Sweet sleep

I woke last night with a soft weight on my chest. Thinking one of the cats had settled there for a snooze, I removed my hand from under the covers to stroke whichever feline was there. I was surprised to feel Loaf's wiry curls and the hard curve of her skull instead of a soft coat of fur.

I moved my hand along her body. She slept with her head on my chest and her body curled between me and Mark. She was on top of the covers. I shifted slightly and pulled the blanket over her body. She sighed deeply and coiled more tightly to me.

To the best of my knowledge, she's never slept like this before - head on my chest, squeezed against me like a big cat.

I lay there in the dark, arm around her, thinking how small and light she is. Running my hand along her back, I mentally measured her stem to stern, nose to toes. I listened to her breathing - deep and rhythmic. We have such a bond, she and I. She seeks me out day and night, rushing to press herself into me as much as possible.

I lay awake in the dark, my mind wandering around the details of my life, for a long time before sleep finally found me again.

Hours later, I woke to see Loaf's head on the pillow. At some point, she separated from me and once again we slept parallel - side by side. Then I felt her tiny hand resting on my forearm, still seeking the comfort of touch. I threw an arm over her and closed my eyes and this time fell instantly back into a deep sleep, equally comforted. Equally content.

* * * * *

Oh, and in case you were wondering where my annual Academy Awards fashion review is, I'm taking the year off.

To be honest, I just wasn't feeling it this year. It seemed every gown was just sort of "meh." Not great. Not awful. Not worth blogging about (because who wants to read review after review of, "It was fine, not great, not awful. Just fine.") And it didn't help that a slew of stars skipped the red carpet and slipped in the back door. (Seriously, what the hell? Hardly anyone cares about the awards - we want to see the fashion!) Hopefully next year we'll have more WOWS! and even more OMG, WHAT WAS SHE THINKINGS so that we can resume our usual snark.

What did you think? Anyone stand out (either good or bad) in your opinion?

Future UN negotiator

Me: Loaf, whose bed are you going to sleep in tonight?

Loaf: YOURS!

Me: Why don't you sleep in your own bed?

Loaf: I don't like it! It's cold.

Me: OK, then I'll cover you up with an extra comforter. You'll be toasty warm.

Loaf: It's also scary.

Me: The light is on, the door is open, we're right here in the next room. There's nothing to be scared of.

Loaf: I get lonely.

Me: I'll put Molly in there with you.

Loaf: I just like your bed better.

Me: It's awfully crowded though. How about if you sleep there and I sleep in your bed?

Loaf: No! I like your bed better because you're in it.

Me: ::sigh:: You put up a pretty good argument, kid.

A new day dawns (at dawn)

5:38 a.m.

Footsteps coming up the hall.

I roll over to face the doorway to my bedroom and Loaf appears there.

She wobbles over to the bed and climbs up next to me.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer to the center of the bed.

We lie there – silent. My thoughts fade and I drift toward sleep again.

What seems like mere minutes later, she is on her knees, bouncing up and down near the pillow.

“Loaf,” I hiss. “It is still very early and I would like to sleep. If you want to, you can go down to your sister's room (she’s been up for at least 30 minutes) and play with her. But if you want to stay here, you have to lie down and be quiet.”

“OK, Mommy,” she says, flattening against the mattress and becoming still again.

Again, I drift.

Minutes later – or so it seems - she is jerking her head from side to side and neighing like a horse.

“LOAF!”

I repeat – more succinctly this time – my diatribe.

“Sorry, Mommy,” she says, rolling toward me. “I be quiet now.”

I am beyond irritated. I’ve been up late all weekend long and Just. Want. To. Sleep. I open my mouth to order her down the hall when she does it: She rolls over and plants a loud kiss on my cheek.

“Mommy, I love you sooooo much.”

My anger instantly melts away. I keep my eyes closed, but a huge smile crosses my face. I reach for her and pull her to me.

“I love you too,” I murmur.

We lounge like that, wrapped around each other, for a short while more. This time, when she starts flopping around, I open my eyes and ask if she’d like to get up and have breakfast. She throws her arms around my neck and happily declares, “Oh yes! I so hungry.”

It is 6:17 a.m. and I am up for the day. Exhausted, but happy. Sleep deprived, but so full of love I am practically floating.

