Bedtime Bedlam

Bedtime at the Everett house is a countdown into madness.  There are declarations made with lots of hand gestures and foot stomping, uncontrollable weeping, bargaining and outright pleading.  And all of that happens before the kids get involved.

Every night, my husband and I play a game of high stakes rock, paper, scissors to see who gets to tell the kids it's time for jammies.  "Best 2 out of 3.... Dang it!  Okay, 3 out of 5.... BLAST!"  If I had my way, we'd just play R-P-S all night long.  ".... Best 31 of 60?"

Because of the consequences, the loser has a much more defeated posture than that of someone who has just lost a children's game, for the announcement of 'jammie time' causes different reactions in each of the boys.  None of those reactions are anything to make you want to volunteer for the job.

Jack's response to the alert of jammie time is both a physical and an emotional one.  His body goes into an immediate boneless state that sends him crashing to the floor in a desperate anguished mass of whininess.  While he writhes on the ground in protest of going to bed, he demands answers to such questions as: "Why is bedtime right now?" and "Why is everything so hard??"  Once he regains limb strength and function (after numerous threats and growls from us), he staggers down the hall to his room to look for the dreaded nightwear.  We can still hear him murmuring against us though.  "I wasn't done with today.  I still had things to do.  I don't want to go to bed!  This is cheating."  Cheating!  As if. Cheating would be my setting the clocks ahead an hour so that we could get this insanity over with earlier.  I've been more than fair... But I'm not going to pretend that the idea of cheating hasn't crossed my mind more than a couple of dozen times.  Tonight.  

By saying "Guys, it's time for jammies" we've caused short term memory loss for Mitch.  He turns to go to his room, but never makes it more than a few steps.  You can actually see him forget.  His footsteps slow and his head comes up to scan the room as though he's looking for a reminder of what had set him motion.  This is our cue for a gentle nudge: "Mitch.  Jammies."  His response is always one of confusion.  He looks at us like we've never met and repeats the word in a lost tourist sort of way: "Jammies?..."  The tone is like he's asking for directions to the loo, but isn't sure if he's got the wordage right or not.  Then he wanders off in the general direction of his bedroom.  If one of us doesn't follow to hound him into the ground with instruction, he will go off course very quickly.  He has been found in various stages of undress while in almost every scenario you can imagine a four year old getting into, while we naively thought he was putting his pajamas on.  Jumping on my bed in his underwear, building a lego tower with his jammie bottoms on his head, reading a book with only one arm still in his shirt, and wearing a complete pirate ensemble are just some of the recent scenarios.  To be honest, he doesn't usually get away with it for very long because Jack is a firm believer in equality in misery and tells us pretty early on that Mitch is off track again.

Henry's reaction to jammie time is the most exhausting, which is why we leave him in his day clothes until the very last moment.  He literally gets dumped in the crib as soon as the zipper on his sleepers hits his chin.  It's really the only way we can all survive.  You see, the second that Jack hits the floor in a puddle of drama and Mitch starts aimlessly wandering, Henry begins his evade and antagonize routine.  He runs all over the house in a serpentine fashion, waving his arms hysterically and screaming baby babble.  You know those computer programs that translate the words into English as they are spoken?  I'm positive that if we were to use one of those while Henry is in full on jammie mode, we'd hear something pretty close to: "You'll have to catch me first, suckers!"  He steals the other boys pajamas and runs away with them waving over his shoulder like a flag of glory, enticing his brothers to join him in his fight against the dictatorship of Mom and Dad.  If we were to attempt to enforce jammie time at this juncture, we'd kill ourselves.  The floors are much too slick to try to run a baby to ground; he's got a really low center of gravity and can book it around corners much faster than we can.  If, by some small miracle, we caught him without injuring ourselves, we'd then have to wrestle him into his sleep wear.  I don't know if you've ever tried to dress a baby that didn't want to be dressed, but I imagine it's something not unlike shoving an angry octopus into a tea cozy.  It just isn't an activity you want to do.  So, we wait him out.  By the time we have repaired Jack's faith in life and the promise of a new tomorrow, reeled Mitch in from whatever world he's currently touring, helped brush teeth; then have an impromptu lecture on the importance of flushing the toilet every time, Henry is usually winding down from his 'death to tyrants' rampage and we once again have the upper hand.  This is when we make our move.  One of us gets his head and talks him down while the other parent changes diaper and clothes like we are in the rodeo.  Baby jammie-ing, a timed two man event.  

