Long Morning, Long Post

They're building a parking lot for the community college behind our house, so every morning for the past two weeks, we've been waking up to the sound at construction trucks. More to the point, we've been waking up a good half hour earlier than we used to because the trucks wake Weston, who then wakes me. I can't complain too hard about this because even our half hour early wake-up time looks like sleeping in for most people because McMoose and I are not morning people, so we try to keep the kids on a later schedule. 9 pm is considered an "early bedtime" for the kids around these parts and we very rarely achieve it, especially in the summer when the nice weather tempts us outdoors after McMoose gets home.

So this morning, as we have for the past couple of weeks, we woke up "early" to the sound of the trucks. Since I went to bed an hour later than usual last night, I was tired before I ever opened my eyes. (Odd thing I've noticed: the nights, like last night, when Weston gives me a 4 or 5 hour chunk of sleep before waking up for the first time, leave me exhausted and grumpy. The nights when all my sleep is in 2 hour segments leave me feeling much more refreshed. Have I been living on broken sleep for so long that I find it more restful than unbroken sleep? How strange.) Before I was even fully awake, Luke wanted me to read a book, so the very first thing I found myself doing this morning was explaining to him that I needed ten or so minutes to really wake up before I could read. That went something like this:

Luke: Are you ready to read yet?
Me: No, I said ten minutes. It has been ten seconds.
Luke, 20 seconds later: Has it been ten minutes?
Me: No.
Luke, 15 seconds later: I think it has been ten minutes now, hasn't it?
Me: NO.
Luke, 30 seconds later: Mama, I waited forever and ever and ever. Is it ten minutes yet?
Me: YES, fine, let's read the book.

So we speed-read the book because Weston is going through a jealous phase (oooh, goody!) and the activity that he is most jealous of? Book-reading. Every time I sit down to read a book with Luke, Weston loses his ever-lovin' mind. Considering that Luke could happily sit and be read to for two straight hours (and I could happily sit and read to him for that same amount of time), this phase cannot end soon enough.

And then, it was time for the dressing process, which goes something like this:

Me: Ok, Luke, go put your pajamas in the hamper and your night-night diaper in the trash and go potty while I change Weston.
*Weston hears his name and tries to crawl off under the bed. I catch him and haul him up to the changing pad. He shrieks and arches his back and does his level best to free himself.*
Luke, still in his pajamas: Look, Mama, there's a ghost in the bathtub.
Me: Ooh, a ghost. Pajamas, please.
*Weston is still shrieking and has now gotten hold of a piece of my hair, which he pulls mercilessly. I extricate it from his grip and try not to yell.*
Luke, STILL in his pajamas: Did you know that ghosts say boo?
Me: Luke. Pajamas. Now.
Luke, whining: But I waaannnnnt yoooouuuu to do it!
*Weston notices that my attention is somewhat distracted and chooses this moment to flip himself off the changing pad and onto our bed. He then attempts to crawl OFF the bed. I dive across it and catch him by the ankle, keeping him from plummeting head-first onto the floor. Slowly pull him back up as he giggles manically.*
Me, huffing and sweating now: Luke. I'm getting Weston dressed right now. I want you to take off your pjs and go potty.
Luke, completely cheerful again after having watched my rescue of his still-chortling brother: Oh, you would? Ok! I'd be happy to!
*Weston tries to crawl off again. I pull him back and mess with the Velcro tabs on his cloth diapers, all the while wondering why on earth I thought it was a good idea to use cloth. Environment be damned, disposables would be so much easier on a wriggly baby.*
*Luke returns with a light saber. He is still--you guessed it--in his pajamas.*

Finally, everyone got dressed and because we were expecting some friends, I decided to clean the bathroom before we headed downstairs. Luke "helped" by picking fuzz off the carpet and piling it on the floor (of the bathroom. That I was cleaning.) and Weston decided that his life might end if I wasn't holding him. Ok. I can clean a bathroom one-handed. No problem.

We headed downstairs, armed with full bags of trash and recycling, which I set down by the garage door, fully intending to run them out to the trash can in a minute. But first, I had to clean up the cat vomit in the kitchen (again? AGAIN?!) and get Luke some almond milk ("Mama, can I have some cup milk? I really wand cup milk. I'm so thirsty and I think cup milk would fix that problem. Is that a good solution, Mama? Would that be a good idea? Can I have some cup milk now?") and start Weston's oatmeal. Of course, I forgot about the trash bags...right up until the moment when I saw Yellow Cat dragging a used, shredded "night-night" (aka: disposable) diaper across the hallway.

