Where, oh where, did my little blog go?

I was never a daily "post-er."
But I would get in here...two, three times a week. My mind was often on my blog: What will I write next? Oooh, that will be a good one! I've got to get that one done tonight.
Lately, I have nearly abandoned it.
It's not that I don't have material. It's not that I don't want to write.
In fact, I post almost everyday...in my own head.
I "write" posts in the shower, on my runs, on my drive to work, while I'm loading the dishwasher. They are usually incredibly spot-on, full of insight, poignancy, wit, and honesty.
But...they rarely make it online anymore. They only exist in my head.
Here's the thing: when I can finally get to that post, that idea that has been born inside my head, that fleeting moment of inspiration is gone. Poof. It went down the tub with the boys' bath water, or it fell out of my head as I stretched post-run, or, more often than not, it just doesn't seem that important later on.
The truth is that most nights, there's a full-out fight: at 9:00, after I've been up since 5:00 a.m., after I've spent the day teaching 53 fourth-graders, after I've helped Ben with his Letter Of The Week Homework, after I've packed my gym bag for the next day, and searched for "just one more" thing in the latest I Spy book, it comes down to..."Do I blog or do I sleep?" And, as evidenced by my recent absence, sleep usually wins.
It's just easier to snuggle under the covers (especially on these frigid South Florida nights of 50 degree weather...what can I say?...I'm a true beach bum) with a book and dim lighting...or curl up on the sofa as Hubby watches the Heat game and rubs my feet...or literally just crash and be sound asleep by 9:01.
Perhaps this is all proof that I never really was meant to be a "real writer." I mean, a writer should have the constant need to write, right? A writer must actually write...Monday through Friday...a real job. It seems that as my blog now nears its 2nd anniversary, the drive in me is slightly lessened: "It's okay...I'll write that one tomorrow." But lately, it turns into tomorrow, and my bed or my sofa beckons yet again.
Sweet dreams.

Lesson #372 of Parenting: The Terrible Twos WILL Find You

When Ben was a toddler, we kept waiting for the Terrible Twos. We read books about it. We asked friends how they handled them. We were ready.

But then they never came.

Well, there was one (yes, one) incident when Ben was two and a half and I took him to the bookstore and he threw a fit on the floor. I quietly picked him up, put him back in the stroller, menacingly whispered right into his face that "this was unacceptable and we were leaving" and we did.

And that was it. It never really happened again. Ben just seemed to skip right over those dreaded twos. (Before you get too envious, let me remind you that we have, however, had delightful moments of four-year-old-going-on-13-year-old-behavior, so really, you swap one developmental nightmare for another.)

But then there was Aidan...

Hubby and I have had to admit that They are here: The Terrible Twos.

.

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We're not gonna be so lucky this time around.

Now, I do realize how incredibly fortunate we were to not have had to deal with these horror stories with our first child, and I do realize that perhaps I never should have even slightly entertained the possibility that this kid would also give us a "Get out of jail free" card, 'cause, really, who gets that lucky??? But...you might remember that I have mentioned on just a few occasions that Aidan Kai SCREAMED his WHOLE ENTIRE first FOUR and a half MONTHS of his life.

So I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd paid my dues on this one.

.

Nope.

Not only has adorable-as-hell Aidan Kai turned into a foot-stomping-wailing-holy-whiny-terror, he also has turned into a not-sleeping-through-the-night-anymore-for-no-apparent-reason-wailing-holy-whiny-terror.

Last night it started at about 1:20 a.m., and it was nearly 4 in the morning when we finally started to let our guards down long enough to dare close our eyes again.

And you'd think a child who'd spent a good portion of his day whining and stomping and carrying on would be pretty pooped out, especially when he spent a good portion of the evening whining and writhing and screaming and carrying on, but good ol' energetic and adorable-as-hell Aidan Kai? Up at the crack of dawn this morning. Barely 2 hours after we'd finally been able to get back to sleep. He was UP...demanding "Blue's Clues" and "meeelk!" and trying to force feed me cereal and pushing me "up! up! off! off!" the couch while I tried to sneak in just 5 more minutes.