Halloween is over: Want to hear something really scary?

Friday was Halloween – the time when ghosts and goblins roam the earth and the souls of the departed return to frolic with (and frighten) the living. Oooh. Spooky.

But here in the Gav household we have our own version of fright fest ’08 going on.

Peanut is a notoriously early riser. I can probably count on one hand the number of times she’s slept past 6:30 a.m. in her entire life and on most of those days she was sick. But lately, the problem has gotten decidedly worse.

For the last 10 days or so, she’s been waking before 5 a.m. ←That is not a typo. This morning, I wandered down the hall at 5:03 a.m. and noticed her light was on. Peeking through the crack of her closed door, I saw her sitting on her bed surrounded by Barbie dolls and clothes, deep in an elaborate pretend scenario. In other words, she’d been up for quite a while.

Then it hit me, it wasn’t really 5:03 a.m. We didn’t change the clocks before bed last night, so it was actually 4:03 a.m., which – HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING UP?

Every year, it is the same story. I dread with every fiber of my being the fall changing of the clocks. Unlike the rest of the world, Peanut never adjusts. Her internal “wake up now” clock stays set at the same time of day all year. She rises at 4 a.m., succumbs to exhaustion becoming utterly unbearable around 4:30 or 5 p.m. and can barely stay awake to eat dinner.

It’s a vicious cycle: wake early, zombie walk through the late afternoon, meltdown, pass out before dinner. Repeat. All. Winter. Long.

Tonight — after a meltdown of EPIC proportions where I actually contemplated calling in an exorcist to rid my home of the demon child thrashing, screeching and kicking at me in the bathroom for well over 15 minutes — she crashed face down on the chair in our bedroom and is still there.

I have no doubt she’ll be up around 4 a.m.

Kill. Me. Now.

The only hope I have is that maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to keep her up until 8:30 or 9 a.m. one night and if so, maybe (fingers crossed) she’ll get pushed back to waking up at 5 a.m. (And you know it’s bad when you’re hoping your child “sleeps in” until 5 a.m.)

I fully blame her father for this. Mark is also a ridiculously early riser. Many a morning I roll over at 4:30 or 5 a.m. to find him already out of bed and if I listen carefully, I can hear him clicking away on the computer down the hall.

At least for the next several months, he’ll have someone to hang out with.

A dream worth forgetting

This morning, very, very early this morning (3:42 a.m. to be exact), Peanut had a nightmare.

She raced into my room, her feet pounding on the hardwood, rousing me from sleep.

"I'm scared, Mommy, so scared," she whispered standing by my bedside. I lifted her into bed. She was trembling, actually trembling, and she reached over and clutched my right hand tightly with her left.

"It's OK, you're OK," I cooed to her in the dark. "You're with Mommy now. You're OK."

Still, for a long time whenever I glanced over at her, the moonlight spilled into the room just enough for me to see her eyes, wide and green, staring up at the ceiling. Every now and then she'd squeeze my fingers as if to be sure I was really there next to her.

I dozed lightly rousing every so often to look at her. Finally, near 5 a.m., she fell back to sleep. Her grip on my hand lightened, but she didn't fully let go. And sometime after that, I fell back to sleep too.

When I woke again, the room was bright with morning sun. Peanut was sitting up next to me quietly turning the pages of a book.

"Hey," I said to her. "Good morning."

She turned to me with a vibrant smile and eyes and placed her hand on my forearm. "Hi Mommy. I didn't think you'd ever wake up."

After a few more minutes I asked her about her dream.

"Do you remember what scared you last night?"

Her face went blank and she turned her eyes to the ceiling trying to recall what sent her to me in such a state.

"I don't know," she said after a few seconds, shrugging her shoulders. "I can't remember anymore."

The fear was gone and memory of it completely erased. It was the answer I was hoping for. I don't know what caused her to come running to me, shaking in the middle of the night. What alarmed her so much that it took over an hour for her to settle back to sleep. What made her cling to me for comfort. But I'm so glad that whatever terrified her so has been erased from her memory.

And with that, we rose and started a new day together.

Seeking a comfortable closeness

Our bed is small. Not college-dorm small, but full-size small. I have longed for a king-sized bed for years. A bed where I can stretch and roll and always find a cool spot even on the hottest summer nights.