After cleaning up the diaper shreds and TYING the bags, I washed my hands and finished making Weston's oatmeal and got Luke a bowl of cereal with more cup milk, which he promptly spilled all over the dining room floor. Took some deep breaths and calmly helped him clean up the cereal and walked back into the kitchen, only to find that I had left the pantry door open and Weston had taken the opportunity to dump out AN ENTIRE BAG OF FLOUR. More deep breaths, more clean-up, then made some tea. Luke came by to see what I was doing and decided that he, too, would like some tea. Made him some herbal cherry tea, which caused all manner of fuss and fury because he wanted tea like MINE, which was caffeinated and the last thing I need is a caffeinated 3-year-old running around here.

As I was getting ready to sit down to eat, I notice a rather unpleasant odor emanating from the general direction of Weston. Right. Time for another diaper change. Upstairs we went to repeat the changing rigmarole again. This time, he fussed and squirmed so much that he managed to get his foot in his diaper and then, before I could clean it off, kicked me and the changing pad and the NEW diaper and his clothes. So new outfit for me. New outfit for Weston. LOTS OF DEEP BREATHS.

We went back downstairs and finally started eating and was faced with this scene:

Weston: *fusses and points at the table and signs for more*
Me: You want more? Here. *Offer him spoonful of oatmeal.*
Weston: *Purses his lips, turns his head away.*
Me: No? Ok, then. *Return to my breakfast.*
Weston: *Fusses and points at the table and signs for more.*

After a couple of repetitions, I realized that he wanted a bite of croissant instead of oatmeal. Ah, of course. Unfortunately, I had already eaten most of it, so I offered him a small piece. It blew his mind and he fussed and squirmed and fussed and squirmed, but there was no more. I decided that breakfast is over for him and for me and that he really needed a nap. I set Luke up at the coffee table because he can't push the dining room chairs back by himself, so when I'm putting Weston to sleep, he eats in the living room. Took two steps out of the room and heard an, "Uh-oh." As my heart sank, I turned around and went back to survey the damage. Sure enough, there was an entire cup of tea all over my living room floor and a 3-year-old on the verge of tears because he had decided that he really liked his tea, after all. Promising to make him another cup, I told him to go upstairs and put on some dry clothes while I mopped up the spill. Instead, he came back downstairs stark naked, holding that blasted light saber again.

(Eventually, I did get clothes on him. Eventually, I did get Weston to take a nap, albeit a seven-minute long one. Eventually, and with the help of my friend, we got most of the toys picked up and I got to sweep the floor and have a nice conversation and regain my sanity. But oh, how happy I was that all of this happened on a Friday morning, when I knew the slip-slide into the weekend would be short, if not entirely sweet.)

That Would Be A No

Me: Hey, Luke, we're running out to Starbucks because I need some tea.
Luke, looking up from his Legos: Ok. Can you bring some banana walnut bread back for me?
Me: Uh...you know you're going with me, right?
Luke: Aww...WHY?!
Me: ....because....I can't leave you at home alone...
Luke: I would really prefer to stay here. I'll just play with my toys. Don't worry.

Really? Are we REALLY having this conversation already? Dude.

Rolling. My. Eyes.

You know, I got some strange advice when Luke was a baby--mostly about how to avoid "spoiling" him--but once he became a toddler, most of that stopped. And this time around, I've been very pleased to not have received much in the way of unsolicited advice. Apparently, I looked like I had it under control (Ha!)

Now that Weston has figured out how to throw tantrums--isn't it awfully early for this?--the advice is starting. At a playdate recently, while I was trying to re-direct Weston and he was making his displeasure known:

Another mom: Have you started using time-outs yet?
Me, distracted and assuming she was talking about with Luke: Uh, no...I mean, not usually, but if he's having a hard time controlling himself, then we ask him to sit and calm down.
The other mom, looking confused: Haha...he understands that? *Gestures to Weston*
Me: Oh! Oh, the baby? Time-outs with the baby?
The other mom: Yeah! We started doing time-outs around this age for tantrums. We strapped him into his high chair and he had to sit facing the wall for a minute.
Me: Huh. Did it work?
The other mom: Oh, yeah, worked great.
Me: He stopped having tantrums?
The other mom: Oh, no. But we're very consistent. He always goes in time-out for tantrums, even now.

