I cried today.

The theme at my house this week has been sleep, or the lack thereof.

Three nights ago, I stayed up late (as in 1:30am) playing catch up on my Bible study homework. Because I did that and I suspect Sarah knew it and wanted to teach me a lesson, I was awakened from my fresh slumber at 4:55am by my free-roaming toddler who was as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as is humanly possible. I just knew she was absolutely, 100% not going back to sleep.  So I did what any other mom would do.  I filled her up a sippy of milk, got her a bowl of Goldfish, turned on some Barney, and locked her in the bedroom with me while I drifted in and out of a conscious state.

Two nights ago, I fell asleep in my comfy green recliner watching the girls sing on American Idol.  Whether I fell asleep because the girls were so completely underwhelming or because I was already totally and utterly exhausted is not exactly relevant, but I suspect it was a combination of the two.  At 12:30am, I heard the familiar sound of a pocket door retreating into a wall and the pitter-patter of tiny feet.  Sarah bounced on me in the recliner.  So I did what any other mom would do.  I told her "No, no, Sarah!  It's time for night-night."  I picked her up and put her back in her bed.  Then I left and climbed into my even-comfier-than-my-green-recliner bed for a good night's rest.

At 12:45am, I heard the familiar pitter-patter of footied feet as Sarah wandered around the house looking for me.  I met her at the bedroom door, told her "No no!", picked her up, put her back in her bed.

Later, rinse, repeat.

For FOUR hours.

At 4:15am, I guess you could say she went down for the "night".

At 5:15am, Sam left for work, so I moved back to my comfy bed from the less-than-comfy couch where I'd moved after get-up #3 to intercept Sarah so that at least one of us (Sam) could get some sleep.

At 7:00am, Sarah woke up for the day.

By this point, you're ready for me to stop the play-by-play.  It's okay.  I don't blame you.  But sorry, there's a little bit more...

Before leaving for Bible study around 9am, I searched for crib tent availability at all Walmarts in a 50 mile radius, absolutely determined that as soon as Bible study was over, I was driving where ever I needed to in order to pen my child in her bed.  The verdict?  Out of stock.

I talked to Sam about it at lunch and we came up with a potential solution.  It was quick, dirty, and involved duct-tape.  Not on Sarah...don't worry.  She went down in about 10 seconds (of course - she was beyond tired).  She slept for 40 minutes, woke up, and was unable to get out of her crib thanks to the rigging of the duct tape on her crib.  Just be imaginative.  I'm not going to post a picture because, even though no Sarah's were harmed in the making of the duct tape contraption, I'm sure some blog-reader would deem me unfit as a mother.

Around 3pm, I was at my wits end.  To say that Sarah had been a holy terror all day would be complimentary.  She was 10 parts Mr. Hyde and 0 parts Dr. Jekyll.  She wasn't eating.  She wasn't sleeping (obviously).  She was cranky as all get out.

And so was I.

I convinced myself she had an ear infection.  Yes!  She had an ear infection.  Perfect!  I would go to the doctor, get a prescription, and she would be back to her normal sweet self in a day or two.  Only, after nearly two hours at the pediatricians office for what was apparently a quadruple booked afternoon, she had no ear infection.  Her throat looked pink and happy.  And aside from one tiny tooth popping through her lower gum, she could be in an anatomy book as the model of perfection.

And that's when I cried.

Who cries because their baby is healthy?  This girl right here.

I wanted so desperately to hear that the pain from a pus-filled ear was causing my baby to act like she was demon-possessed.  Instead, the doctor said, "I'm sorry.  There's nothing physically wrong with her.  She's just bad."

Okay, she didn't say that.  But I heard it anyway.  (Did I mention I was exhausted?)

Bedtime rolled around, and I had very low expectations.

But God is good.  I slept from 11-7.  That's right.  Eight hours of sleep, interrupted only by my inability to go to sleep and stay that way.  (Side note - have you ever noticed the traits that drive you the most crazy about your kids are the very same ones you dislike about yourself?)

