When did my baby boy become a big boy?

Today was Monkey’s first full day of Kindergarten. He’s got his own locker and a brand-new lunch bag. And a mama who just can’t believe he’s growing up so fast. Monkey was so excited that he barely even acknowledged me when I said goodbye. I made it half-way back to the main doors before I started crying.

When Pumpkin and I picked him up, he just seemed like it was no big deal! But he had a lot of fun and got to eat his lunch in the cafeteria like a big kid, so he was happy about that. So far, I think lunch is his favorite subject.

OK, so everybody can relax now, Poison Control tells me that compact fluorescent light bulbs do not contain toxic levels of mercury. And how might I have come into this information, you may well ask? Sit down, this is going to take a little while.

It’s July, in Oklahoma, and it is hot. The kind of hot I call “Killing Hot,” really too hot to take the kiddos to the playground very often. Unless we could manage to get out there by 8 am, but we can’t. Because this is me we’re talking about, here. The unrepentant night owl, the irascible morning grouch. So, the entire House has become a playground.

Last week Monkey’s bestest friend from school, Z., came over so his mama could go on a job interview. The kids needed perfectly clean, organized and clutter-free play-spaces, because half the fun of playing is making a mess. And we all know that the cleaner the room before, the more fun it is to mess it up!

But I digress. The day before Z. came over, I had my mother-in-law come over to watch the kids while I cleaned (mostly Pumpkin’s room, she’s destructo-girl!). Monkey is 5, Pumpkin is 3, I should be able to just go off into another part of the House and clean, without adult back-up, right? HA!!!! You don’t know my kids. I don’t dare leave these two unsupervised for longer than the time it takes to start a load of laundry or dishes. My daughter eats crayons, for Pete’s sake! And my son can field-strip every stick of furniture in the House (including the wall-mounted bookcases) in under ten minutes!

My request was simple: keep the kids in the living room while I pick up the bedrooms. Simple, yes. Easy, not by a long shot. My daughter is a world-class escape artist; she has defeated every single child-proofing product I have ever tried. She can even worm her way out of a snug five-point harness. She’s Houdini-toddler. So, yes it is disappointing that she managed to give Nana the slip, but it’s not surprising.

About 20 minutes into my cleaning, I walked out into the hall to see my pants-free toddler throwing her poopy diaper into my kitchen! It was like one of those slow-motion movie moments: I yelled, “Nooooooo!” while diving head-first, like some bizarro-world baseball player, for the noxious missile. I missed. It landed with a disheartening “splat!”, it was the sound of my failure as a parent. Please, somebody, anybody, tell me how to keep a diaper on a potty-training toddler.

After cleaning up that little unpleasantness, I had to sit down for a minute. Seemed like a good time to check my email, so I sat down with my laptop. And that’s as far as I got with that idea. I glanced over at my side table and saw the light bulb from my lamp, on the table.

We have had lamp troubles for years, 5 years to be exact. We used to have the cutest wooden-based lamps from IKEA. They lasted until my son started pulling himself up on the furniture. It never occurred to us that wooden lamps would be breakable, but he quickly showed us the error of our ways. Bye-bye cute table-top lamps!

What to do, what to do? Should we take the chance and get more table lamps? No way! We’re way too smart for that! Yeah right. So we did the most logical thing, we bought wall-mounted lamps. They are cute and simple and silvery. And no where near as child-resistant as I had hoped. My daredevil daughter just climbs the table or stands on the back of the couch to reach them. And she takes out the light bulbs. Every. Time.

With a roll of the eyes and a frustrated-mom huff, I dragged my tired self up to put that light bulb right back from whence it came. Until I touched a sharp edge. The tube was broken, it looked like a little slice had been removed. I knew exactly where to lay the blame–on my diaper-throwing daughter. Imagining glass shards embedded in tiny fingers, I checked and cleaned her hands. Then I looked for any stray bulb pieces on the table, couch, and carpet. Satisfied that bare hands or feet would be safe for the immediate future, I tried to pry some information out of Nana. She still swears that Pumpkin was with her the entire time.