* * *

Loaf has never been a good sleeper.

She didn’t sleep through the night until she was over two years old. And really, for the most part, she still doesn’t, though the nightly wakings are less traumatic.

Though often, sometime between 1 and 4 a.m., I hear little feet paddling down the hall. I prop myself up and wait for her head of fuzzy curls to appear at my side of the bed. I lift her up over me and plop her down between me and Mark. We are all typically back to sleep within five minutes.

And all would be right with the world except our little bed feels even smaller when she’s in it. Complicating matters is the fact that Loaf is the twistiest, turniest, floppiest, kickiest sleeper in the land. She likes to doze parallel to the headboard with her feet pushed firmly into Mark’s back and her skull pressed uncomfortably against mine. Forming a big capital “H” on the bed, Mark and I struggle to sleep on a sliver of mattress only an inch or two wider than our bodies while Miss Thang lounges luxuriously across the pillows.

As Loaf grows, the problem with this sleeping arrangement has grown with her. Any night now, I’m going to fall out of bed onto the hard floor or worse, get clocked in the nose by her rock-hard head as she flops around like a fish out of water.

So last week we decided that something had to give. Loaf has got to learn to sleep – all night – in her own bed.

Last night at 4:12 a.m. I heard her trademark paddling and before she could even reach my bedside I was up. I scooped her back up and lay her on my shoulder.

“You’re just too big to keep sleeping in Mommy and Daddy’s bed,” I murmured to her. “It’s time to sleep in your own room, but I’ll sit with you for a minute.”

She was almost back to sleep by the time I returned to her room. I laid her down and curled up next to her. In seconds, her breathing slowed and I knew she was asleep. I lay next to her, studying her long lashes and the way her wispy curls framed her face. I propped myself up on my elbow and ran a finger gently along her cubby forearm, one of the few parts of her that still bears close resemblance to her baby pictures.

She is growing up so fast.

After a few minutes, I slowly rose from her bed and walked back to my own, but I couldn’t sleep. Mark, unable to go back to sleep, had gotten up. I could hear him clicking on the computer down the hall. The bed was cool and quiet,. but also very, very empty.

This morning when she woke up, I praised her for sleeping in her own room. She stared at me blankly, her lips drawn into a pout.

"I like sleeping next to you, Mommy. I want to be with you."

My heart clenched and my eyes filled with tears. I sat next to her and folded her into my arms. She rested her head against my chest and gently clasped my index finger with her hand.

* * *

I have longed for a king-sized bed for years. A bed where a small girl could stretch out next to me in peace and comfort for as long as she'd like.

The crying game

Today, Peanut woke up at 4:30.

4-fucking-30.

A. M. !!!!

She was in a pretty good mood for, oh, about two hours. Then, it was a whole lotta whining and crying and complaining for the next 10. Around 4 p.m., she finally fell asleep, which was a mixed blessing, because at that point she wanted to keep right on sleeping until tomorrow morning.

Waking her up was a Herculean effort involving more crying, whining and complaining (and that was mostly from us).

But what was the alternative? Let her sleep so that tomorrow she can get up at 3 a.m.? (Or worse??)

After getting her sitting in a somewhat upright at the table and coercing her into choking down some eggs and toast (perhaps serving her breakfast might fool her system into thinking it was now time to be awake?), we brushed her teeth (she cried because she didn’t want Mark to do it) and then put on her PJs (more crying, because a certain pair were in the laundry).

And Loaf was no picnic either by this point. She too was quite tired and trying her best to take top place in the Gav family’s “most annoying child of the day” contest.

I decided at this point to let them watch a movie. I figured, best case, it would keep them awake for an additional 90 minutes, which might, maybe put them back on a normal sleep schedule. And worst case? They fall asleep on the couch in 10 minutes, but at least I don’t have deal with them anymore.

So into the DVD player went Ratatouille. Only Loaf, didn’t want to watch Ratatouille. So of course, she started crying.

Again.

And Peanut wanted milk, but instead of asking, she launched right into tears.

Again.

Mark and I stood in front of the TV, arms crossed, like two pissed off prison guards.

“No movie until you stop crying,” Mark warned. “Do you want to watch the movie or do you want to sit there and cry?”

“I want cry,” Loaf stated, boldly looking back at him. And Peanut agreed nonverbally, sitting on the couch wailing, tears streaming down her red face.

