Lesson #22: You Will Never Sleep Again, Ever.

When you have a baby, you expect to be up at all hours and to be completely exhausted. What you don’t realize until much, much later is that you will never recover. You will never get a full night’s sleep again, ever.

I have often felt like my children are participating in some kind of twisted conspiracy to ensure that I never sleep again. It’s like some kind of modern day torture; a parental initiation. I think they communicate telepathically. It must go something like this:

“Ok tonight you get out of bed 17 times, keeping her up til the wee hours. Then, just when she’s finally drifted off for a few hours, I’ll sneak attack with the 5am wake up poop!”

God forbid I should go to bed late. That pretty much guarantees that I will be woken up in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn. Or both. 

When my second child was born, our plan was for him to sleep in his pack and play in our room until he was a little older, and then share the room across the hall with his brother. I naively thought this would occur much, much sooner. The child is almost 16 months old and there’s no end in sight. It feels like he will never vacate our bedroom. It’s definitely not that I don’t want him out of our room, and not so much that I think he would mind sleeping elsewhere, but most certainly due to the fact that there's a fairly good chance his brother would injure him. His big brother (almost 4-holy where did that time go?) has a penchant for pushing, poking, and throwing blankets over his little bro. I do not trust them in the room alone together all night long. Besides the threat of injury, there is also the possibility of complete and utter mayhem, because I’m pretty sure they would find a way to get the little guy out of the pack and play and initiate destruction of everything in sight.

It’s gotten to the point that my husband and I are afraid to enter our room once the baby’s sleeping. We creep up our stairs (not an easy feat since our stairs make more noise than a freight train on crack), gently push the door open, and tiptoe into the “danger zone”. He’s sleeping soundly-win! We silently signal to each other to fix the bedding. The whooshing of the comforter echoes through the stillness and the baby begins to stir. We freeze, then slooooowwwwllllyyyyy climb into bed. CREAK goes the mattress. The little dude’s head pops up like a gopher out of a hole. “WAAAHHHHHH!!!!!” Fail.

One night we even tried sleeping “college style”-that is, squished into the twin sized bed in our downstairs office/spare room. That might work when you're 10 years younger and 40 lbs thinner but these days it's a recipe for a stiff neck and numb arms. 

Last night I fell into bed at 9pm, exhausted from the previous day's late night/early morning combo. I was almost asleep when my cell phone started shreiking and vibrating like it was warning the end of mankind. I scrambled to silence it as the baby began to stir and make "num num num" sounds as he sucked on his thumb. Phew! Crisis averted. I fell asleep only to be awakened at 12:30 by the sound of my older child going downstairs. Hmmm.... Should I get up? I heard the bathroom fan turn on. Ok, maybe he just has to go to the bathroom. He'll come back. Right? Maybe I should get up. Then I heard the sound of running feet and crying. Ok, ok, I'm getting up. I went down the stairs to find him running into the kitchen with just his pj top on, completely naked from the waist down. "Mommy I just had to go pee but the toilet is too cold! Will you warm it up for me?" Holy cripes this kid has GOT to learn how to pee standing up. We got the potty situation taken care of and I tucked him back into bed. 

Just when I was certain I would need to invent a caffeine drip stocked with coffee if I was going to make it through the next 5 years of my life, a Christmas miracle occurred. I knew something was up when I woke up and it wasn't dark outside. I had a moment of panic, wondering if everyone was ok. I peeked over the covers to see the little dude standing in the pack n play smiling at me. I looked at my clock and almost passed out when I saw the time: 7:52!!!! I swear I heard angels singing the halleluja chorus right there in my bedroom. I just might make it through another day. Amen to that!

Lesson #21: Puke Always Wins

I was at work on Monday when my husband sent me a text saying that my almost 4-year old had puked. This text was accompanied by a most appetizing photograph of the offending vomit. Only after I got home did I learn that he had, in fact, puked all over the couch. As soon as I walked in the door I was assaulted by the warring scents of a "Red Apple Wreath" Yankee candle fighting a losing battle with vomit. Yummmm. Our couch has super puffy non-removable cushions so you can imagine how much fun that was to clean up. Luckily that duty fell to the hubster.  Three more washings and a Febreezing later, and the smell is mostly gone.