I replaced the bulb and didn’t think a thing about it, until the next time she removed my light bulb. Then, on Sunday evening Nana called just to tell me about the scary-light-bulb story in the paper. I read the article when things finally settled down, the next day.

When a light bulb breaks, and this wasn’t the first one, I pick up the pieces and just put them in the trash. Silly me. According to the rather alarmist newspaper article, a broken CF light bulb is an environmental catastrophe second only to the Exxon Valdez. When that light bulb (often pronounced “light bub” here) broke, I should have evacuated the House, turned off the A/C, and called out the Hazmat squad.

Understandably concerned about the massive amount of mercury and who-knows-what-else Pumpkin may have come in contact with, I called the doctor’s office. The nurse suggested I call Poison Control, and maybe the EPA! Poison Control and I are old friends, I’m that mom who calls them when she gives the baby a tenth of a mil too much baby Tylenol. Then there was the time Monkey tasted diaper rash cream, they actually giggled about that one, where I could hear them. And once I called because Monkey found a stray carpet cleaning granule and put it in his mouth. The Poison Control Guy said, “Ma’am, that stuff is made of cellulose.” Yep, I called Poison Control because the baby ate paper.

Anyway, the long-suffering Poison Control man reassured me that the amount of mercury in a CF bulb is less than is found in a thermometer. He said that the minuscule amount of mercury is nowhere near enough to be toxic to her, “no matter what the internet says.” He was more concerned about cuts from the broken glass.

One lesson I took away from all this: if a toddler wants your light bulbs, she’s gonna get them. So to reduce the risk of injury, and to keep from having to replace ridiculously expensive CF bulbs all the time, I now remove the bulbs from the fixtures in the morning, before Pumpkin gets out of bed. So nobody needs to panic, everything’s under control.

I am currently watching Ni Hao, Kai-lan, even when the kids aren’t in the room. Right now, we are having a TV problem–it’s 10 years old, takes about an hour to warm up and until then the picture flips and distorts. So once the TV is on, it is on for the day, whether anybody is watching it or not. When the kids leave, I just mute the sound.

Anyway, Kai-lan is a nice show, Pumpkin likes it more than Monkey does, and even repeats the Mandarin words. The visual style is very simple and colorful. The characters remind me of a cross between Hello Kitty and an Avon “It’s a Small World” perfume bottle I had when I was a little girl. The only problem I have is not with the show itself, it’s with Nick, Jr. Love the shows, hate hate hate the commercials. I would pay cash money if my oldest didn’t have the Chuck E Cheese theme song memorized now.

The next show, Pokemon DP, is definitely a favorite of Monkey’s. He plays Pokemon something-or-other every night with his daddy, he’s got a bunch of the cards, and he adores the show. I’ve always liked anime, Robotech was one of my favorites in high school. The show is as intricate as the video games. Last week, Monkey found one of my pens and wrote a little “R” on the pocket of his grey t-shirt. He told me it’s because he’s a member of Team Rocket. Pumpkin hates the show and screams, “That’s not my favorite!” whenever Monkey watches it.

One show they both agree upon is a classic: Popeye. They love it! And they take turns pretending to be Popeye and Bluto. I hear a lot of talk about spinach, but it’s just the pretend kind. Actually offer them real live spinach and they act like you just served up a poop sandwich. One interesting thing–while they like to run around and make straws into corn cob pipes, they don’t hit each other! So that’s good. Another interesting little tidbit, it’s always Popeye and Bluto, Olive Oyl never figures into it. I don’t mind that at all. Olive Oyl makes the rest of us dames look bad! Seriously, that character plays into so many negative stereotypes of women that I’m glad she’s not included. She’s fickle, she’s irrational, she’s ditzy, she’s a bad driver, and she’s only a prop to further the Popeye/Bluto rivalry dynamic.