People make fun of us that we go to bed at 8:30, but we don't care.  You do what you have to do in order to survive.  We crawl into bed with groans of relief and delight that we made it through another night, while over the baby monitor we listen to the sound of the children laughing.  Why you little....

Popcorn Fantasies

Does anyone else have impossible Christmas fantasies that involve their family getting along for an entire evening, sharing goodies without crying, or singing carols with no one stomping away in anger because some people refuse to sing Frosty The Snowman more than 6 times in a row?  Or am I the only one who has a vision of Christmas as an episode of Leave It To Beaver?

I think that for me, Christmas is a little like childbirth and by the time I'm ready to go through the rigors of the holidays, I've forgotten entirely the level of misery that made me take a solemn oath to never put myself through that particular torture.  Every Thanksgiving I'm astounded to hear myself say things like "This year I want to pull out all the stops and do it right." or "This Christmas is going to be just perfect!".   What am I thinking??  I'm not, actually.  I'm caught up in the Yule tide and barely able to keep my head above eggnog.  Every year I start out with great expectations, but inevitably I reach a moment that reminds me that we are most definitely not the Cleavers.  We are the Everett's and that means we do Christmas our way.  

I may have visions of our family sitting around stringing popcorn while telling Christmas stories and singing songs.  However, Mitch hasn't sat in one place for more than 15 minutes in all of his 4 years on earth, the kids don't listen to any story that doesn't have a dragon or a dinosaur in it, no one knows all of the words to any one song, and popcorn is not meant to be strung.  Ever.  It's horribly fragile and disappointing without butter, therefore it's not worth eating the broken pieces.  So what actually happens is this; Jordan and I end up sending the kids to bed early because stringing popcorn makes us curse like sailors and we are way too exhausted to invent non-expletives.  Instead, we start a swear jar to help pay for therapy and throw away popcorn garlands that are tangled into the physical embodiment of bah-humbug.

We make Christmas goodies, then eat them or throw them away after a week of not being able to find the time to deliver them to friends and neighbors.  We shamelessly use the idea of Santa as a bargaining tool to keep the kids compliant and in line.  We don't decorate the tree because we are tired of yelling at the baby.  We make up elaborate lies to explain why Bill (our elf on the shelf) never seems to move, because we find it impossible to remember to change his hiding place at night.  We hang Christmas lights, then forget to plug them in all month and leave them up until March.

I'm grateful that even though it seems like we, as parents, are doing everything possible to sabotage the season, our children have somehow managed to find a shred of magic to celebrate.  They swallow our elf lies and Santa blackmail with smiles and nods of encouragement.  They exclaim with breathless wonder at the beauty of the bare tree when we remember to plug in the lights.  They delight at the prospect of never ending dessert plates and their hearts are full with the spirit of Christmas.  Children have a way of reminding us of what's important, don't they?

I suppose that the lesson would be that every Christmas is the perfect Christmas, if our hearts are full of joy and good will towards men.  If we have love for our fellow man as well as every living creature, we can ignite a spark of peace that will carry us through the Christmas season and beyond.  I'm going to try, really try, to keep my heart open to the magic of Christmas, instead of focusing on the details of a 'perfect Christmas'.  From now on, I won't stress over the details- I'll focus on joy and love.  No matter what.  Even if the knot slips and the strung cranberries go bouncing to all corners of the house so that the dog finds them, only to barf them up on the living room rug in the dead of night...  God bless us, everyone.

Henry and the Holidays

Christmas through the eyes of a child:

Mom and Dad have put a tree in the living room and covered it with shiny, sparkling things- but if you touch it, they yell at you.

Under the tree are brightly wrapped boxes with bows and curly ribbons that were meant to be pulled.  But you will get yelled at if you touch them.

There are lights hanging from the mantel, but if you pull on the cord- Mom and Dad scream your name and point aggressive fingers at you while saying "NO!"

There are all kinds of wonderful treats and cookies in the kitchen, but if you climb on the counters to sample... you will be scolded and physically removed.

If you pull on the pretty tablecloth with the red flowers on it, and all the dishes land on the floor; you will get yelled at and possibly a spanking.  Mommy will also cry.

If you try to put the red tree decorations in the fireplace, you will most definitely get yelled at.

If you dump out the powdered sugar on the floor, then lay down in it to make a sugar angel, you will get yelled at.  And a bath.

If you throw a pine cone in the toilet... Mommy will use her berserker voice, and while it's difficult to make out the words, it's pretty evident that it's you she is yelling at.

If you smear your Christmas cookie onto the window, Mom will say your name in a resigned martyred tone of voice, then throw away the rest of your cookie.