Puke-1, Mama-0

Fast forward to Thursday evening. I was sitting in the recliner (Lord knows I'm not sitting on that couch for awhile!) giving my younger boy a nebulizer treatment when the older one came over to tell me he'd finished all the yogurt in the fridge (greeeaaaaat) and show me the empty tub. All of a sudden he started coughing uncontrollably for no apparent reason. He coughed so hard his face turned red and he kind of shuddered. I reached out towards him with my free hand to make sure he was ok when SPLAT! He coughed so hard he upchucked yogurt into my outstretched hand. Hmm... What to do here?

Puke-2, Mama-0.

Today is Friday. My husband dropped the kids off at child care before heading into work. I worked some extra hours earlier in the week so I was planning to leave work at 11:30 today. I was really looking forward to spending a little "me" time at home before jumping into the belly of the beast known as Super WalMart to get some groceries. I pictured myself finishing my book over a leisurely lunch of  leftovers ( hey, it's the little things), going grocery shopping all by myself in the middle of a weekday when WalMart *MIGHT* not be jam packed with lunatics, and getting supper started before heading to pick up the boys a full 2 hours earlier than I would have if I'd worked a full day. Sweet! Wins all around! At 11:15 I got the message on my office phone: "Hi this is L at Child Care. I wanted to let you know that B threw up and needs to be picked up. I'll try your cell phone too. Thanks."

Puke-3, Mama-0

When you think about it, there really is no way to win when it's you vs. the puke monster. When it rears its ugly head the best we can do is don our armor of cleaning products and Febreeze and hope for the best. Hey, if three separate puke attacks in one week is the worst we have to endure, then I think we're doing pretty well, don't you?

Lesson #20: Sippy Cups Multiply Faster Than Rabbits

My house is being overtaken by sippy cups. At any given moment I can walk into my living room and find no less than 3 of them strewn around the floor, in the toy bins, and (usually dripping) on the furniture. This is largely the fault of my almost 4-year old. He has a terrible habit of leaving his cup wherever he was playing and walking away. Every day I tell myself that he is only going to get ONE cup for the day and that if he wants a drink he's going to have to find his cup first. The problem with that is that when he wants a drink the cup is nowhere to be found. Literally. I send him to every room of the house looking for it, to no avail. Then I usually end up looking for it myself and can't find the thing either! After half an hour of looking for the freaking cup that appears to have fallen off the end of the earth, I inevitably give up and hand him a new cup. Then, without fail, about five minutes later I'll walk into the living room and suddenly there are six sippy cups laying all over the place. What the heck?! I don't understand this phenomenon any more than I understand why there are never any clean towels no matter how much laundry we do.

Speaking of sippy cups, I keep telling my husband that he has GOT to check the floor when he's cleaning up a meal. One side of our kitchen table is against the wall and the floor on the wall side is a repository for lost toys, dog hair, and dishes the baby has thrown that my husband "didn't see" (aka: didn't look for). Maybe it's a guy thing, but he seems to only be able to focus on one thing at any given time, and when cleaning up a meal that one thing is the baby himself. The booster seat tray might get wiped down, but the bib is never cleaned out and the cup is alllllways left wherever it fell when the kid chucked it off the side of the tray. The other day I found not one but TWO sippy cups of milk under the chair. Does he not look down at any point during the day or what? How does he miss TWO cups of milk under there? Last night I found one dangling haphazardly between the table and the wall. The worst, however, was when I was Swiffering (side note: LOVE the Swiffer Sweeper Vac so much I wanna marry IT) I made the appetizing discovery of a sippy cup of milk that had been under there for a while. I'm talking at least a week, maybe more. The milk inside was so far gone, I swore it was yogurt. *shudders* It was allllll kinds a nasty.

I'm thinking it would be nice if I could apply the sippy cup multiplication phenom to myself. Just got home with two cranky kids and no supper to speak of? No problem! I'll just multiply by two. A screaming baby that needs to be cleaned up after supper, a 3 year old with yet another poo in the pants, and a dog that's whining to go out? No problem! I'll just multiply myself by 3. Dishes to wash, laundry fold, floors to sweep, garbage to be taken out? No problem! I'll just multiply by four.