Me?

I had to leave the room to hide the fact that I was shaking with laughter. I’m not quite sure that’s the response he was expecting. I guess you have to at least respect the fact that even at their young ages, they know what they want in life.

Damn you, Ben Franklin

So here we are on day four since the clocks went back and, just like last year, we are in hell.

Peanut woke up this morning at 4:57 a.m.

So guess what happened tonight? This:





Actual time of photograph: 6:49 p.m.

I.Am.So.Fucked.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Mr. Ben "hey-let's-screw-with-the-clocks-twice-a-year" Franklin for making my life hell for six months a year (though according to Wikipedia some guy named William Willet {whoever the fuck that is} was the one who actually foisted it upon the rest of us. Jerkoff.)

I'm sure Mr. Franklin and Mr. Willet didn't intend to cause utter chaos in the Gav household when they conceived of their idea. I'm sure they had no idea that decades later some poor mother would be dealing with a small child at her bedside every morning between 4 and 5 a.m. demanding breakfast because the night before she fell asleep before dinner. I'm sure none of that crossed their minds and they were genuinely all about getting people to go out and enjoy the sunshine and feel alive and be happy and all that other bullshit.

But you know what? Right now, none of that is making me feel much better. So thank you Mr. Franklin and Mr. Willett (both MEN by the way, who probably never ONCE in their lives had to get up with a child). I wish I could wake you up tomorrow morning when my child wakes and make you drag your sorry ass out of bed before the heat has even kicked on to fetch her some cereal, but unfortunately, you are both dead and getting all the sleep you want. How convenient.

A dream I swear, I swear a dream

Last night, Loaf woke up again.

“Bad dream, Mommy! Bad dream!”

And while I initially fought bringing her into bed fearing the horror of her teeth grinding, I eventually acquiesced out of exhaustion and into bed she came. (I know I should stand my ground on this, but when it’s 3:09 a.m. and you’re so tired you can barely stand, it’s a lot more appealing to take the easy road).

So anyway, she’s in bed and not sleeping. She’s rolling and kicking and sitting up and talking to the cat (who, judging by the speed at which her tail was twitching, was just as annoyed about Loaf being there as I was). Every so often I’d hiss at her: Loaf! Go to sleep. Go to sleep now or I will bring you back to your crib!

Finally, she did sleep, but I did not. Laying awake, my brain ran endlessly through the next day’s to-do list: the work I had to do, the playdate Peanut had, the messy state of my house. I earned for sleep, but it did not seem to come.

Then, suddenly it was morning. It was 7 a.m. and Peanut was standing at my bedside. “Get up, Mom! Breakfast!”

And Loaf was equally cheerful: Good morning, Mommy!

I, however, was not. After all, I’d been up since 3 a.m. I was exhausted to the bone. I could barely think. I pulled on my robe and walked, zombie-like, out to the kitchen where Mark, who slept on the couch last night, was cheerfully brewing a pot of coffee (I don’t touch the stuff, this was solely for his own benefit).

He tried being nice, but I was completely sour and not having it.

“You realize I’ve been up since three-fucking-a.m., right?” I said in my most evil tone. And then, I could barely believe what was pouring out of my mouth. A diarrhea of curse words so foul I couldn’t believe my own ears. The children stood there, gape mouthed and dumbstruck. Mark looked at me like I’d been possessed by some f-word using demon.

But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The swears just kept coming.

Fuck this and this fucking life and its fucking lack of sleep. Fuck you. Fuck it all. I just want to fucking sleep. I want to go back to fucking bed. Fuck you and stupid coffee.

And then I had a sudden, strong urge to pee. And realized I was still in bed and the room was pitch black. I looked at the clock: 4:54 a.m.

I was dreaming. I’d fallen asleep after all, and dreamed the whole thing.

The dream was so real, it took me a few minutes to process that it wasn’t. And after I’d visited the bathroom and slipped back into bed, I fell instantly into a deep, profanity-free sleep, which was a huge relief. I’m not sure what it means? Was it truly frustration over not being able to sleep? Or my mind’s response to the P.C. (parentally correct) language I have to use all the time now. I have no idea, but there is a plus side: so long as I don’t talk in my sleep, I’ve found one more safe place to swear.