The train that goes around the bottom of the tree has wonderfully neat toys on it, but if you break one of them off to play with, you will get yelled at.  And you won't get to keep the toy.



For a one year old, there isn't a lot to look forward to with the holidays approaching.  In fact, it seems that if I were Henry's age, I'd boycott the whole thing too so I'm not really surprised that he's thumbing his cute button nose at the magic of Christmas.

As far as he's concerned, there are more spankings involved with Christmas than there is magic.  Hopefully he will discover the magic next year when we can blackmail him with the thought of Santa watching...

The Secrets To Letting Go

Jack had a field trip last Friday to travel an hour away to attend the Fair.  I thought that I was cool with it, but apparently I was deluding myself.  It appears as though I was not ready for the next phase of parenting; letting go.

The morning of the field trip dawned chilly and overcast, and I found myself hoping that the weather would give me an excuse to keep Jack home.  I sighed in frustration when the clouds parted and the sun came out.  Then there was the meltdown he had over which shirt he wore. The permission slip was very specific in that he needed to wear a blue shirt on field trip day.  Jack was of a different opinion and was desperate to wear a black one.  I told him in no uncertain terms that he "will wear the blue shirt or he'd have to stay home!".  Imagine my disappointment when he capitulated and chose the blue shirt.  I had to restrain myself from stomping my foot in a reversal of roles.

  

Giving up on finding an excuse to keep him home and little forever, I shamelessly used scare tactics instead.  All the way to school I told him horrible things such as: "You stay with your teacher all day; if you wander away then you will be lost and you'll never come home." and "Do not talk to strangers.  They will steal you."  Here you go, Mrs. Hodgeson.  Now that he's sufficiently terrified, I'll turn him over into your capable hands.  She probably stepped on him all day because he was glued to her side in panic.  The entire time that I was filling his head with my fears, there was a very tiny part of my brain that was still somewhat rational telling me to 'throttle back'.  But I just couldn't.  Every time I opened my mouth something terrible would come out, so I finally just stopped talking.  When I looked in the back seat, Jack's eyes were huge and the expression on his face said that he couldn't wait to get to school and away from the scary woman his mother had become.  So, I ended the ride on the crazy train by telling him that I was sure that he was going to have a great time, that he was a smart and wonderful boy who would be amazing today and that I was so very proud of him.  Do you know how hard it was for me to drive in the opposite direction of his school bus, instead of following behind to stalk him?  

In my defense, this kid is freaking adorable and to top it off, he has absolutely no sense of self preservation when it comes to keeping personal information personal.  Last Wednesday we were at Wal-Mart loading our groceries onto the conveyor belt when the checker asked Jack: "And how are you today, young man?"  Well, that opened the floodgates on the cache of information he had stored... 

"I'm fine.  My name is Jack and I'm five.  I'm very strong.  I go to Palominas School and my teacher is Mrs. Hodgeson.  We live in the lellow house on the mountain in Hereford.  This is my mom and dad.  My dad doesn't have any hair, but my mom has purple hair and a tattoo on her bum."  

My husband mumbled something about never letting Jack know what his social security and bank account numbers were, and I was grateful that he didn't draw a map of how to get to our house.  Every time he opens his mouth I cringe, thinking that Jack has just ensured that if he is talking to a kidnapper, at least they'll know exactly where to pick him up.  There are no such things as secrets when you are five, and the idea that anyone wouldn't want to have every detail of their lives shouted out to passersby is just unheard of.  

How do I teach him to show restraint without killing his hope for humanity?  How do I protect him without smothering him?  It is such a fragile line between caution and full blown hysteria that finding the delicate balance ensuring my children's safety without damaging their psyche will be harder than I first thought.  I'll probably end up in therapy trying to keep my kids from needing it.   

Unraveled

Have you ever watched someone completely unravel from sanity?  No?  Well, let me tell you about it.  It's not unlike pulling on that one tiny end of yarn at your waistline thinking it's just a bit of lint, when in all actuality it's the beginning of the end of your sweater.  One sharp tug is all it takes to start the process.  If you keep pulling on the thread, the sweater will only last a matter of minutes.  If you leave it alone and try smoothing over what you've started, the sweater will last a bit longer.  It might even make it through a few washings before it becomes just one incredibly long piece of nothing.  Either way, you'll never wear it with confidence again.

If you could see me right now, you'd know that whatever remained of my mind up until this morning is now nothing more than a tangled mass of yarn pooling at my feet.  My sweater of sanity has unraveled, leaving me exposed and vulnerable to the people who pulled the string.  I need a dark room with soothing music and a metric ton of chocolate in order to rally.  Maybe then I can think about making a poncho out of the scraps I have left.