The clincher?

He is, apparently, a serene and easy-going little fella when he is with others. Oh, and sleeps through the night, too. Yep. We spent this past week visiting our out-of-town friend, and when we left for one night and day of bar-hopping, shopping, and general alone time, our friend reported a very easy day with our little ball of personality...and the little shit slept from 7:15 p.m. to 8:10 a.m. in one shot.

Now I realize that parenting is all about stages. Everything is temporary. Just when you think you can't possibly go on like this any longer, the behavior suddenly disappears. OR, just when you think you've finally figured this one out, a new challenge pops up. I get it. Hang in there. This too shall pass. Be patient. Yada yada yada. But the sleep? I can't do it. Can't.

The main reason Hubby and I counted every second of the newborn stage was because of the sleepless nights. We can be pretty laid back parents in many areas, but we take our sleep training very, very seriously. It was the one area where we've always said "We got this." Our methods and preferences may not have been for everyone (yes, we let them cry, and no, we never, ever co-slept), but they worked for us, big time. Now, here we are, more tired than usual from dealing with the daytime tantrums, only to be robbed (yes, I said "robbed" and yes, I'm being melodramatic) of our much needed sleep to be awakened every 5 minutes throughout the night.

I mean, really, I know we lucked out and got the Terrible Twos with only one of our children. That is a 50% success rate, right? And perhaps we should be happy enough and just stop complaining... But is it too much to ask that the Random Sleeping Disruption Cycle have waited for the Infamous Twos to have been through with us?

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(It's a good thing he's cute...)

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When I'm awake, I fantasize about sleeping

Saturday evening/Sunday morning
10:45 p.m. Check on Ben's fever
1:30 a.m. Check on Ben's fever, 103.9, administer Motrin
2:15 a.m. "Maaaaaamaaaa!" Check on Ben, provide water, check temperature, take to potty
2:45 a.m. "Maaaaaamaaaa!" Check on Ben, adjust sheets, provide additional water
5:25 a.m. "Waaaahhhhh!" Prepare a bottle, feed Aidan, check on Ben
6:15 a.m. "Maaaaaamaaaa!" Check on Ben, give up, go make coffee

I am not a morning person. Remember? But when I have nights like the one described above (and Sunday night was not much better), I am not a Morning/Noon/Night Person either. I like to sleep. A lot. Always have. And soooo many of my helpful friends would tell me, "Oh, get your sleep now, because once you have kids you'll never sleep again." (That is always such an encouraging thing to say to a pregnant woman, by the way.) If it actually worked that way, if we could rack up sleeping hours the way we do frequent flyer miles, I'd be set. 'Cause I used to sleep. A lot. But then I had kids. And it seems I suffer way more than hubby does. (It seems I suffer more than hubby about a lot of things, damn it. Where does one buy one of these eternally optimistic dispositions and endless Box-O-Energy anyway?) He keeps insisting that I just have to find some way to come to terms with the fact that I am, for a while anyway, going to be chronically sleep-deprived. Because even when your kids sleep through the night, they never sleep through the night every night and no matter how many black-out curtains you buy or how late you make their bedtimes, they are always up at the crack of frickin' dawn.

Oh, how I miss my Saturday mornings and how they would turn into Saturday afternoons while I would lay in bed, only half awake, running through the list of neighborhood restaurants that still served breakfast passed noon...
The nights of staying up till all hours, watching a movie or dancing or doing something even better, and not caring how late it was, because after all, I did not have a "morning curfew"...

