and everything was in its place; I just needed to shower before they arrived and the festivities got underway. No sooner had I gotten in the shower, than I started hearing strange bumping noises. I picked up the pace a bit but it didn't sound too bad, and the Hubs was home so surely he was keeping an eye on things. After a few strange bumps, the loud crashes started. "You better check on them!" I hollered to Hubs. He didn't answer me either, and the crashes continued, louder and in closer succession. "GO CHECK ON THEM!!!" I yelled. A moment later, Hubs came into the bathroom. You know it's not good when your significant other simply says, "You have to see this. I can't even explain what they did." What they did was take everything in our playroom and throw it into one corner. Every. Single. Thing. Every book from the shelves, every Hot Wheels car, every stuffed animal, block, puzzle piece, bin from the toy shelf. The entire room was completely bare, save for the one corner with its toy mountain. We were literally speechless.It was one of those moments as a parent where you're so dumbfounded you can't even be mad.

This kind of thing happens regularly at my house. They wait until the opportune time (ie: mom's in the bathroom) and all hell breaks loose. It's ok though. Little do they know, I'm keeping tabs and one day I'm gonna cash in my chips. Because, you see, one day one of them will be changing my diapers. Fifty years from now, when my son is in the shower, I'll be dumping all my caftans, crossword puzzles, bifocals, and Depends into a corner of my room, the whole time smiling serenely and playing senile so I don't have to clean it up myself. Who knows, maybe I'll even convince the grandkids that Grandma needs help "finding something" and trick them into trashing it with me. Oh yeah, it'll look like a hotel room after Led Zeppelin checkes out. For now I'll just bide my time and use my blog as a running record to refresh my memory when the time comes. Heh heh heh! 

Lesson #29: Look Before You Sit

They should totally make one of those Mayhem commercials that starts out, "I am that puddle of pee that keeps collecting in the porcelain at the base of your toilet." I swear, the last 5 years of my life have been dominated by other people's bodily waste. I thought when my oldest was potty trained things would get better, but now our bathroom just smells like pee all the time and I have to wipe out that little nook in the porcelain just about every time I go in there. I thought about convincing him that he should just keep sitting to pee, but along with the ridicule that would surely bring about later in life, it really wouldn't solve my problem either. Moms of boys are all familiar with the "pee through the crack" phenomenon. You think you're safe because he's sitting, when all of a sudden that eensy crack between the toilet seat and the toilet bowl becomes your worst enemy.

This is my life. Many of the lessons I've learned are really great examples of hindsight being 20/20. Foresight is apparently not my strong suit, as this lesson, learned the hard way, will clearly illustrate.

One evening a few weeks before Christmas, I headed into the ole lavatory and sat down to do business only to realize all too late that the seat was completely drenched in pee-ola. Ack! I quickly jumped up and wiped down the seat. I thought that was that until a little glisten caught my eye at the front of the toilet as well. Upon further inspection I discovered that along with the soaking wet seat and stream down the front, the entire toilet was also covered. And when I say entire toilet, I mean entire toilet. Seat, front, tank, sides-the entire thing. Co-vered in urine. Then my eyes panned out and I realized that there were rivulets of pee streaming down the wall, a moat of it on the floor, and the completely soaked toilet paper roll was the cherry on top. It was like a pee massacre in there. I swear I am keeping Lysol in business.

Cut to Christmas morning:
Santa had come, the tree lights were glowing, the children were laughing, and this Mama and Daddy-o were truly content, counting our blessings and reflecting on the joys in life. I took a quick potty break, and just after I had made use of the toilet paper, it registered that it had felt a little funny. I looked over at the roll-the last one in that package, judging from the empty toilet paper bag someone had left on the floor-and saw that part of it looked kind of wrinkly. Like maybe it had gotten wet and then dried. I took the roll off and inspected it, wondering what the heck was up. The paper was discolored in the area where it looked and felt funny. Colored a light brownish-yellow color. Yep. Guess some of the pee tsunami had landed in the TP package that fateful evening weeks prior. And I was the lucky winner that wiped with peed on TP. On Christmas morning. Awesome.

"I am that puddle of pee that keeps collecting in the porcelain at the base of your toilet. You may not see me but you'll smell me. And just when you think you've Lysol'd me out of existence, BAM! Urine it again."