Bedtime Blues

I can remember back to when I used to rock my daughter to sleep at night, for literally hours. It was the only way she would fall asleep peacefully, and I considered it a small trade off, rather than listening to my precious firstborn's, blood-curdling screams. I can remember one night in particular, when I was nine months pregnant with my son. I remember hardly being able to fit my daughter on my lap, and her sliding down each time I made the rocking motion. And yet I still kept my little girl comfortable enough to get her to sleep(about two hours later). As I sat there rocking, I can remember reassuring myself that this wouldn't be forever, and that one day, I would actually miss these precious moments/hours, I had spent putting her to sleep. Yes, that memory crossed my mind tonight, as I lay half my body on a twin size bed and my head down on a strawberry shortcake pillowcase...directly next to...my FIVE year old daughter's head.

It's true, I have not yet been able to miss the memories of the exhausting efforts to get my children to sleep, because, the memories have yet to cease. The exhausting efforts have yet to cease. The blood curdling screams have also, yet to cease. I once heard someone say about potty training, "don't worry, it will happen, I mean nobody ever sent their kid to college in diapers, right?" I've tied that one right in with my own personal motto, "nobody ever had to rock their kids to sleep in college, did they?" The only problem is, I don't believe it. Either one of them. As of about twenty minutes ago, I wholeheartedly believe that there probably are some kids walking around UCLA in pampers, and just maybe those gliding chairs and ottomans in the dorms, aren't just for "movie nights."

I'm not here to tell you bedtime has been terrible with all my children. As most of you with more than one child know, you usually progress as a parent with each successive child, and typically don't make the same crucial mistakes you made with the first one. For instance, yes, my daughter prefers I lay down with her, just as she falls asleep, but my middle son, couldn't care less if I was even in the room with him. In fact, he couldn't care less if he was even sleeping on a pillow, or a bed for that matter. Now my baby has been a great sleeper thus far, of course he does need 3-5 binkys with him to even enter his crib, either that or some random item he picked up on his way upstairs. For example, this evening I laid him down with a small container of crayons...oh well, pick your battles, right?

Needless to say, I am confident that in due time, my little darlings will be marching up to their beds, and settling themselves to sleep all on their own. For now, I just learn how to contort my body to get comfortable sleeping on two inches of mattress, and as I lay there, I plan all of the things I will be able to do, when that glorious day comes.

Under Age Drinking

As of today, I officially deserve the Dumbest Move of a Mother Award. Don't judge me, but I may or may not have just given my 22 month old a sippy full of fermented apple cider.

I was never all that good at chemistry, so I didn't even think twice about giving my son a cup full of the apple cider that had been sitting in my car overnight. I know, it sounds terrible, but we just went apple picking and bought a whole gallon of delicious apple cider. Unfortunately, when we unloaded our car at home the other night, we forgot to bring it inside. Typically, I don't make a habit out of feeding my family food that was left unrefrigerated for hours, but fresh cider? Come on, that stuff is expensive! So, being as I don't live in a tropical climate, and considering the cost of the cider, I decided to render it back to the refrigerator without a second thought.

I should've thought something was up when my baby kept handing me his sippy this morning, saying, "mama, yu-yuck." But I didn't. The kid says everything is "yu-yuck." How was I supposed to know? It wasn't until I started choking on a piece of bagel, while trying to break up a sibling dispute, that I reached for a cup of cider, and realized the enormity of my negligence. The cider didn't taste bad, just...bubbly. Actually it tasted quite delicious to me, but I definitely thought I tasted just a twinge of wine.
Moral of the story...check your kid's pupils after you've given them old drinks from the car.

A Cup in my Hamper

I once read in a magazine how it's a good thing to teach your children while they are young, the value of helping out with chores. It instills responsibility, a sense of accomplishment, and well, an extra hand around the house...NOT! I taught my almost two year old, how to use the laundry chute in the bathroom--definitely one of the worst decisions I've made as a parent.