When you have children, you gain so much, but you lose a lot too...sleep being at the top of my official Things I Miss Most From My Pre-Parenting Days list. It has gotten to the point where I actually fantasize about sleeping...the kinds of fantasies usually reserved for topics like Hawaiian vacations, calorie-laden desserts, the shoe department of Nordstrom, and encounters of the passionate, heavy-breathing kind. You know that sleepy trance-like feeling you get when you're watching TV or reading a book and you start to doze in and out and your eyes are shutting of their own accord and you try to fight that urge and shake yourself awake? Well, lately, when that happens, (and I am not driving or feeding/bathing/holding a small child) I succumb. I do. No matter what I'm watching or what time it is or how badly I want to finish the movie or read the next chapter or whatever, I just give in. Usually this occurs around 9:00 p.m. on a weeknight, when I'm supposedly beginning the portion of the evening that is labeled as "Grown Up Time." And that moment right before I put my book down or give up on the TV and close my eyes...sadly, pathetically...has become my greatest indulgence these days. Yup. Knowing that I am about to fall asleep has become my favorite thing to do. I know. I'm a wild and crazy girl. Woo Hoo. Now please turn off the light.

What'd the Easter Bunny bring YOU?

Apparently, the Easter bunny has a sense of humor. Along with some chocolate eggs, he also brought double fevers, night-long coughing, at least a basket's worth of mucus, medicine-induced hallucinations, a desperate attempt at co-sleeping, and some projectile vomiting. And yet, troopers that we are, we still managed to host a bangin' Easter pool party.

Ever since Ben started preschool in November, we've been dealing with monthly illnesses. And of course, whatever Ben brings home, Aidan Kai quickly catches. This time, it was almost simultaneous. There is nothing quite like dealing with a sick toddler AND a sick baby. Infant Tylenol for one, Children's Motrin for the other. Hold one down for saline nose drops, chase the other one around the house forcing him to blow his "boogies." Two fevers to control, two noses to wipe, two cranky kids, two exhausted parents. Last night Ben's coughing had gotten so out of control, that he was literally hacking for hours. At one point I was sitting in bed listening to both of their monitors and it was like surround sound: Aidan's sad little coughs and sneezes and occasional "whaa's" coupled with Ben's body wracking coughs and grunts of discomfort. So I caved. I did something I NEVER do. I went against doctor's orders and I gave Ben some cough suppressant. (For those of you who don't have small kids and may not see what the BFD is: over the last couple of years, cough meds for babies and toddlers have become a big no-no...you ask your doctor for a cough suppressant and he gasps and looks at you like you asked for some crack for the kid.) Well...apparently there actually IS some validity to the hype, because Ben got so wired that he was hallucinating. We're talking full blown nightmares every 2 minutes or so, yelling out, not responding when I'd come in the room, sweating...a whole lotta fun. And oh yeah, he was still coughing.

At about 1:00 in the morning, after 10 trips to his room, and 2 to Publix (one for honey, the other for Vick's Vapor Mist), we brought him into our room to sleep with us. This was our first official co-sleeping experience. I realize this may be shocking to lots of you out there, some who may swear by co-sleeping, and others who have gotten sucked into it somehow and aren't sure how to get out. If there is one thing Pablo and I are adamant about it is getting our kids to develop good sleeping habits, and that, for us, means sleeping in their cribs/beds. I'm sorry, but I needed to draw the line when it came to my bed. As a result of our "training," Ben has never wanted to sleep with us, not even when he's been sick. So I have to admit, I thought "Gee, maybe this will be kinda nice. Maybe it will feel cozy. Maybe I can finally see what all the co-sleeping hype is about." Um. No. Here's the truth about co-sleeping: the only one who actually sleeps is THE KID. His screams and wild restlessness and nightmares stopped almost immediately when we brought him into our bed, but they were replaced by snores that were so loud, I could not quite believe they came out of my adorable little 3-year-old, erratic and surprisingly aggressive kicks, and (purposeful?) pushes that practically knocked each of us to the floor. I had absolutely no idea that a boy that little could take up so much space on a bed that big. Fortunately, around 4:00 a.m., he simply turned his head, opened his eyes, looked at me, and stated: "Mama, I'm thirsty. I need water. And I don't like these covers. I want to go to my bed."

