Second-hand Insomnia

It is hard to describe the sheer frustration and exasperation that comes from being exhausted, yet lying awake at one a.m. in a loft-style upstairs bedroom, shared by your family of five, with no door, worrisome child-size holes between the railings of the extraordinarily steep stairs, a full moon shining brightly through bare windows, a Houdini-like insomniac two-year old, a four-year-old with a bloody nose, and a husband whose allergic sneezes echo through the loft like a lion roaring through the jungle. However, I will try.

I don’t know why, maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was because we had ignored his normal nap/sleep schedule for too long, maybe it was the new environment, or maybe it was because he ate too many of Grandma’s sour cherry candies, but for whatever reason (or perhaps all of those reasons) Andrew would not sleep. This was night number three of his sleep strike. I would put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he would climb out. I would put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he would climb out. I would put him in…you get the picture. So I tried to rock him. I sang songs, I sat silently. I tried this rhythm, I tried that. I tried to find a rhythm that would put me to sleep, hoping that it would also put him to sleep. I nodded off, but he did not. Finally, three hours later, yes THREE hours later ( I was desperate and yes, close to insanity) he fell asleep. I put him in his Pack-n-Play, and he did not climb out. I ever-so-quietly slipped downstairs.

Back downstairs. Adult time. YAY! My book was calling to me…or maybe a game of Scrabble? But no. As soon as I opened my book, a little face appeared around the corner. (Silent Primal Scream). A stinky diaper. I changed him, and John’s mom, Bev, perhaps sensing my impending psychotic breakdown, volunteered to rock Andrew to sleep. However, after about thirty minutes of a creaking floor, it was apparent that the only one interested in sleep was Grandma. A long day of grandsons and high altitude had taken its toll.

So, at 11:30, we relieved Grandma, and took the squirming toddler back upstairs, hoping, desperately hoping, for sleep. I put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he climbed out. I put him in the Pack-N-Play, angrily warned him to stay in it, and he climbed out. John put him in the Pack-N-Play, told him to “STAY IN BED!!” and he climbed out.

We put him in our bed. I have never had a fish in my bed, but I am guessing it would be similar to having an almost two-year-old under the covers. The difference however, is that a fish probably wouldn’t keep pointing out the window screaming “MOON! Stars! MOON! WooOOW! Stars! MOON!” Okay, so maybe you are thinking, “how cute!” Not at 1:30 am.

About this time (as the moon lit up our room like a 150 kilowatt light bulb), we realized that the bed we were sleeping on, a bed previously occupied by Sammy, a bed that did not belong to us, was covered in blood. And this was not just a little bloody nose. This was a previously rushing bloody nose that had not had adult attention. Stuffed animals, sheets, pillows, and poor little Sammy’s face were completely covered in drying blood. Perhaps normal, clean, non-exhausted and exasperated parents would have immediately gotten up and changed the sheets and changed the pillow cases. Nope. We wiped off Sammy’s face as well as we could with a few wet wipes and ignored the rest, immediately shifting our attention back to little Nemo who was now asking us to draw “letters” and “faces” on his brother’s Crayola Glow Pad. After several rounds of “A!” “B!” and “C!” and “More!” Andrew finally said, “Bed.” I put him in his Pack-n-Play and he did NOT climb out!!

Andrew is finally asleep and I am finally dozing off, dreaming about sugar cookies and quiet places, when AaAaHHHTCHOOOOoooo. AaAaAaTCHOOOOOOOOOO. AAAAAATTTTCCCHHHHOOOOO— shocking, tremor- inducing noises bursting from my husband’s mouth and nose, echoing throughout the bright-as-day, bloody, doorless, A-Frame cabin in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, over, and over, and over again.

Sticky Blue Slush and the Sleep Deprived

Today was "one of those days." I should have known it would be. All three boys were up until almost 10 o'clock while John and I ignored the kiddos' circadian rhythm cycle in exchange for a few rounds of Spades with friends. We very rarely do this, but we had no agenda this morning, and wanted to have a little fun with our friends. Alas, you reap what you sow. Well at least I reaped what we sowed. There is a reason my children sleep for 12 hours at night.