I’d be really worried if either my son or my daughter wanted to identify with such a character. But I’d be pleased if either one pretended to be Dora or Kai-lan. But alas, strong, capable, identifiably-human girl characters are few and far between. Well, there’s always Velma.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with undergarments. Bras are fine, I tend to find ones I like and wear them until they fall apart. Underpants always have been, and ever shall remain, the bane of my existence. Don’t get me wrong, I always wear underpants, I wouldn’t dream of going around without them. It’s like they know that I can’t live without them, so they take advantage of my naked vulnerability so to speak, engaging me in a near constant wrestling match just to keep them in place.

You may find this difficult to believe, but there have been times when I have been reduced to tears out of sheer loathing for my underpants. OK, it was just that one time and I was pregnant. You do not know clothing hell until you have worn maternity underpants. Pregnancy is the one time in my life when I have even considered going commando because all maternity underpants were apparently designed by sadists.

There is even one brand of ladies’ underpants that claims to have a no-ride-up guarantee. Ride-up, how deceptively charming. I refer to the phenomenon as Black-Hole Butt. As long as I can remember, my behind has acted as a kind of gravity well, pulling in every garment that gets close. So I have perfected some techniques for dealing with the problem. There is the Rise-and-Tug, useful for getting out of chairs and cars. There is the Discreet-Turn-and-Tug, perfect for dealing with the problem while in enclosed public venues, like department stores and grocery stores. But recently I have stopped caring so much, if the issue doesn’t involve more than a little elastic-snapping, I just do it. Since having children I have come to the realization that other people rarely care about, or even notice, what is going on around them. And even if someone notices, I am not the first person, nor will I be the last, who has to make adjustments in public. Fear not, if the problem is serious enough, I excuse myself and head to the ladies’ room.

For the record, I have tried department store underpants, mass-retailer underpants, fancy schmancy lingerie store underpants, and not one of them are better than the others. It has gotten to the point where I am considering men’s underpants. I never hear of men having to go through these gyrations just to keep their undergarments in place. My most recent purchases have been the ones with the charmingly deceptive “guarantee.” Oh, and Major Underpants Manufacturer, they still ride up, you owe me nine dollars.

Today I had occasion to purchase underpants for my both my children, you know, to pass down the misery to a new generation. Don’t blame me, kids, I just bought them. My son, who is growing up faster than I like, decided that he no longer wants picture underpants. He wants underpants just like Daddy’s, so today I got him his first “tighty whities.” Those things are cuter than I thought possible; who knew miniature underpants were that adorable.

I also bought my 3-year old daughter her first big-girl underpants. Not that she gets to wear them right now or anything. I also got her a little tin lunch-box/purse thing for her “money box.” Monkey has a shoe box full of coins because he filled up his piggy bank and had to have a place for all the extra money. How does a five-year old get so much money, you might ask. Easy, extortion. He got into a bad habit of asking anyone who came to the door if they had any coins for him. It’s Nana’s fault. She started giving him the coins to put in that piggy bank, then Uncle D. got in on the act. Enablers, the lot of them. Luckily, he’s no longer asking plumbers and electricians to empty their pockets. But I digress.

Pumpkin decided she need a money box, too. One that would go up in her closet so Monkey couldn’t get it. Only one problem, she has no money, and she wants some. I have decided to turn this to my advantage and I told her that I will give her coins for peeing and pooping in the potty. That’s right, I am resorting to bribery. I hope that the lure of cold, hard cash will convince her to start using the potty. Heaven knows nothing else is working. So I am going to pay her. To use the potty. If I could outsource one parenting task this would be the one.

I hope that the big girl underpants will also be an incentive to use the potty, but I really think I’ll get more traction with the cash. But it’s like I’m paying her to stop using diapers and start wearing underpants. Come to think of it, if somebody paid me to wear underpants I might not mind that whole Black-Hole Butt problem.

My daughter doesn’t just make a mess in her room, she trashes her room like a rock star! It may be her super-power.

