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.