The nightly grind

For many months, Loaf slept in our bed. This was a conscious decision on our part at first. I was nursing and I found it infinitely easier to cope with the needs of a newborn and the active 20-month-old that Peanut was if I could stay lying down (and maybe even doze a bit) during nightly feedings.

However, while I have nothing against those who choose to co-sleep with their children for the long haul, I’ve always known it’s not for me. I am a light sleeper who likes her personal space while sleeping. I also do not enjoy being kicked in the head by small feet during the night. So once Loaf was night-weaned, we began the difficult process of trying to get her to sleep in her crib.

It took well over a year to finally get her to the point where she slept all night, every night, in her own bed. It was frustrating for all of us. It has only been in the last few months that Loaf has started consistently sleeping through the night, and it’s been amazing. I feel like a new woman.

Last night however, Loaf had a nightmare.

“Mommy!” came a terrified shriek followed by panicked crying. “Mommy, please!”

I jumped out of bed, heart in my throat, ran to the next room, scooped her up and without giving it a second thought, took her into my bed. I lay her down next to me and rubbed her tiny back and head.

“It’s OK,” I murmured in her ear. “You’re OK. I’m here, Mama is here and it’s all OK.”

Within a few minutes, her breathing slowed, telling me she was again sleeping peacefully. I lay back and closed my eyes. After a few minutes, I too was nearly back to sleep when suddenly I was stirred awake by a horrible, sickening sound.

crrrruuuuunnnccch

What? The?

And that was when I discovered Loaf’s newest nighttime trick.

She is a teeth grinder. A very, very loud teeth grinder. It sounds like she is eating a glass sandwich with a side of nails.

I lay there, half the night, listening to this awful sound and half expecting her teeth to come flying out of her mouth from the force she was exerting on them. I have never in my life heard anything quite like it. Disturbing doesn’t really even cover it. It’s one of those “nails on chalkboard” sounds that sends chills up my back.

I turned on my side and tried to stuff the entire corner of my goose down comforter in my ear canal, but it was no use. Loaf, almost as if she knew what I was doing, rolled over and laid her face against the back of my head.

crrrruuuunnnchhhh

AH!!!

Holy mother of GOD, please make it stop!

But it did not stop. Not all night. And when the alarm went off it was just a formality since I was already very much wide-awake.

I’ve already Googled it, and it’s very common and often subsides on its own by age 6 or 7, but hello?? That’s four or five years away. I’m concerned that if she keeps going at this rate, she’s not going to have any teeth left to leave for the tooth fairy someday. Plus, we’ve got lots of nightmare-filled, I-need-to-sleep-in-Mommy’s-bed nights ahead of us. I think I better invest in a pair of earplugs ASAP.

Look at this face

This is the face that I see peaking over the crib rails at me every morning.



And it's a damn good thing too, because this waking up every night at 3 a.m. and crying and wanting to play and hang out for a couple of hours really sucks the big one.

If she weren't this cute? I'd definitely have sold her to the gypsies by now.

Guess what Elmo's thinking about today?

For those of you not familiar with the utter horror joy that is "Elmo's World," in every episode Elmo is thinking about something and the episode goes to on detail various aspects of that something. Elmo will ask his mime friend Mr. Noodle a question about the thing he is thinking about, he will count something related to it, he will talk to it and then he will sing a song about it. Every episode (and I think I've seem them all) it’s the same.

Tonight, I passed through the living room as the furry red guy announces, “Elmo is thinking about games,” only to my ears it sounded like “gangs.”

I had to stop and do a double-take. I mean, I know Sesame Street has been trying to get all progressive and issue-y lately, but gangs seemed like a bit too much for a show with talking puppets and an audience largely under the age of 7 to address.

Though it got me thinking, if Elmo were thinking about gangs, would he bust a cap in Cookie’s ass for being blue? Would he wear a big gold “E” and get some jailhouse tats under his red fur? Would he ask Mr. Noodle in his chipper little voice, “How do you do a drive-by?” (And then would Mr. Noodle incorrectly try do one on a tricycle, or with a kazoo, until he finally got it right?) Would he ask everyone watching at home to count the stray bullets? Would Elmo ask a gang member to find out more? I can practically hear it:

Elmo: Is it fun being a gang member?
Gang member: It’s a blast.
Cue Elmo’s high-pitched laugh

Ergh. My brain likes to go to sick, deep, dark places when it’s sleep-deprived. My apologies. I’m off to bed . . .