It has either been raining or soggy all week long and I haven’t been able to take the kids out to play to run off some of their energy. So that energy has been directed into the serious business of messing up the House. Today, I’d had enough. The mess has become overwhelming–there are toys in every room in the House! I wanted to move all the toys back to where they live, but there was literally no space in Pumpkin’s room for one more toy. Don’t believe me? Have a peek.

When faced with a mess like this it is sometimes difficult to know where to start. But this time it was easy. Apparently, some kind of stuffed animal-volcano had erupted and the resulting toy-flow impeded my ability to get to the rest of the mess. So I tucked all the stuffed animals back into their basket and then tackled the rest of the room.

Several of Monkey’s toys had made their way into Pumpkin’s room; I removed those first. Then I found my new hat, it’s been missing all week. I found it in Pumpkin’s closet, filled with tiny toys. Not long after I started, the kids showed up, wanting to “help.” Monkey was playing Pokemon so it was easy to persuade him not to help. But Pumpkin had to help, she even started crying when I told her “no.” So I crumbled like a stale cookie and let her help. Which actually made the whole process take longer than it should, but it made her happy. And here’s the little culprit herself:

After all the toys were off the floor and stowed in their little bins, I had to move the rug and vacuum the room, so I parked the Pumpkin in the den with her brother and gave them snacks. I got the room perfectly put together and was so proud of all my hard that I took some “after” pictures.

And:

And finally:

That’s the great little organizer I bought at Target. Now if only I could get her to put the toys back in the bins!

Anyway, didn’t I, I mean, we do a good job? Care to guess how long the clean lasted?

Less than three hours. Three hours! I was hoping to get at least a day of clean for all my troubles.

They are kicking my butt.

A girlfriend once told me about a couple she knew that didn’t believe in complimenting their daughters on their appearances. And if anyone dared to mention how pretty the girls were, those compliments were violently rebuked. Excuse me, but exactly what are people supposed to say about babies? “Um, she’s not cute or anything but I’m sure she’ll grow up to accomplish something.”

Their thinking is apparently that children should not be praised for things that they can’t control. I feel so sorry for those girls, because I can guarantee that nothing will be good enough for those parents. I grew up with parents who seemed to believe that a parent’s prime responsibility was to ensure that their children didn’t get “The Bighead”. No praising your children in front of others, because it’s unseemly. No telling your daughter that she is pretty, because what does she have to feel pretty about? When insensitive people insult your children, even accidentally, it’s rude to contradict and defend your own offspring. And when your children do good in school, don’t fail to point out that they could’ve done better. And, whatever you do, don’t brag about your children’s accomplishments to others, you’re not even impressed, why should anyone else be?

As a direct result of my upbringing, I lack much of the arrogant self-confidence that this world requires. If either of my parents told me I was pretty, I don’t recall it. And to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t pretty, the most I could ever hope for was cute. But the thing is, the two people who should’ve thought I was pretty, no matter what reality threw their way, didn’t. When the kids at school bullied me about the way I looked, I had no opposing viewpoint to help me feel better about myself. I had a mother who thought that my hair needed home-perms and that my skin was terrible. And a father who called me “Birdlegs.” No affirmations, no encouragement.

My primary jobs as a parent are to love and protect my children. That protection takes so many forms beyond giving them food and shelter. I want to make sure that they are armed with the self-confidence they need to succeed in this harsh, cold world. I want to cushion the blows that life is sure to deal out. I want them to be able to fit in with their peers or not, as they so choose. I didn’t fit in with my peers, but it’s not because I didn’t want to. I wanted desperately to fit in, wanted it so bad that it felt like a physical ache. But it was not to be. Were there things my parents could have done differently to help me fit in? Perhaps. If they had told me I was pretty, or made sure that my clothes looked a little more like the things all the other kids were wearing, or believed in my dreams, maybe I would have been better able to deal with my peers. Seriously, exactly how is a kid supposed to deal when her own parents don’t think she’s pretty?

