How Sweet It Is.

Today, the cat needed food in her bowl. I went in to give her food, and Logan came galumphing down the hallway after me: "me do it, Mommy - me needa givea kiddy her kiddy food." So he popped open the container, grabbed the cup, filled it with food and put the kibbles in the cat bowl. Then he lovingly placed the bowl back onto the counter so the cat could eat. "Eat, Kiddy, eat your breafust." The cat cocked an ear toward him, looked at me to confirm that the beast who used to pull her hair was actually the one who fed her, then proceeded to chow down.

That sort of, but not totally, makes up for the fact that he didn't nap yesterday. When Logan doesn't nap, it's as though someone takes a can opener and pops his brain right out of the skull. Then, the brain stands upstairs on Logan's bed doing a jig while Logan runs around downstairs, brainless, thoughtless, unbearable.

Everything was a calamitous catastrophe yesterday after naptime. I had told Logan that we would go out to dinner, but only if he napped. (Ok, it was supposed to be Taco Bell, but still, it's out, right? Besides, you try taking two children under three years old out to a restaurant, alone. Come back, tell me how it went, then we'll talk.) He whined, moaned, complained when I said, post-naptime-time that we weren't going. I'm not taking a sniveling, whining two year old out to a restauarant.

For the rest of the afternoon, everything I said or did needled Logan. The fact that Logan had to stay inside while the guys mowed the lawn and weedwhacked was a serious shot through his heart. That I wouldn't let him play with the kitchen knives was cruel and unusual punishment. Needing to come inside at bedtime - well, don't even get me started. Needless to say, (and I do feel terrible saying it), Logan got neither books nor songs at bedtime. Honestly though, there really was no brain there to even perceive that songs were being sung, that books were being read. He cried when I left the room after putting him in bed, "sing a song Mommy!" But, at that point, I was fed up, way up, and there needed to be some distance between the two of us.

About fifteen minutes after he and his brother went to bed, I began to feel real remorse at being so mean as to not sing him a song after tucking him in. So I went upstairs to his room to make peace with him. I needn't have worried about peace - he was already peacefully off in la-la land, dreaming of the myriad ways he could conceive of to push my buttons tomorrow. But he was sleeping, that baby of mine, with his chubby toddler cheeks, sweaty brow, and sweet deep breath. Fickleness, thine name is Logan. But oh, how I love thee nonetheless.

Crap!

So, life's not all crappy with my kids. The crappyness is just that much more interesting to write about. Who wants to hear about how someone's son plays football and their daughter does ballet? I don't, it's all crap! At least, that's what I think.

To Sleep, or not to Sleep

What is it about a child's crying, squealing and screaming that grates across my brain? I don't mean squeals of joy, I mean those pitiful moans and wails and cries with a pitch that is almost glass-breakingly unbearable. The cries don't cause the soft, motherly center of my being to melt and want to pick up my baby and cuddle him to soothe him. No, these cries are like a baseball bat to my brain, beating apart any gentleness that might be inside me, pounding it into teeny pieces that quiver like jelly on the floor.

That being said, let me explain the situation: I am not one of those people who claims to be able to survive on 6 hours of sleep. I am an ogre, a hideous, evil facade of a woman when I don't get enough sleep. By enough sleep, I mean 7.5 to 8 hours minimum. (I shudder at the fact that there's still the slightest bit of me that wants another newborn! What the hell am I thinking?) I go to bed at 11 PM. I would love to wake at 7. Usually what happens though is that I am jarred awake by Alex's wails at 11:30 - separation anxiety, the pediatrician says. Then, after he's back to sleep, I finally go to sleep for a few hours. Cut to 5:30 AM, when the moaning and wailing starts up again. So, the mamma beast is created.

Naptime used to be my favorite time of day. I could get work done, and even take a short snooze to recharge my batteries before round two of childrearing. Now, though, Alex goes to sleep at 1:30, and wakes at 2:30 (you guessed it, howling!) There's hardly enough time in there to lay my head down.

Why won't this child sleep? What have I done in a past life to deserve this - was I Stalin or perhaps a major proponent of the holocaust? Whatever it was I did, I am sure paying the price now. Once you've seen the dark underbelly of sleep deprivation, you can understand why it's been used as a form of torture for eons.

During the day, Alex is a doll. He's normally cheerful, quick to smile, and easy to console. He loves to watch his big brother run around, and joins in as often as he can. Together, the boys build with Legos (ok, Logan builds and Alex tears down), chase each other in circles, draw with crayons and stickers. Essentially, the definition of happy kids. But as soon as that baby is in his bed, he howls. He falls asleep when he feels like it, and once awoken, feels the need to howl and cry and scream until you come get him. Whereby he turns into an angel child again.

But, I try to lie down and regain a few minutes of much needed sleep, and the wails pierce my brain like daggers. Earplugs, pillows over my head, his door shut, nothing works to quiet the racket. I must not beat my child senseless, he deserves better, and so do I. Despite the fact that he is screaming, I must stand my ground and keep him in his bed the length of naptime (two hours), otherwise I will lose my sanity. There appears that nothing but time (and lots of it) will quell my child's cries.

Sleep is a beautiful thing. My child is a beautiful thing. But Sleep does not equal my Child. Sigh.