Don't get me wrong, my son does throw the dirty clothes down the chute. He wobbles into the bathroom, opens up the cabinet door and slides any clothes lying on the floor down the chute. Yes, a big help. The problem is he does not stop there. Anything and everything that is on the floor gets thrown down the chute. Towels that have fallen from the hook, my bathroom rugs, rolls of toilet paper, cleaning supplies that are under the sink(I know they should be locked up in some liquor cabinet somewhere), and yes, a cup. Pretty much anything that is on the floor in any room is game. And with three kids, there are a lot of things on the floor in every room in my house.

The problem is I typically don't realize that he's thrown anything unusual down the chute, until it's already in my laundry pile and then often in my washer, right along with my kid's undies. Go Kenmore! They really do stand up to anything! Let that be a lesson to you all...chores are not really meant for any age. I know we're all anxious to instill hardcore values, but we've got to set some age limits.
I'm not even going to begin to tell you how he washes the dishes...

The Result of Watching too much Discovery Channel

The conversation today, on my front porch between my four year old nephew and my three year old son, went something like this:

My son: Hey did you see that spider, he was eating a moth? Some moths eat people.

Me: They do?

My nephew: Did you know some people eat moths? Some people eat lots of bugs too.

My son: They do?

My nephew: Yes, there are some poor people that eat bugs.

My son: Why?

My nephew: Poor people who don't have food, eat bugs because they have caffeine.

Me: Oh, bugs have caffeine in them?

My nephew: Yup.

Those are my kind of poor people. No food to eat, but they eat bugs, not for their nutritional value, but because they have caffeine in them. They must be mothers.

The Wrong Fit

I recently attempted to replenish my dying wardrobe with some new Fall must-haves...which for me, means jeans. I must have jeans. Though I thoroughly enjoy the art of shopping, my personal shopping experience is often, less than desireable. This of course due to my figure challenged body that has resulted from birthing my three wonders in, ahem, 4 1/2 years.(You can imagine the stretching.) In fact, shopping for myself is such an ordeal, that I usually schedule a day, weeks in advance, so that I can prepare myself, (not eat for 5 days), for the shopping experience.

So, last Saturday we loaded up the kids and headed out to the mall for the day. I prepared in advance and packed a bag full of snacks for the kids, so my husband could walk around the mall with them, while I tried on clothes. I situated my children in the double stroller, handed my husband the diaper bag, and sent them off.

I began my journey through the massive mall, and ended up in a particular store (I won't mention any names), and made my way over to the jean section. With every step I took, it was so strange I heard a sort of music in my ear, ya know that music they play in scary movies, right before the main character is about to be attacked. Da-Da-Dun. I knew this task wouldn't be easy, but I had no idea what I was about to get myself into. I began to shuffle around through the jeans, passed the acid washed and tapered legs, and headed to the boot leg, dark wash(they're slenderizing). I started to look for my size, well, actually two sizes--the size I wish I was which I always try on first, and the size I unfortunately really am. (Who do I think I'm fooling.) But, as I went to grab a size, I realized that the sizes on these jeans, were not normal. They only had the numbers 1-6 on them, and no, I was not in the junior section. I was completely confused, just how long had it been since I bought a new pair of jeans?

I glanced up at the sign hanging above the jeans, and read, "The Right Fit Jeans." From what I understood, the numbers had something to do with the number of inches from your waist to your thigh...HUH? My goodness, all I wanted to do was get a pair of jeans, and now I've got to go through some sort of major metric measuring system just to find my size? If I wanted to go through all that, I would have just went to a seamstress to make me some jeans out of that old lady, fake denim.

Anyway, I knew my time was running out and my children would be running in the store any minute, asking me when I would be done. (Prompted by my husband, of course) I quickly grabbed two numbers, any two numbers and headed to the dressing rooms. As I tried on the lower number jeans, I realized that this desperate attempt to cram my butt into them, was not happening. I pried them off my body and hoped to God that there weren't cameras in the dressing rooms. I reached for the larger numbered jeans, and put them on, only to find that they were too big. Now what? Just how does this "Right Fit" work exactly? Are there half sizes? Nope, I checked. I give up. And just in time, because wouldn't you know it, in run my three chocolate faced children. So, after an exhausting attempt at a wardrobe upgrade, I discovered that these "Right Fit" jeans, were exactly the opposite...they were the wrong fit. Oh well, Kmart here I come.