Our little trap worked overnight.  Then naptime rolled around again.  She climbed right over our devices and escaped.  Again and again.  She talked me as I laid on the floor next to her bed reminding her to lay down every 30 seconds or so as she cried and cried and fought every single urge to sleep from deep within her being.  She cried and wailed and kicked and screamed.  And because I have made it my goal as a parent to never let my children "beat" me, I fought her.  Not physically or with force, but it became a battle of will.

The 27-year old against the 21-month old.

Any guesses who won?

I "fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is 'never get involved in a land war in Asia' - but only slightly less well-known is this: 'Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line'!"  'Never go against a toddler when the title for Most Bull-headed is on the line.'  (Bonus points if you catch the reference.)


Two hours later, she hadn't fallen asleep.  I hadn't accomplished a thing unless you count blubbering another bout of tears during which Sarah said to me through the bars of her crib, "Don't crying, Mommy", the sweetness and incorrectness of which, under any other circumstance, would ordinarily have made me smile.

Sam and I have decided that aside from possessing an average of Ben and Abby's hair colors, she has also combined their traits and inherited Ben's temperament and Abby's vivacity.  Let me just tell you that is a dangerous combination.

Some day we'll figure out a solution to Sarah's sleep situation...hopefully sooner than later.  Like...tomorrow.  The obvious answer seems like it would be to move her to a toddler bed and gate the door.  But I know my monkey would be over the top of that gate faster than I could say, "No no, Sarah!"  I've thought about putting one gate above another gate.  But I still wouldn't put it past the girl to scale the wall o' gates.

I find solace in the fact that some day these traits I find so infuriating and frustrating will someday present themselves as virtues.  Her stubbornness, determination, ability to function on little to no sleep.  Those will serve her well in this life.

And also, I think God is laughing a little as he watches it all go down.  That's what I get for thinking I had this parenting thing in the bag.  Egos are a dangerous thing, friends.  And really, if I weren't the main character, the past few days events would make one heckuva funny sitcom.

Dear Sarah,

You drive me nuts.  But I love you anyway.  Now go to sleep.

Love,

Your Mommy

Your Mom is so Momalicious

You [nearly] cry tears of jealousy every time you look at your son's eyelashes.  They're so thick and dark.  Why do the boys always get those?  At best, your eyelashes are puny and pale.

You try not to take it personally when your four year old cries at the sight of the sausage biscuits you got up early to prepare and asks for cereal instead.  She just really loves cereal.

Your four year old offers you promises of cake, cookies, candy, and gum, sparkly shoes, and lots of dancing if I go with her to her "special place".  And while it's cute coming from her, you now you know, verbatim, the words a pedophile could use to get her to willingly jump into the back of their van.  (Seriously...not even a little bit funny.)

You are continually amazed by the marvel that is God's provision of healing to little children when just 10 days after seeing her skull through the gash in her head, your toddler's kissable forehead looks like this:

You know that glitter is the craft supply that keeps on giving.  Kind of like how you find pine needles ground into your rug in March, so it goes with glitter...in your kids' hair...two weeks later.

It concerns you slightly that your four year old is so obsessed with "chapstick" and lip gloss.  You just know she is going to be one high maintenance diva by the time she's...five.

You discover that drinking the melted remainder of your ice cream is not a learned behavior.  It's pure instinct.

The only reason you endure your seven year old's basketball season is because of the promise of a fun end-of-season show where someone will do cool tricks like...balance 7 spinning balls on the head of a randomly-selected audience member.

You watch with intrigue as your toddler occupies herself for upwards of 15 minutes by putting toys inside her onesie and taking them back out.

You realize that the probability of your children waking up early increases significantly for every half hour later you stay up the night before.  If you are up past midnight, early rising is inevitable.