My nice, relaxing weekend has left me exhausted

We started off this holiday weekend with no plans (a rarity around here). Additionally, having a friend over for dinner Friday night forced us to clean the house early, so we were heading into the long weekend with a very clean house (even more of a rarity).

These factors left me hoping for a nice, relaxing weekend of playing with my kids, lounging around my yard and catching up on some reading.

And while I did all of that, tonight I am utterly, completely, can-barely-hold-my-eyelids-up exhausted. Why? Well, let’s review this from a scientific standpoint and we’ll see where things went awry. Let’s examine one 24-hour period in my life this weekend:

Saturday

4:38 a.m.—Cat wakes me up. Cannot go back to sleep. An hour or so later, Peanut arrives in room. “Ah ah!” she exclaims happily. Lift her into bed and pray for sleep. It does not come.

6:14 a.m.—Loaf wakes up. Roll out of bed. Eat, get dressed, wash up, etc.

7:45 a.m.—Read several stories to kids.

8:30 a.m.—Lather up with sunscreen and head outside. Walk down to pond. See three frogs. “Fish” with sticks. Head back to house. Play in sandbox. Make several sandcastles. Get up and pull a few weeds. Play a few rounds of “Ring-around-the-Rosie.” Color and read a couple more stories.

11:15 a.m.—Decide since it’s hot and Memorial Day, it’s time to “open the pool.” ← Ha! This consists of taking a blow-up wading pool out of Loaf’s closet, hooking it up to an air pump until it’s inflated, then sticking a hose in it for 10-15 min until it’s full. Viola! Instant pool. Can’t beat that.

11:45 a.m.—Begin search for girls’ bathing suits.

12:35 p.m.—Finally find suits. Get kids dressed, put on sunscreen and head out to pool. The water in the pool is equivalent to that in the North Atlantic in January. Your skin goes instantly numb upon contact. Nevertheless, both kids jump right in. Excellent. Snap a couple of pictures.

12:45 p.m.—Sit down to read magazine.

1 p.m.—“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Doh. Lunch. Forgot that! Head inside to make lunch (tuna on wheat). Eat outside. Bring dishes inside.

1:45 p.m.—Peanut changes out of bathing suit. Leaves wet suit on floor of room. Lecture child.

2 p.m.— Mark leaves for 20th (TWENTY!) high school reunion. Kisses goodbye all around.

2:05 p.m.—Loaf poops. Peel wet bathing suit and swim diaper off her and clean her up. Put dry clothes back on her. Head back outside. Children head for sandbox. Sit down to read magazine again. Read about half a page while stopping approximately every 25 seconds to answer a question, look at the pile of sand one of my kids wants to proudly show me, or

2:15 p.m.—Peanut decides to go back in pool. Help her put wet bathing suit back on. While I’m helping her, Loaf climbs in fully dressed. Bring her in the house and change her. Head back out. Sit down to read magazine again. Manage to actually read most of an article in between talking to kids.

3 p.m.—Kids are thirsty. Get up and fetch beverage. Peanut follows me in. Puts on a new dry outfit.

3:15 p.m.—Reapply sunscreen. Put Loaf into another outfit (since the last one got wet). Walk back down to pond. “Fish” some more. See two more frogs. Pick flowers (clover and buttercups) as we walk back to the house. Peanut pronounces she is hungry. ← She is going through a wicked growth spurt and is a bottomless pit these days. Head inside to fix snack.

4 p.m.—Sit in grass and eat snack (sliced fruit). Realize kids’ cups are empty. Get up and head back in to refill them. Peanut decides to go back in the pool. Help her with her suit. Monkey-see-monkey do (aka Loaf) also wants back in. Change her again. Sit at edge of pool and play with kids. Get splashed. Water is still frigid.

4:45 p.m.—Kids get out of pool. While they played, I wandered around watering the flower beds and pulling random weeds. Peanut claims to be hungry. Again. And of course, she must now change her clothes.

5:15 p.m.—Begin prepping dinner. Since kids did not nap (and quite frankly, I am spent) decide they will eat and go to bed early. The thought of laying comatose on the couch within hours sends rivers of joy through my beleagured brain.