I'm pretty sure that until someone invents that technology I will forever be driving myself crazy as I clean stuff up and the three males in my house go right along behind me undoing everything I just did. On the bright side, at least I always have a cup, and from where I'm sitting, the glass is definitely half full.

Lesson #19: Wow, I'm Lame

I like to think I was kinda cool before I had kids. I wore sassy shoes with heels. I stayed up late and slept in. I read Cosmo. I went shopping just for fun. I had parties (and not of the Tupperware variety, either thankyouverymuch!)  For awhile I thought I was still cool even after I had one. Not to be shallow, but a baby is a very cool accessory these days-just pick up any gossip rag; mommyhood is all the rage. (And for the record, NO I did NOT have kids so I would have a "cool accessory". As a matter of fact, it took me over two years to finally get knocked up.)

But no matter how cool I might've once been, it is painfully clear to me that I am definitely no longer, in any way, shape or form, cool. Maybe it was turning 30 that did me in, I don't know. All I know is, I'm not wearing shoes I can't chase a kid in; if I sleep until 7am it's a miracle of God; shopping is a dreaded task that involves groceries; and the last magazine I read advertised "26 Low Cost Recipes" and "$68.55 Worth Of Coupons Inside!" on the cover.

The realization that I am pretty lame came on slowly. The thought first occurred to me when my little sister, who's pretty much half my age-13 years younger-came over. She walked in with her tight jeans and fluorescent plaid belt, all long curly hair and white teeth, looking totally cute and young and, well, hip. (Is that even a thing anymore? Do the kids say "hip" these days? See??? Lame-o!) I told myself that I was hip in an age appropriate sort of way and felt a little better.

The next inkling that I might be getting old and lame came at the grocery store. On the way in, I got distracted by the "Hardy Mums and Asters" plant display. "Wow, what a great deal-only $6.99 for that big pot," I thought as I picked one up. Hey, flowers are pretty and pretty is always cool, right? So, therefore not totally lame. Next, I passed the magazine rack and the Family Circle caught my eye- the cover advertised "Slow Cooker Recipes" , and it was only $1.99! "Oooh that will be great for fall", I thought, and picked one up. As I stood in line with my potted plant, mom magazine, and fake chicken nuggets, behind two college students buying stuff like organic cheese, tortilla chips and booze, I felt utterly, completely, lame and O.L.D. The biggest plans I had for the night were surfing the web looking for a swing set on sale for my kids.

The notion that I was definitely no longer cool became a stone cold truth when I was hanging out with my family over the holiday weekend. My young, hip sister spilled lunch on her new tank top, and I looked at it and actually said, very seriously, "Oooh, you're gonna have to use some Shout Advanced for Greasy Stains" on that!" Gawd. Of course, my 25 year old brother didn't hesitate to tell me just how lame that was, and even my MOM laughed. Yikes.

But you know what? When my babies give me hugs and kisses and tell me they love me I don't care if I'm an old fuddy duddy. Besides, kids think their parents are superheroes. In their eyes, there's nothing we can't do. When they see me and their eyes light up and they run over and throw themselves at me, there's no better feeling in the world. (You people with teenagers just shut yo mouths now! I know you're muttering "Oh just you wait!")

I might not get out much, but when I look at my life I realize I have everything that matters, and the rest is just stuff. But, seriously, if you see me in JC Penny picking up some mom jeans and a fanny pack, PLEASE stage an intervention ASAP.

Lesson #18: Never Look Away When Paint is Involved

My 3 1/2 year old wanted to paint the other night. I know, some of you are cringing already, but having worked in early childhood education, I'm not phased by the uber mess that accompanies such projects, so out came the paints. The really messy ones too, not water colors. I have to admit, mess tolerant as I am, I did begin to question all the projects I've had him do that involved handprints when he painted both hands and said, "Look, I'm making handprints for you!" Little did I know this would soon be the least of my worries.