Unfortunately we live in a world that judges us based on appearances first. The first thing people see when they look at me is a pudgy, graying housewife, not my sparkling personality. Bare minimum for girls, in this society, is pretty. I’m not trying to be shallow, or even say that I agree, it is simply an unpleasant reality with which we have to deal, like it or not. Attractive boys also tend to have an easier time of things than their less-attractive counterparts. And here’s the secret: every girl can be pretty, it has little to do with the particulars of one’s face and everything to do with self-confidence and presentation.

I had a friend who wasn’t what anyone would call conventionally pretty, but she presented beautifully and could put on an air of self-confidence as if it were a cloak. Men would literally throw themselves at her feet. She claimed pretty and made it her own. Somewhere in her history someone told her she was pretty, and they told her that every day. I did not have that. Whenever I tried to do that whole present-pretty thing I just looked like a little girl who fell face-first into mommy’s make-up bag, I could not pull it off.

I praise my children for the wonderful things they do, whether it’s drawing pictures, building Lego spaceships, singing pretty songs, or behaving well in stores. I also tell my son he’s handsome and smart and strong. My daughter is fearless, barnstormer-brave, wing-walker-brave, and I tell her she’s my little daredevil, my wing-walker. She receives copious amounts of praise for knowing her letters and numbers (to 13); and I heap the praise lavishly when she manages to use her spoon instead of her hands to eat. I tell both of them that I love them many times a day, eventually it will embarrass them, but until then I lay it on thick. One day, they may well dodge my kisses and squirm out of my hugs and say, “Mo-om!” when I commit the grave offense of saying I love them in front of their friends. For now, they eat it up and thrive on it. Something I make a point of doing is telling my daughter that she is pretty. Every. Day. It certainly helps that she is a beautiful child with ridiculously long eyelashes and caramel-colored curls. But here’s the deal, even if she wasn’t objectively pretty, I would still say it, because it is that important.

My husband thinks I’m beautiful, by the way, and for that I am glad. And maybe I’d be able to believe him if my parents had told me I was pretty. Every. Day.

We did an inordinate amount of running around this weekend, pretty much like always. We needed some stuff for the House and Hubby wanted some wine and wineglasses for Father’s Day. This was all on the whiteboard I keep on the fridge.

Along with some other things, all written by Hubby (except for ADAM, which was written by Monkey of course). He has the worst handwriting. To the untrained eye, our list may appear as this:

• Tvash Caus
• Smoke Detecnvs
• Surge Supressov
• ADAM
• o x o corn holders
• 11 choppers
• more chip clips
• wine
• wine glasses

Hug-and-Kiss corn holders? And don’t you think one chopper would be enough, even if you weren’t sure if we were talking about motorcycles, helicopters, or vegetable choppers. It’s that last one by the way.

We took the whole crew to Bed Bath and Beyond and came home with a bag full of this:

Apparently, the House is keeping OXO in business. The coffee mug and the (one) chopper are fairly self-explanatory, but I think some background will help on the other stuff.

Chip clips–I cannot tell you how many of these things I have thrown away, usually stuffed down in cereal boxes. We’re on about our tenth package of them. Hubby thought the big red ones would be good, he’s probably right, they are more noticeable. Maybe I won’t be so inclined to throw those away.

Corn holders–the set we bought last summer fell apart, because they cost about a dollar. And we’re gonna need them soon, it’s nearly time to go buy a couple of bushels of corn from Conrad Farms in Bixby.

Measuring cups and spoons–I don’t care for cooking, but I love to bake. Over the years, various pieces from my previous sets of cups and spoons have gone missing. The spoons have largely fallen prey to the garbage disposal, even some of the metal ones. The cups are a little harder to explain, I think one or two of them have been left in bags of flour. If it’s been a while since I baked anything, and there’s not much flour left in the old bag, I’ll start over with a new bag. It’s very likely that some cups have been thrown away with flour remnants.

We did buy two items not made by OXO–a little trash can for Monkey’s room (he loves having his own trash can and has been finding things to throw in it), and a sleep mask for me. I’m still debating whether I should wear it or not, at night of course.