When you first opened the goodbye treats from Grandmom, you rolled your eyes at the sight of the Scooby Doo Pop Rocks, but after watching your four year old giggle and giggle about the sounds in her mouth, it was all worth it.

That's all, folks.  I'm on 3.5 hours of sleep, partly because I stayed up late (and that was my fault), and partly because Sarah got up at 4:55am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (which is totally her fault, and the reason she's taking a morning nap for the first time in about a year).  

Hope you all have a wonderful Wednesday!  March 2nd?  Seriously?  When did that happen?

A Typical Day in Every Way

Well it's been a day.  And whenever my four year old decides to give it up and go to sleep (Dear God, could you please quiet the thunder quickly, please and thanks?), it'll be officially over as far as Mom-duties go.  (Dear God, since I just said that, could you also please prevent my kids from vomiting, having bad dreams, and/or needing superfluous cups of water overnight tonight.)  For the sake of recapping for Sam, who is enjoying the "bachelor-life" on business near Syracuse for the next couple of days, here's - a day in the life of three wild and crazy kids. 

The morning started out with Sarah letting herself out of her bed (typical), barging into the bathroom where my dad (who graciously, along with my mom, offered to stay a couple of extra days while Sam is in New York) was taking a shower, standing at the door to the shower with a book and demanding, quite verbally, that he read it to her.  At that precise moment.  Since he didn't oblige, she opened the shower door and got in with her book, fully-clothed.  I wasn't actually present for all of this, but my dad tells me he did read the book to her once they were out of the shower.

After getting Ben fed and off to school, things were settling down when Sarah disappeared for a quick minute.  Nothing good ever comes from Sarah disappearing for a quick minute.  I found her in the master bathroom.  Indulging in some toothpaste.  Sucking on toothbrush after toothbrush.  Then carefully lining them up.  On the floor.  Awesome.

Needless to say, she was not happy when big sister confiscated the contraband.

Since Sarah's teeth were squeaky clean, we left the bathroom.  As I sat at the computer, no doubt checking flight tracker and Facebook, my mom emerged from the kitchen with the question, "Jennie, did you mean to put that much coffee in your cup?"  Having no idea what she was talking about, I remembered that I'd left my nearly-empty cup under the coffeemaker and then, in a moment of A.D.D., moved onto something else. So I went to check it out.  I found this:

Turns out, my very own kitchen lady (Abby), had taken it upon herself to fill my cup to the absolute brim.  When I asked her if she was, indeed, involved, her response was, "Did I fill it too much, Mommy?"  I didn't have the heart to tell her that the only thing keeping it from pouring all over the floor was surface tension. 

The girls passed some more time in the morning with some good solid, dance moves thanks to the sweet music of our "Fridge DJ".

While Abby & Grandmom went off to Target for, you guessed it, one dollar popcorn, Sarah helped me pull up some weeds pansies, with which she proceeded to play a sweet game of  "He loves me, he loves me not."  (Okay, she's one and doesn't really know how to play that, but the way she dismantled each petal made me wonder if the rules of that game are innately ingrained in little girls.)   After the game, she collected a few  leaves....on the back of her diaper...before we called it a day in the front yard.

After sharing some Carrabba's leftovers, I put Sarah in her bed for naptime.  Things seemed to be going uncharacteristically well until I heard the harmonica.  That's all that needs to be said about that.

When Miss Priss woke up from her nap, she opened her door a crack, extended her entire arm through, and proclaimed "Here!" loudly until someone (I) came to see what the heck was happening.  Apparently, she wanted to provide some long-lost missing puzzle pieces to us, but for some reason didn't want to leave her room to do so.

We played outside for a spell.  Ben was off on "Cube Circle" with our favorite neighborhood nine year old.  Meanwhile, some malnourished, skinny blond went down the slide, and Sarah ran.  Just ran.  All over the place.