Our kitchen has a room directly off it that isn't really big enough for a dining room and has a closet in it so we use it as a nursery. My little artist was happily creating all sorts of masterpieces at the kitchen table, and the baby was crawling around the kitchen checking things out. Since I could see them from the nursery I thought it was safe to step in there to make a quick call to my husband to ask him a question. (You seasoned parenting vets are laughing at me already.) I sat in the rocking chair, which faces the kitchen so I could see the baby be-boppin' around, but (here comes the fatal error) I didn't have a visual on the table where my little Van Gogh was going to town with the Crayola Washables.

I was just finishing up with hubby when I heard Mr. Artiste say, "Hey, I'll paint you too!" What I should have done was go flying out of the chair into the kitchen to investigate. What I did instead was call out "What did you say?" (I know, that one should go in the Dumb Moments in Parenting Hall of Fame.) He came running into the nursery saying excitedly, "Look mom, I'm a cool dude with my face paint!" Yep. He sure was. Both cheeks completely covered in red and blue paint. Before I could even comment he informed me that he'd painted his brother too. Sure enough, the baby came crawling in, grinning ear to ear, with paint on his cheek, arm, leg and a big ole glob right on the top of his head.

I did what any parent would do: I took pictures.

Lesson #17: Vacations Are Worth The Tears (Theirs and Yours)

So my husband and I decided that we totally had to take our kids to "A Day Out With Thomas and Friends." Our older son is mad about trains and we knew he would go nuts for an event like this. Of course, this meant we would be driving 2 1/2 hours for  25 minute train ride, but that's what parents do, right?

The night before the big day, I flew through the house like a crazy mama tornado getting everything ready. I swear, I have no idea how such tiny people can require such an inordinate amount of STUFF to go somewhere for ONE NIGHT! It was completely and utterly ridiculous. I swear, I packed at least 25 pairs of underwear (which was a good thing since I'm pretty sure my oldest was playing a secret game where if you poop your pants at every destination, you win).

The morning of, despite an E.N.T.I.R.E box of Cheerios being dumped on the floor and the obligatory "Mommy I pooped in my undies" episode, we eventually made it out of the house still (mostly) on speaking terms.

The "Day Out" event was well worth the long ride. It was fantastic and we all had an amazing time. Though we are the biggest suckers on the face of the earth because, of course, we left there with the $14.95 picture of us in front of Thomas AND a $17.00 train from the gift tent. What can I say? We don't get out much.

After a busy day, we were happy to tuck in at our adorable little cabin. Everyone was tired and we all went to bed fairly early. All was peaceful until my 3 1/2 year old had a chocolate attack at 3:30am that even sleeping in a dark, strange place couldn't deter. I woke with a start to find he had gotten out of bed and gone to the kitchenette area and was digging around in the chocolate we'd brought for s'mores. I was so tired I didn't even tell him no. I just told him to swallow it before he fell back asleep so he didn't choke, tucked him in, and went back to bed. (Still waiting for that Mother of the Year award!)

Of course, the weekend wouldn't be complete without a total and complete take-him-to-the-car meltdown, which occurred at a McDonald's on our way home. The pit stop didn't start off well when a guy old enough to have witnessed the Last Supper yelled at my son for no apparent reason. Then my kid suddenly got possessed by the We're In Public Pscyho Demon and had to be carried out kicking and screaming. Not only that, as it was happening the old guy practically yelled, "Good! The father's taking him out of here!" I wasn't embarrassed about my kid's freakout, because all kids freak out sometimes, and I felt we handled it well by taking him out of the restaurant. I was, however, supremely ticked off at the rude old guy. Like he's never had a bad day. Jeez.

When all was said and done, we had one spilled box of Cheerios, four pairs of poopy underwear, one meltdown, one Thomas train ride, and countless memories to show for it. Twenty years from now, I won't remember the Cheerios, the poopy underwear, the long drive, or the rude old guy; I will remember the look on my son's face when he "met" Thomas the Train, and I will cherish it.  

Lesson #16: When In Doubt, Make the Call

It seems simple enough: your child is sick, call the doctor. Yeah, the thing about that? If you call the doctor, they will tell you to come in. And I've schlepped everyone off to the doctor's office and paid the cold hard cash only to be told "It's just a virus, there's nothing we can do" more times than I care to recall. Because of this, my current method of dealing with sickness is the "Wait and See" method.