After getting about 3 hours of actual sleep, we had both families come over for an Easter Pool Party, complete with an egg hunt put on and planned by yours truly. (And for those of you who are taking notes on Bad Mother Decisions and would like to add "letting your sick kid go swimming" to "giving your kid cough medicine"...I checked with a doctor, thank you very much, but don't worry, I'm sure I'll screw up again very soon so keep your list handy.) As you can see by the pics, there was no evidence of the previous night...everyone looked pretty happy and cute, too, if I do say so myself. And tonight, after all the decorations had been put away, the food picked up, the kids bathed and in their PJ's, Ben on his last lullaby and Aidan on his last ounce of milk, when we thought we had pulled through the day and it was all pretty darn successful...Aidan did his thing...he coughed...and...gagged...and PUKED. All over the place. And so, as Pablo is on all fours uselessly scrubbing the carpet, and I am changing PJ's and mixing more formula, Ben and Aidan have gotten a second wind: Aidan is babbling and cooing and giggling like he just performed a party trick, and Ben is checking out his chocolate eggs and insisting he's hungry and wants to watch TV. And I am amazed...amazed by children's resiliency, by their ability to puke and move on (literally and figuratively), and amused at the stuff parenting throws at you, and how, when you have no other choice, you not only clean up the messes, but you actually throw a party in the midst of them.

Mornings suck

I hate mornings. No, no, I mean, I really hate mornings. If they could invent an anti-depressant medication that was only to be taken in the morning and would wear off after two hours, I'd be good. A nanny that just did mornings would work too. It doesn't matter if I wake up at 5:00 or at 9:00. For the first hour of the day, I am right on the line between suicidal and psychotic. (I know what you're thinking: My husband is a lucky, lucky man.)

This morning situation I've got going is not new. I've always been this bad. When I was in kindergarten, my parents tried everything to get me out of bed: gentle shakings, sweet kisses, turning on lights, throwing off covers, threats that the bus would leave me behind...but in the end the only thing that ever worked was making me pissier than I already was. So, my father would tease me about Eugenio. Eugenio was my classmate who ate his own poop and licked the bottom of his shoe during Circle Time. True story. Even at 5 years old, I was so borderline violent in the mornings, that only avoidance of this kind of parental harassment would get me out of bed.

One of the only differences between my morning behaviors then and now are that I married a man who just won't allow me to abuse him in the mornings. It's like he's talking to our 3 year old: "You can be cranky. But you can't be rude." He holds me to that, so I have no other choice but to hang my 36-year-old head in shame and say a polite "good morning" each day. We've kinda worked out an agreement through the years: if I behave like a human being, he will give me as much space as is possible on that day.

Before I had kids, I handled my a.m. handicap with an ongoing internal monologue: "All you gotta do right now is brush your teeth. That is all that is required of you right now. Just brush your teeth." Then, "All you gotta do right now is eat breakfast. Just eat breakfast." Unfortunately, I am NOT kidding. This is, for real, what was happening in my head in the mornings. I am already so bleary-eyed and disoriented simply from the act of getting out of bed that if I were to start thinking about the actual day ahead--good or bad--I would get even more flustered and overwhelmed. Whether I'm going on vacation or am going to work, there is only one thing I want to do in the mornings, and that is: Get Back In Bed.

Now that I have kids, well...ha. It's way worse. On workday mornings, my alarm goes off at 5:00 and this is still barely enough time for all four of us to get out of the house on time. There is no time for self-pity. And on weekends? Usually not much different...we take turns doing the baby's 5:30ish feeding, and then somewhere between 7:30 and 8:15 we are awakened by Ben's ever shrill, ever energetic, ever ready-to-start-the-day call of "MaaaaaMaaaa" or "DaaaaaDaaaaa." And then...oh, we're ON. "Let's play. Let's play! Let's PLAY!"
He absolutely, most definitely, does not take after his Mama.