5:45 p.m.—Dinner. Leftover pizza and salad. Dessert=half a chocolate chip cookie each.
Next, bath. Let kids splash in tub extra long tonight while I sit on floor with magnifying mirror in one hand and tweezers in the other and tweeze eyebrows (always multi-tasking).

6:30 p.m.—Kids are out of tubs, in PJs and their teeth are brushed. Peanut asks me to paint her nails, so I paint both her and Loaf’s fingers and toes. They are thrilled. Big hugs for Mommy!

6:45 p.m.—Time for them to watch their show. Figure they’ll be in bed by 7:45 p.m. Woo hoo! Do dishes and clean up kitchen while they watch one episode of Curious George, followed by the second half of Sesame Street (gotta see Elmo!).

7:45 p.m.—Bedtime! Read them both one story. Put Loaf in her crib with a few books. Figure she will be out cold in minutes since she did not nap today. Tuck Peanut in. Walk down hall. Sit on couch with book. Read a few pages.

8:15 p.m.—Hear Loaf tossing books out of her crib. One by one, they hit the floor with a loud BOOM. Ignore this.

8:20 p.m.—Loaf is crying. Really crying. Full out, pitching-a-fit crying. How can she still be awake? March down hall. Loaf is standing at the rail of her crib. In addition to tossing the books, she’s thrown out her Lamb and all her blankets. Put them back in and attempt to lay her back down. More crying. Bring her milk. She sips it, but then resumes crying.

8:30 p.m.—Decide to let her cry it out a bit. She HAS to be exhausted. Sit in living room listening to crying, which is only growing more intense.

8:35 p.m.—March back up hall. Pick up Loaf. Lay her in my bed. Lay next to her. Wait. Ten minutes pass and she is finally asleep. Slowly roll out of bed and tip-toe to bathroom. Wash face and brush teeth.

8:45 p.m.—Crawl back into bed with book.

9 p.m.—Eyes. Getting. Very. Heavy. . . . .

9:41 p.m.—Stir. Bring Loaf to crib. Zombie walk back to bed. Turn off light. Zzzzz.

Sunday

1:19 p.m.—Loaf wakes up. Walk into her room. She wants milk. I oblige. She sips it. I return milk to fridge. Fall back into bed. Sleep.

4:14 a.m.—Cat wakes me up. Make mental note not to get anymore cats. Doze. Sort of.

5:23 a.m. Peanut bounds into bedroom. “Ah ah!” she exclaims happily. Is it really morning??

So let’s see. In that 24-hour period it appears I spent approximately:
• 3.5 hours preparing food/drink items
• 30 minutes eating food items
• 6 hours playing outside
• 41 minutes “fishing” and poking frogs in the ass with sticks to make them jump
• 4 hours changing kids clothing and applying sunscreen.
• 24 minutes reading my own magazines/books
• 3 hours reading children’s books
• 39 minutes sitting
• 90 minutes answering questions and “oohing and ahhing” over random piles of sand
• 49 minutes making sandcastles
• Three and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep
• 2 hours laying in bed awake
• 5 minutes plucking eyebrows
• 15 minutes doing dishes
• 49 minutes making sandcastles
• 40 minutes searching for bathing suits
• 12 minutes "relaxing"

So there you go. That was my relaxing weekend. I can’t wait to get to work tomorrow so I can sit on my butt for a while and get a little rest.

Sleepless in New Jersey

Saturday night, 10:09 p.m.

Crawl into bed. Exhausted. Up since 5:30 a.m. (thank you, Peanut). Lots to do tomorrow. Have to look for eggs and make a fruit salad and give the girls a bath and iron their dresses and . . . . zzzzzzzzzzzz.

Sunday morning, approximately 1:30 a.m.

Walking through my yard; something’s in the woods. See a herd of giraffes, their heads taller than the trees around them. They start eating the leaves off the trees at an alarming rate. STOP! STOP! Chomp. Chomp. Crying baby. Chomp. STOP! Crying baby.

A baby is crying? In the woods? Louder. In my room. My bed. Giraffes are gone, trees are gone. In bed. Awake. Crying.