That was yesterday. Today we went to a bookstore, finished grocery shopping, and ate an early dinner. Hubby took a nice, long Father’s Day nap when we got home. The kids absolutely did not stay quiet or calm, but he managed to sleep through all the ruckus.

After one of my many, futile tries at getting them to pipe down, I found this little guy.

For all the world, just sitting there, looking like he’s waiting for a bus. And then this:

The crime scene. And the culprit?

Pumpkin.

O.K., I have two shows to review today, both fall into the inexplicable category for me, but the kids seem to like them.

Caillou-I despise this show, no, that’s not a strong enough word. I hate this show with the heat of a thousand suns, the fiery quality of my utter loathing and active hatred of this show is powerful enough to melt the paint off the walls. The star of the animated show is an extraordinarily whiny, melon-headed little punk. He’s supposed to be four years old, but exhibits a maturity level far lower than that of his barely-verbal baby sister, Rosie. Caillou’s mother and father are so preternaturally patient and kind and loving and mealy-mouthed that their resemblance to real parents is cursory at best. There’s a cat and some stuffed animals that have their own puppet show thing between the excruciating animated segments. The theme song is terrible, the parents seem like they are on tranquilizers, those grandparents are the most boring grandparents on the planet, there’s a creepy next-door neighbor with a gold tooth and no visible means of support, and did I mention the whining? Caillou is a terrible influence on children, at least on mine. One half-hour of Caillou leads, hop-skip-and-jump, to a week of emulating his atrocious whiny-toned voice. I think the kid gets away with being so whiny all the time because those cartoon parents of his are zonked out on Quaaludes all the time. I find no redeeming qualities in this show except that the kids seem to like it, thank heavens it’s not one of the favorites.

Then there is Yo Gabba Gabba, a children’s show/rave that boasts some very cool guests and artists. Guests like Elijah Woods and Biz Markie and Mark Mothersbaugh. This show is a cross between The Banana Splits, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, and Dee Lite. And can I just say that I am utterly confused by DJ Lancerock’s hat? During my sophomore year of high school, before we got the new band uniforms, that hats we had to wear were these white, itchy towers of fake fur. DJ Lancerock’s hat looks just like those except in orange. To me, Yo Gabba Gabba just seems like a bunch of hipper-than-thou parents or wanna-bes got together and decided to make a “cool” children’s program. I can’t fault them for this, as much children’s programming is absolute garbage. But sometimes it comes off as self-congratulatory and pretentious in its efforts to not be Barney. 

When I get tired of modern children’s programming I just turn the T.V. over to Boomerang, watch Yogi Bear, and relive the innocent T.V.-viewing of my childhood. And, seriously, children’s-programming-people, why work so hard at being “cool” when we can just turn over to The Jetsons or Scooby Do, Where Are You?

Today was Monkey’s last day of school for the year. Actually it was his very first last day of school! There was a pizza party and everything. But frankly, I don’t know how I’m going to survive summer, spring break was almost the death of me. He’s not my little toddler anymore, he’s been out in the world away from me, and he just won’t be content in our old unstructured ways. He’s made friends at school, friends he’ll want to see, so there will be playdates. There is a recommended reading list and activities to help him prepare for kindergarten. I’m actually going to have to plan stuff!

We walk up to school most days and I really enjoy it. I’m going to miss our walks; I guess we’ll just have to walk to other places. The exercise, the fresh air, the nature, all of them add a nice aspect to my day. Especially the parts back home after dropping Monkey off and when we walk back up to pick him up. It’s not that I don’t like walking with Monkey, but that time alone with Pumpkin is special. She’s just so new to all this human-stuff and absolutely everything is this bright, shiny wonder to her.

On the way back up to the school, we played one of her favorite games-”Mama, what’s your name?” She asks everybody present in just that fashion. “Daddy, what’s your name?” And the answers are always the same, “Daddy.” “Mama, what’s your name?” “Mama.” And then you have to ask her, “Pumpkin, what’s your name?” “Pumpkin” she answers. Luckily this round didn’t last too long.