Anyway, the events that led me to total mental destruction this morning were thus:

1) Henry is teething.  Really, do I need to say anything more?  I don't, but I'm going to.  My pain is now yours as well.
Along with fever, drooling and general grumpiness, one of the most common symptoms of a teething baby is the terrific diarrhea and subsequent diaper rash.  Poor Henry is suffering terribly in this particular area, therefore so are we.  Every few hours you will find us performing the same horrific tasks, like some sort of hellish re-enactment of Groundhog Day.
This morning I actually made myself a hot breakfast.  Melt in your mouth bacon, crispy hashbrowns and eggs, over medium.  My tummy was rumbling at the thought of real food (yesterday I had a handful of carrots in between packing boxes until Jordan came home and cooked dinner) and I grinned in anticipation of the savory delights that awaited me.  As I put the first bite of food into my mouth however, I heard Henry yell from the kitchen and I ran to see what trouble he'd gotten himself into.  It turns out that he was trapped in some awful yoga position in one of the kitchen cabinets and had been straining so hard to get free that his already taxed bowels released themselves... upside down.  Gravity took over with the result of poop coming out of the neckline of his shirt.  By the time I got him undressed (WHY do they only make baby clothes that go on over the head???), a bath was vital.  For both of us.

2) Because I've been busy packing and haven't been as vigilant with rationing, Mitch has eaten a LOT of popcorn and apricot leather in the last few days.  So, while I was bathing Henry, Mitch came at a run to use the facilities.  He kind of made it... mostly.  Needless to say, he got to use the other tub while I disinfected the bathroom.

3) Everyone finally washed, bathroom clean and myself practically dipped in bleach, I sit down to my now very cold hot breakfast to take a bite of congealed, rubbery eggs and sigh in self pity.  That was my mistake.  I let down my guard for an instant.  A moment. A nanosecond of time that was the last tug on my sweater.  Henry reached his tiny hand up and quick as a snake, grabbed my plate to fling it backward, over his head in a rather impressive arc that covered floor, wall, tv and table.  I can attest that ketchup has a splatter pattern not unlike those I've seen of crime scene photos and egg yolk will harden in seconds.  The next 30 minutes were spent scraping and washing the living room, including a brief but violent struggle with Henry over a piece of bacon.  Tears were shed on both sides.

4) Jordan called as I was finishing the last of the scrubbing, to tell me that the lenders working on our home loan have asked for a new document to prove that he was in the Army.  The Army was very helpful and said that it's no problem at all to get us that particular document... in approximately 30 days.    So, we won't be moving this Friday as we had originally thought.  We have no idea when that will happen now that I've got most of our household in boxes in the front room.

All of these events have led me to where I am right now, eating heath bar ice cream in my pajamas at 10 o'clock in the morning, watching the kids make a ramp out of the couch cushions to roll their baby brother down.  I threw a couple of pillows at the bottom of the ramp, but that's all I have in me at the moment.  I am currently unraveled.   

Happy Birthday, Baby!

Henry is ONE!  I can't believe how quickly the past year has gone by.  I miss the sweet scent of a newborn and the soft coo of an infant.  Now we ask each other questions such as "Why does the baby smell like meat?" and we hear the ear splitting trill of 'daDAdadada!'.  He is the sweetest baby I've ever met but, like all babies, he is a lot of work.  I truly think that the high pitched chipmunk chatter I hear coming from his crib in the pre-dawn stillness is a motivational speech he gives himself in order to keep up the fast paced activities throughout the day.  He goes over the checklist, sometimes twice, just to make sure he doesn't forget anything.

 I long for the days when he was still immobile and content to stay so.  Wasn't it wonderful when he just laid there sucking on his toes?   Now, he is everywhere and into everything.  He methodically and systematically works his way through the house checking items off of his to-do list:

Pull on the curtains to bend the rod?  Check.
Dump out my brother's water bottle in the recliner?  Check.  Check.
Splash in toilets?  Check. Check.  Check.

He empties drawers in the kitchen, he climbs in cupboards, he tips over the trash can.  The floor is piled high with the rubble of his passing.  One must negotiate rather carefully in order to survive crossing the wasteland that used to be our living room.