Until she cried because I wouldn't let her return to the scene of the crime head gash. She's I'm not quite ready for that yet.

We had "homemade" pizza for dinner.  It wasn't bad.  Abby filled up on breadsticks & marinara beforehand though, so getting her to eat actual pizza was tough.  She ate half a piece (typical).  We had mini chocolate chip cookies for dessert, the sight of which brought about the return of her appetite.  That child is as predictable as my late grandparents' tv line-up. 

After dinner, Abby emerged from her room with one bottle from her collection of lotions.  After squirting a volcano-sized pile into her tiny hand, she instructed me to "Smell this kind of lotion."  Then asked, "You mind if I rub it on your legs?"  I guess that's fun for her?  You know what...it was kind of nice.  Thanks, little one.

While the older kids watched Mulan (random) back in Abby's room on the roll-away cart, the tiny one apparently felt she needed to air out a little.  She entered the living room stark naked and oh-so-proud.  I'm not sure how Grandmom felt about that, especially when she climbed onto the recliner with her in all of her stark-naked glory.

So I checked in on "movie night" in Abby's room.  Nothing too surprising.

(That looks really comfy...or is it covey...silly Abby.)

Oh - and Sarah re-clothed into Abby's dress as soon as Abby opted for jammies.

Going full circle, bedtime brought about more toothbrush drama, this time by a seven year old who did not want to brush his teeth.  And went so far as to lie about having done the deed.  Caught in the act of lying, and after suffering the consequences, he wound up the night looking like this. 

Sorry, kid.  BUSTED.

And that, Sam (and whomever else is kind enough to read my rambling), was the day.  We miss you!

Gonna Make a Memory

When I think of the times I spent on the eastern shore with my grandparents, I have a plethora of amazing memories. They run the gambit from getting up early in the morning to take the little aluminum boat out on Colbourne's Creek with a fishing rod and a can of Vienna sausages to standing in the woodshop by Grandpop's side for hours at a time watching as he crafted and then painted little wooden birds.  From taking bike rides on the dusty dirt roads looking for woolly bears so we could predict how harsh the winter would be based on whether they were black or brown in the summertime to picking blueberries, "grapes" (which I now know were actually scuppernongs), and almost any vegetable I could name right off the plant in the back garden of my grandparents' house.  I remember sitting at the kitchen table snapping the ends off of green beans into a large metal bowl.  I remember begging to get to sleep out on the "breezeway" on the orange cushions.  Why?  I don't know...because it was hot as Hades out there and it smelled like sulfur.  I remember growing older and graduating from a pedal-powered metal tractor to a two-wheeled bike to a moped to our tan Aerostar van as I learned to drive on those deserted dirt roads.

I could go on for days.

I am so thankful for each one of the memories I made during those trips to the shore.  It was our special time with Grandpop and Grandmom.  Now that Grandmom is my last remaining grandparent, I feel even more compelled to remember and treasure the times we've had together. 

What's cool, though, is that now that I'm a mother myself, I get to witness the memories being made by my own kids with my parents.  (And my in-laws as well.)  It just so happens that we're slightly more than halfway through a week-and-a-half long visit with my parents who trekked the 13-some hours from Maryland down to central Georgia (although it hardly ever takes us longer than 11.5 or 12 - "What's that in the back?  You've got to pee?  Well here's a cup.  Aim carefully!"  Yeah.  We're mean parents.  We stop for nothing.  Except coffee.  For me.)

Anyway...

Because of my overly active imagination, I sit and observe my kids with my parents and wonder which of the moments they will add to their respective memory banks.  I have a lot of categories in my memory.