The "Wait and See" method is pretty self explanatory: your child is sick, you wait and see if he gets worse. Then if he only gets a little worse, you wait and see how much worse he gets. If he doesn't get any worse but he doesn't get any better either, you start talking to your spouse and your mother about whether you should call the doctor's office. Hubby and Mom tell you to wait and see. So you wait a little while longer. Then you decide that you'll just wait until after nap and if the child's not any better after nap you'll definitely call (but surely he'll be better by then so it will totally be fine). Then when the child wakes up from nap and he seems about the same, you think "Well, he's not getting any worse..." So you wait just a little longer. Then by supper he's still not better yet and you start thinking that, gee, he's been sick for X amount of time and doesn't seem to be getting any better, so maybe you should call after all. So you get back on the phone with your spouse and your mother, and by this point you've decided that the child just isn't himself and you definitely need to call. The spouse and mother confirm that, yes, you definitely should at least call. So you call. And the doctor's office is closed for the day. And then you end up taking the child to Walk In Care (or worse, the ER). See? Easy, peasy!

This is what happened to me last weekend. It had been a long, hot week and I had planned a fantastic Saturday. We were going to pack the cooler, find a beach, and spend the day outside enjoying the weather, instead of cooped up in my 90-degree living room.

The day started out fine-I even got to build a blanket "cave" with my 3 1/2 year old! But around 10:30 my perfect little Saturday started to unravel. The 3 1/2 year old said his side hurt. This usually indicates the need to drop a serious deuce so I immediately took him to the bathroom in hopes of avoiding any poo-related incidents. Much as he tried, it was a no go. From that point on, he laid on our recliner, refusing to eat or drink, and crying about his belly hurting. I tried everything, to no avail. At first I thought it was simple constipation, but as they day wore on and I went through all the phases of the "Wait and See" method, as described above, I began to get scared. What if it was more than constipation? What if he was having kidney failure? What if he'd swallowed something I didn't know about? What if he had an intestinal blockage? Needless to say, we ended up at the Walk In Care.

Now, mind you, this child is always on the go. He has two speeds: fast and manic. He's always playing with something or getting into something or asking seventy bazillion questions about something. For him to have spent the day lying around, doing nothing but crying, was pretty major.

As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I swear the kid perked right up. He started in, asking all kinds of questions and pointing out different vehicles as he skipped along beside me to the door. Skipped. I asked him if his belly still hurt, and he reported that it did. Reluctantly, I led him into the clinic. At the desk, he turned into a freakin' Chatty Cathy, asking the registration girl what her name was and why she was typing on the computer, pointing out Mommy's purse, and showing off the bag I had brought (packed with coloring stuff, books, Hot Wheels, and a drink and snack, of course). I found myself explaining to the registration girl that he really was sick and had been all day, I swear! I'm sure she thought I was a total fruit loop. I asked him again if his belly still hurt, and it still did.

We went to the waiting area, where he played with his toys with great enthusiasm. I asked him if his belly still hurt, and it still did. When the nurse pulled us into a side office to do a preliminary investigation of the belly pain (to make sure he was well enough to wait the two hours it would be until he could actually get treated), and he pointed to three different spots on his stomach-all of which were not anywhere near the spot he'd identified repeatedly earlier in the day-I began to have my doubts about this whole expedition. I asked him if his belly still hurt, and it still did.

About forty five minutes into our wait, the little dude said he had to go potty. In my haste to pack activities to keep a small child occupied for what could be hours, I had not grabbed The Bag (I know, I know!) so I hustled him into the restroom tout suite. Lemme just tell ya: the kid let out mammoth turd. It was the biggest turd I have ever seen. I'm still not quite sure how it came out of that little body of his. All I could think was "No wonder his belly's been hurting!"

After that, he asked for his snack and downed the whole thing, then started drinking from (playing in) the water fountain. I asked if his belly still hurt. It didn't. Surprise surprise. Then he said, "Mommy let's go home!" So we did.

Note to self: get some prune juice to keep on hand for emergencies.