Then she picked up a stick that she declared just the right size for a walking stick. She told me it was for walking up the dirt. Then she said, “Mama, today is Dirt Day. I love dirt.”

I knew it. Kids don’t just get dirty in the pursuit of other things like play. They get dirty because they love the dirt itself, on its own merits. So the next time I look around my kid-full House and wonder how all the dirt got in, I’ll know that the children have invited it over. Because they love dirt.

God, it’s going to be a long summer.

OK, so I’m a morning person now. Not by choice, mind you, by coercion. Hubby and I were married eleven years before Monkey came along. We decided to wait a sensible six years before jumping in parenthood, but then were unpleasantly surprised with the five years of infertility that followed. But we had plenty of years to become set in our ways.

My natural inclination, in sleep patterns, is to stay up late at night and sleep late in the morning. Even though sleeping really late on work days was impossible, I still slept as late as possible, pushing the limits of how fast I could get ready for work. This is where my infamous lead foot came in real handy. You see, I like to drive fast and I’m not a timid driver (I once faced down a Chicago city bus and won). But on the weekends, ah sweet slumber, Hubby and I would sleep until 11 am or noon.

My parents, bless their hearts, would often ask “When are you two going to start going to church?” I never did tell them that going to church would seriously cut into my sleeping-late time and I was just too lazy to go and then there was that whole baptist-church-scarred-me-for-life thing, but I digress.

For eleven years it was just the two of us, living the life teenagers only dream about. No parents to tell us what to do, no overwhelming responsibilities, the freedom to just find a new job if the old one didn’t fit my schedule, the freedom to go where we wanted when we wanted. We would occasionally get up and go places on the spur of the moment: Branson, Dallas, Eureka Springs. But mostly we just slept late.

And then, five and a half years ago, that all changed. Monkey was born and I haven’t had more than a handful of peaceful nights’ sleep since. And the only times I get to sleep in are when we take the kids out to stay with my folks overnight. Once, when Monkey was still a small-to-middling infant, he let me sleep until 9am. We all would’ve slept later, but some kind of internal mom-alarm went off, I jerked out of sleep on my own, freaked out when I looked at the clock, and sprinted into Monkey’s room convinced that something was wrong. Nope, the little fella was peacefully sleeping, but of course I couldn’t go back to sleep. Adrenaline was pumping through  my veins and my heart was pounding so hard that it kept threatening to push its way out of my chest.

Anyway, we always figured that the kids would eventually settle into our pattern of sleeping. After all, they come from two very confirmed night owls, why shouldn’t they just immediately take to staying up later and sleeping in? I’ll tell ya why not, because fate has a cruel streak.

To my kids, if the sun is up so are they. Light outside, even just the faintest pinking at the eastern edge of the sky, and it’s party time! Well, they have gotten a little better since those days, but still. I’m lucky if I get to sleep until 7:30. If one of them sleeps later than that, the other one won’t. Take this morning for instance. Monkey probably would’ve slept later than 8 o’clock, but Pumpkin had other ideas. I still have a monitor in her room, so at 7:30, bang on the dot, I hear “Mama! I’m ready to get out now!” “MAMA!!!! MAMA!!!!” The monitor made it sound like she was screaming in my ear. So I went and retrieved her for no other reason than to Make. The. Yelling. Stop.

Anyway, she disturbed Monkey, who probably needed to sleep a lot later than he did. And now I’m watching Tom and Jerry at 9:00 on a Saturday morning when I would much rather still be sleeping.

Someday, they’ll be teenagers who want to do nothing else but sleep until noon. But I’m afraid I won’t get to enjoy it, by then they’ll have me turned into a real morning person. You know the kind, the one’s who say stuff like, “Oh yeah, I got up 5 o’clock this morning and got all my housework and laundry done. Then I weeded the garden and did the grocery shopping!” Let’s hope, for everyone’s sake, that they don’t succeed at that.