Things that make me laugh.  (The sight of my grandfather in a Donald Duck costume.  I seriously wish my legs looked that good in yellow tights.)
Things that give me the warm-fuzzies.  (My grandfather's strong bear hugs.)
Things I have tried to block from memory, only to think of them at the most random times causing me to give  dirty looks to an innocent passersby.  (Seeing my cousin stomp a frog to death with his shoe on my grandparents' patio.)
Things that make me salivate with hunger.  (My grandmother's no-bake cookies.)
Things that make me shake in my boots...if I were ever to wear boots.  (The prospect of getting in the pen with my grandparents' two large dogs.)
Things that bring tears to my eyes.  (The thought of my grandfather on his death bed, pointing up, ready to go home.)


I suspect that one day my kids will have a memory bank full of these things from both my parents' trips down here and from their trips to Maryland.  I hope that most of them fall into the warm fuzzies category.  If I had to guess, right now, I would say that their already-banked memories include:

~ Trips to Target for popcorn
~ Trips to McDonalds for McDoubles
~ "Your mommy/daddy said don't do that" as the #1 form of discipline
~ Extra TV time
~ The wall o' tiles that is no longer...

~ Hanging out in the basement of my parents' house

~ All-meat meals
~ Painting the girls' fingernails and toenails
~ Reading books with Grandpop for hours on end

~ Feeding the fish with stale Italian bread

And God willing that is just the beginning...

Now I'm on a mission.  To impart to my kids how precious these days are.  (And to take as many pictures as possible.)

Because, going back to my favorite Darius Rucker song, It Won't Be Like This for Long.

This makes 710 (give or take) Mom Things...

In the past week you dealt with hives, vomit, and stitches.  And now that you think back on it, it really wasn't all that different from any other week as the mother of three.  C'est la vie, right?

When your newly stitched toddler runs at full speed head first into the dishwasher with a loud "Bang!", you cringe for a moment only to realize she hit it with the other side of her forehead.  And instead of comforting her, you let out a sigh of relief.  PHEW.

You laugh raucously in Chili's when you realize that your 25lb toddler is eating your 35lb 4-year old's leftovers at dinner.  She's apparently trying very hard to overtake her "big" sister in weight.  And is, seemingly, succeeding.

You often wonder what your neighbors must think of you and your little family - like, for instance, on days at 3pm when your toddler is wearing footies and your four year old is wearing a Sunday dress and Sunday shoes, and they are sitting in rocking chairs pointed towards a neighbor's house...just staring, and talking into two ends of the same phone.  Do they realize this is normal?  Or is this just normal for us?

When you get your toddler out of bed after nap time you find her hair matted to her head in a crunchy-rat nest type of way.  After further investigation you discover a giant wet spot on her pillow.  Your conclusion (among other guesses involving pee and puke, which were ruled out based on the lack of an odor) is that she just drooled that much and wallowed around in it.  The best part?  She totally pulled the crunchy hair off in a way that only that giggly little mischievous imp could.

If you could bottle drool and pass it off as something profitable, you'd have been rich by your first child's first birthday.  Though, it appears, this third child is trying to take the prize for droolingest child ever.

You count your blessings as they are that it took you three kids and seven years as a parent to experience your first profusely bleeding wound that required stitches.

You sadly realize that all the progress you'd made towards not being a helicopter parent was erased the moment your toddler toppled headfirst down those stairs to meet her bloody fate.  You're back to being as crazy and hovering as ever.  Darn you, head wound.  Darn you.

Your first grader has figured out that the best way for him to stay out of trouble at school is to read a book when he's finished his work.  Yes.  Go with that.  It sounds like a great plan.  I'll provide the books.

Based on your toddler's ability to drink an entire sippy cup of milk in 0.2 seconds flat, you have high hopes for her winning the gallon-of-milk-chugging contests in the high school parking lot when she's of age.  [Of course, these innocent hi-jinks probably won't even take place when she's in high school because everyone will probably receive fluids intravenously as they'll surely be too busy texting to stop and lift a drink to their mouths.]

Your four year old was so elated to get Lucky Charms at the store she couldn't wait to get home to eat them.  Thirty seconds into the treat, she declared, "I'm done!"  Of course she was...