At this point, I started feeling a little bit seventh dimension-ish, especially when her nearly 3-year-old proceeded to have a tantrum about wanting juice. If only I could have figured out a way to word it without being blatantly rude, I would have loved to ask what her definition of "worked great," was because, uh, dude. If over two years of very consistent punishment for a behavior didn't result in the extinction of said behavior, I would probably be questioning my approach.

And then, last week, we were at the park and I took Weston out of the swing when he didn't wish to be taken out of the swing. Holy mother of all tantrums, that was a doozy. As I was standing there, wondering what demon had taken possession of my child, the mother at the next swing decided that I must need some advice.

Swing Mom: Oh, you need to pop him.
Me: Huh?! Him? *Gesturing to Weston* He's only ten months old.
Swing Mom: Well, if he's old enough to show his butt like that, then he's old enough to have it smacked.

I had to very quickly exit the conversation before I smacked *her* because really? Spanking a ten-month-old? For crying? Correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't that just make him cry MORE?!

Looks like it's time to prepare myself for the onslaught of goofy advice again. Geezum.

Remembering

I've been re-reading some of my blog posts from when Luke was an infant, looking for something very specific. I've mentioned once or twice that around the time he turned 5 months old, I developed some anxiety and about a month later, some insomnia and the two fed into each other and turned into an ugly, frightening cycle. Before his birth, I felt like I was prepared for post-partum depression, but the anxiety caught me completely off guard. Since then, I've done a lot more reading about PPD and have learned that for many women, it takes the form of anxiety and insomnia, but at the time, I felt like I was going through that experience all alone.

Over the past month, the voice of Anxiety has been whispering into my ear again. Visions of danger fill my head--house fires and car accidents and wars and for heaven's sakes, zombies. Yes, zombies. Fears, they aren't terribly rational, are they? And so, I've been re-reading old posts, searching for some mention of the anxiety and the insomnia back when they were actually happening. And there's nothing. Not one post about something that was a huge part of my life at the time. Just the other day, I talked to my mom about it and realized that while it was happening, I talked to her on the phone on a nearly-daily basis and yet, I didn't mention the fact that I was engulfed by this constant feeling of panic, of dismay. I remember composing blog posts in my head, scripting conversations in which I told her how scared I was, and yet, I didn't actually write those posts or have those conversations.

So this time, I'm writing the post. I'm having the conversation. I'm shining the light on the monsters in my closet in the hopes that by bringing them to the surface, by looking them in the eye, I might realize that they're not so scary after all. I'm trying to get more sleep--because for me, at least, insomnia and anxiety come together. I'm taking deep breaths and trying to remember that I've been here before. And because I have, I'm hoping that I can remember the way out.

Shifting Identity

Luke has been all about pretend play recently and while it can be cute, it can also be exhausting. Here's a little peek into some of our more, uh, interesting conversations lately.

When we were riding in the car yesterday, there was a sudden, blood-curling scream from the back. Of course, I panicked instantly and pulled into a parking lot.
Me: Luke, what happened?!
Luke: The fish!
Me: Huh???
Luke: The fish, the fish, I'm all out of FIIIIIIIIISH!!!
Me: What fish? What are you TALKING about? Are you hurt?
Luke: No. I'm talking about the fish. They're all gone. I can't find any fish.
Me: What? Fish?
Luke: The FISH! I'm a seal and I'm looking for fish and they're all sleeping at the bottom of the water and there's nothing for me to eat. Maybe we should go to Starbucks for some banana walnut bread instead. Seals can eat that, can't they?

As we were leaving the house earlier this week:
Me: Ok, Luke, time to go. Do you have your shoes on?
Luke: Nope.
Me, working hard to contain my sigh: Why not?
Luke: Well, I was going to put my shoes on, but then, I turned into a bulldozer. Did you know that bulldozers have tracks instead of feet? You can't put on shoes if you have tracks instead of feet, can you?

As I walked by him in the hallway the other day, he reached out and grabbed my leg and hung on.
Me: Um...hello.
Luke: Hi.
Me: May I help you?
Luke: No.
Me: Why are you holding onto my leg?
Luke: I'm poison ivy.
Me: Oh?
Luke: Yes. I'm poison ivy and I'm going to sting you.
Me: I didn't realize poison ivy could sting people.
Luke: Yes, it can. It gives people ouchies with its stinger. But I don't have a stinger, so maybe I could just bite you instead?