Get up. Walk down hall. Small Child* immediately stands up and reaches for me. Lift her up and lay her on my shoulder. Stand rocking with her for a few minutes. Lay her back down. Small Child begins crying again. Pick her back up.

Walk to room. Lay in bed with Small Child on my chest. Doze a bit.

2:14 a.m.

Small Child’s breath deepens and slows. Stand up. Walk back down hall. Slowly, gently, silently lower Small Child into crib. Back and arm muscles strain to lift her over the crib rail and lower her down without waking her. Her body lightly hits the mattress. Carefully let her go. Stand. Take one step back.

Small Child begins crying. Again.

2:16 a.m.

Walk back to room. Lay back down with Small Child on chest. Lay awake in the dark. Ten minutes should do it. Ten minutes. 2:17 . . . 2:18 . . . 2:19 . . . 2:20. Close eyes – a watched pot never boils. Close eyes. Close eyes. Focus on closing eyes. Surely it’s been 10 minutes by now.

2:24

ARRGH!!

Small Child sighs and sinks into me. Finally 2:27. Slowly stand.

“CLOCK!” Small Child declares.

shit fuck shit

Walk down hall thinking Small Child will surely fall asleep in the 15 steps to her room.

Lay Small Child down; Small Child immediately rolls to a standing position and begins crying. Again.

sigh

2:33 a.m.

Drop Small Child into center of bed and lay down facing away from her. Swear silently for several minutes to myself.

Close eyes. Small Child rolls over and around. A lot. Feet in back.

Exhaustion takes over. Doze lightly. Small Child appears to doze also. Think back to her newborn days. Feel nostalgic. Flip over and face her. Drape arm over sleeping child. Nuzzle against her.

Doze.

3:03 a.m.

DOG! BARKING! LOUDLY! IN! HOUSE!

What the . . . ?

Dog runs down hall, barking, barking, barking.

Heart in throat. Eyes wide open.

Husband gets up and tromps down hall. Lets dog out. Barking outside house. At deer? Fox? Who knows?

Small Child mimicks dog: WOOF!

Shush Child. Time to sleep.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Husband returns.

“HI DADA!”

Terrific. Fucking dog.

3:10 a.m.

Mama exhausted. Dada exhausted.

Small child. Awake. Wiiiiidde awake.

“Mwah,” Small Child leans and kisses.

Ssshhhhh!

“BadCat!” Small Child notices sleeping cat on pillow.

Ssshhhh!

Feet pressed against my ribs, Small Child bounces.

Please sleep!

Arm pointed at ceiling, Small Child announces cheerfully: UP!

Small Child’s head collides violently with nose.

OW!

swear silently for several more minutes

Husband offers to take Small Child for ride.

Discuss. Decide to return her to room instead.

3:38 a.m.

Walk down hall. Switch on light. Sit Small Child in crib.

Walk to kitchen. Pour milk. Offer to Child. Child declines, crying.

Hand Small Child several books. Sit on floor. Child looks at book.

Slide 12 inches toward door. Child looks over suspiciously.

Don’t move. Child returns to book. Slide some more.

Husband gets up. Comes in. Changing of the guard.

3:46 a.m.

Return to bed. Sleep.

4:30 a.m.

Vaguely hear Small Child’s light click off. Husband returns to bed. Sleeps.

6:04 a.m.

Mommy! Did the Easter Bunny come.

Uh? East ….Bun? Wha?

Open eyes. Peanut standing by bed.

Mommy! It’s Easter.

Great.

Would it be terrible to eat jelly beans for breakfast? After this night, I’m thinking no.

The long and short of it

The shortest 60 minutes of my day: The one-hour period beginning at midnight, when I crawled back into bed after comforting Loaf, until 1 a.m. when she woke up again in need of more comfort. An hour? It felt like I'd closed my eyes for 5 minutes.

The longest 60 seconds of my day: The minute that passed from 1:16 a.m. to 1:17 a.m. after I put Loaf back down to sleep and tried to make an absolutely stealth, silent exit from her room, moving so slowly that only time-lapse photography would pick up the slow slide of each foot on the floor, praying with each second that she would sleep, stay asleep, shhh, sleep baby sleep, until finally reaching the threashhold and pulling the door closed behind me, griping the doorknob in my hand and letting it turn one milimeter at a time so there would be not even the slightest audible click as it came to rest in the strikeplate.