Sitting from the (relative) safety of the desk, I can survey the extent of the damage and the need to document the destruction is overwhelming.  There are smashed graham crackers in the rug and a piece of wet, limp turkey jerky under the couch.  I guess that explains why the baby smells like meat.  Large sized Legos and stuffed animals are spread out as far as the eye can see.  My turkey baster and someone's toothbrush are under the television table and all the bottom shelves have been emptied of their books.  Because the floor is so obviously Henry's domain, the older boys have taken to spreading their toys out on the higher surfaces.  Therefore the piano is covered in pirate and firefighter figurines frozen in the midst of battle.  The mantel is a display for the smaller sized Lego sculptures and one very odd arrangement of used sucker sticks built into a teepee.  As I type all of this, I watch Henry slide into the room doing that army low crawl he's so famous for, and it looks like he's swimming through a sea of Legos as he pushes them out of his way to cut a path.  When he looks up and meets my gaze, his face lights up, squishing into the most heartwarming and contagious smile I've ever seen and he squeals out a greeting: "Hiiii!".  Sigh.  He is forgiven.  How can I begrudge the happy devastation of his surroundings when he does it with such uncensored joy?  That sweet little guy is perfect just as he is, and I wouldn't change a thing.  I am, however, counting down the minutes until nap time.

It's A Date

Jordan and I celebrated our 6 year anniversary recently and were lucky enough to know someone who was willing to put her life on the line in order to babysit for us while we spent the day together.  My friend is a loving, courageous woman whom the boys all adore, but she will probably need counseling after a full day spent with my little angels.  In fact, when we arrived to pick them up that afternoon, she was a shell of the woman we had left behind earlier that morning.  I pray for her full and speedy recovery and hope that she will someday be able to see my children without a full body shudder and hasty backward steps to keep out of range.  Time will tell.

I can't remember the last time that I was able to leave the kids behind in order to spend time with my husband.   I reminded Jordan that the only time I've ever been away from the kids for more than a few hours at a time, was when I went to the hospital to have another one.  He looked at me in horror and pity, then announced that I needed to get out more.  Believe you me, mister, you aren't telling me anything I don't already know.

It felt surreal as we drove away from the house at 7-am without the little cherubs chirping in the back seat, and I was filled with excitement at the thought of being able to actually go INTO the gas station.  Jordan encouraged me to take my time since we were ahead of schedule for the septic inspection (Aren't we the pair of romantics? We also scheduled a meeting with the lender and made a trip to the bank for copies of statements. It was heavenly.), and I skipped across the asphalt in downright giddiness.  I didn't necessarily want or need anything, but that didn't curb my desire to browse.  Imagine my pleasure when I realized that they were still selling Snickers!  I bought one out of a sense of nostalgia, earning another look from my husband.  He was certain I'd reached the point he'd been dreading for awhile now and steps would need to be taken to put me into some kind of long term care facility.  In the meantime, I was treated like a queen.  A fragile, slightly batty and eccentric queen, but royalty none the less.  He took me to a bookstore, to which I reacted with childlike wonder.  Imagine being able to read again!  I hope I remember how when the time comes.  They say it's just like riding a bike however, and that once you do it you'll always know how.  Hmmm.  I wonder if I can still ride a bike...

We had lunch together.  Such a simple statement, but so powerful in the meaning.  What it means to us is that we were able to eat while the food was hot.  We didn't have to cut up or remove undesirable parts of anyone's food but our own.  We conversed in full sentences without raising our voices to be heard over the din of small people banging spoons against the table.  No one complained that their ketchup was too red or their noodles too short.  At the end of the meal, we weren't required to spend 2 minutes under the table picking up stray bits of food, the baby's sippy cup and a most beloved pet rock.  For the first time in a long time, I was able to hold my head high as we walked out of a restaurant, and not scurry out the door quickly, leaving a rather large tip for the unfortunate individual having to clean up after our pack of wild hyenas.

We saw a movie that was not animated and I didn't have to share my popcorn and coke during it.  I was able to eat my candy out in the open, instead of surreptitiously dipping my head into my purse during all the action parts when everyone's attention is on the screen.

I wasn't ready for the fun to end, but I was most definitely missing the boys, so we headed home.  I have to admit though, I was exhausted from the thrill of being alone with the love of my life.  My heart can only pitter patter so much before I need a healthy dose of reality.  I think dating is like a muscle, and if you don't use it, it atrophies.  Which means that I am dreadfully out of shape and could probably use the practice of a nice second date, but I also like my friends sane and not drooling.

 Jordan won bonus level extra credit points on the way home when he melted my heart with the comment "Even though we don't get to go out like this very often, I have fun with you every day.".  I suppose that could be one of the best compliments of my life, that even in the midst of the mundane day to day routine called life, I am enjoyable to be around.  Either that or he's trying to lull me into signing papers that admit me somewhere nice and quiet.