While I was trying to get him to lie down and go to sleep at naptime:
Luke: I'm a creature.
Me: Shh.
Luke: A WILD creature.
Me: Shh!
Luke: Wild creatures don't sleep. They roll and roll and jump and roll and stay awake forever and ever.
Me, in a fierce whisper: Luke! Weston is sleeping and if you wake him up, HE will be a wild creature that cries and fusses and I'll have to go and put him back to sleep in a different room. If you want us to stay in here with you, you need to HUSH!
Luke, whispering: All right. I'm a whispering wild creature.

A-Camping We Did Go

We went camping a couple of weeks ago with a group of other families. There were a total of ten adults, six preschoolers, four infants, two dogs, and approximately eight-hundred-and-twelve ticks.

We had fully intended to drop the Dog off at the kennel, but when we got there on Saturday afternoon, we came to the realization that they were only open on Saturday MORNINGS. That would've been a good thing for the receptionist to mention on the phone, but whatevs--not like I'm bitter or anything. And so, the Dog got to ride on my lap for an hour to the campsite. (Riding to the campsite: annoying, but doable. Riding home with a wet, stinky, tick-covered dog: not an experience I want to repeat ever again.)

So we got to the campsite, set up our tent, and then spent the next two days fishing rocks out of Weston's mouth. Oh, there was a brief reprieve on Sunday, when we went wading in a creek. For about 20 minutes, I got to pull algae out of his mouth instead. Luke had a fabulous time running around, collecting sticks, and poking at various bugs and plants, but true to form, I'm pretty sure his favorite activity was helping with the dish-washing process after every meal. Ah, and eating toasted marshmallows, of course.

The Dog, for his part, spent the weekend being annoyed by the bugs and the dirt and the rain and the hard, hard ground. Apparently, next time, he would like for us to bring a fluffy mattress and maybe a fan, just for him. We tried to make it up to him by feeding him all the hot dogs that the kids dropped on the ground, but I'm pretty sure he still holds it against us.

I spent most of the weekend wanting to go home, but now that we've tested the waters of camping-with-two-kids, I think I'm totally up for doing it again. In a few months. When Weston is walking and hopefully not putting everything in his mouth. And definitely, definitely without the Dog.

Pests

Yesterday afternoon, two door-to-door salesmen rang our doorbell to try to sell me pest control services. At first, I thought they were there to recruit me to some religion or another, which is really the only reason I even opened the door. Well...that, and the fact that the glass surrounding our door made it very obvious that I was home. Dratted glass surround.

I left Luke and Weston playing at the top of the (gated) stairs and dashed down to talk to them, and I was greeted by perhaps the most confused man ever.

Salesman 1: Hi, are your parents home?
Me: Uhhh...no.
Salesman 1: Are you sure? There's a car in the driveway.
Me: Yeah...that's mine.
Salesman 1: That's...yours? You drive?
Me: *Frowning and trying to figure out what the heck is going on.*
Salesman 1: Wait...you're not the HOMEOWNER are you?
Me: ....Yeah...
Salesman 1: Oh, really? But you're so young. I mean, you look...YOU'RE the homeowner? I mean...you...um...
Salesman 2: So I notice you have some spiderwebs by your door!

Turns out this was the oddest pest control team ever because (a) they didn't have a brochure, (b) they didn't have a business card, and (c) their "promotional rate" only applied if I signed up right then and there for them to come and...put some kind of substance onto the hair on the bodies of the ants that might be living inside our walls. They had a laminated diagram and everything. So I asked what their rates were, exactly.

Salesman 2: Well, we're offering a 50% discount if you sign up for a slot right now.
Me: A 50% discount on what?
Salesman 2: Oh, on our regular rate.
Me: Which is...
Salesman 2: Oh, I didn't even tell you that yet, did I?! It would be $99 per quarter, but the initial visit is about $200.
Me: And the discount is on what?
Salesman 2: The discount works out to you paying $50 today.
Me: So that's a discount on the quarterly rate?
Salesman 2: Uh...right.
Me: And the initial visit?
Salesman 2: No, the discount is on the initial visit.
Me: But...a 50% discount on a $200 visit is $100.
Salesman 2: Right. It's a discount on the quarter. The initial visit is...well, we can't really give you a quote for that today. But we can go ahead and schedule it...would Monday or Tuesday be better?

Dude, really? This is your sales plan? Insult the people you're trying to sell your product to, refuse to give them an accurate quote, and try to get them to sign up for something that sounds, quite frankly, insane? Great idea! And if anyone buys that, let me know so I can sell them some organic unicorn hair blessed by gnomes.