Usually the mall is a fun place to go for a few hours. Play on the playland, ride the carousel, eat a little ice-cream, maybe a little dinner. We tried to do those things, but today everything turned into an emotionally tumultuous disaster. Aaron couldn't keep his hands to himself, bugging Andrew until threatened with consequences. Then he started to bug Sammy. His main goal appeared to be preventing his brothers from playing on their animal of choice. This was not acceptable to Sammy who began hitting Aaron, which then resulted in retaliation from Aaron, and may have turned into an all-out play-area brawl if I hadn't stepped in and physically carried them both out of there.

Attempt #2 for a good time: Ice cream! (Okay, so looking back, that was rewarding bad behavior...but I was just trying to salvage this trip if possible, and didn't really want to entertain them at home) Anyway, we walk to Dairy Queen, which is unfortunately at the opposite end of the mall and I have one of those umbrella strollers (made for parents much shorter than myself).... We were just going to get ice cream, but then the boys saw the hotdogs and hamburgers and decided they wanted dinner. Okay. Then I saw the "kids meals," with Icee type drinks. I figure I will surprise them with some cool blue raspberry drinks...what a cool mom I am! "Why didn't you get me the green one Mom?" Long story short, one of the blue drinks flies (accidently) across the table and lands in the lap of Andrew, sitting in his previously green stroller. Now the only child who had not been whining, teasing, or complaining is wet, cold, blue, and crying.

After all of that, I still got them ice cream (it came with the kids meals!). So they eat their chocolate dipped Dillybars, but the entire time, Andrew is crying because HE wanted an ice cream bar, not an ice cream bowl (and he is still cold, wet, sticky, and blue). Then Sammy sees a lady with a light blue head covering and shouts out, pointing, "Look Mommy!! It's Mary! She looks like Mary!" So while I am trying to discretely let him know that it is NOT Mary, and that he should never point at anyone, Aaron seems to YELL, "Mommy, WE don't dress like that!" To which I once again attempted a discrete conversation. My only comfort is that the two women were speaking to each other in another language and may not have understood? yeah right.

After Sammy's outburst, he decides it is time for wind sprints in the mall. He runs from the table, to the directory in the middle of the mall, and then back again, all with his shoes on the wrong feet. It was actually a quite humorous sight. Aaron, of course, decides to join him. At this point, I have lost all semblance of control, which was obvious to a very nice grandmother watching the whole drama (with her well-mannered granddaughters). I must have been quite the spectacle, mopping up ice cream bars (long deserted), dirty faces, and a sticky blue stroller (and it's passenger), all while throwing out random threats of violence (well, not so violent) to oblivious recipients. The nice grandma volunteered to clean it up for me. I think it was her nice way of saying "Go get those kids under control before it gets any worse!!" I thanked her, cleaned up a little more, and then got everything and everyone ready to go home.

As we are walking back to the car (once again, at the other end of the mall) Sammy is whining and complaining that we didn't go to McDonalds, and that he had TOLD me he wanted McDonald's and I had neglected that "need" of his.... I just picked him up in one arm, pushed that blastedly-short umbrella stroller with the other arm and walked as fast as I could out of that place, making sure that Aaron wasn't too far behind. I got in the car and told them that I didn't "want to hear one word" until we got home. I didn't. They both passed out within a second of putting on their seatbelts.

Bra Shopping...

So my bras were as old as, well, almost as old as me, and I only had two comfortable ones. Time to go shopping. I put this kind of shopping off as long as possible for three basic reasons: 1. they are expensive 2. No one (well almost) sees them. 3. It involves a lot of patience and time--and I am short on both these days. I wait until my bras are basically falling apart and no longer fulfilling their desired purpose before giving them the heave-ho. Shoes are much cuter and much more enjoyable to purchase.

I drop off the two older boys at summer classes and head to Kohl's. They are having a sale tomorrow, but I would rather avoid the crowds, and have the dressing room to myself. Andrew is in the shopping cart, playing with the remnants of my iced decaf coffee which is basically sticky ice and a straw. It keeps him occupied, so I encourage it. I don't even mind as he spills it down his shirt, hoping that it will provide me a few more minutes of trying on clothing. However, as I am standing there half dressed, I start to wonder how clothed I would need to be to chase Andrew through Kohl's, if the necessity arose. How many male employees were there really? Is holding a shirt up to my chest enough? How far could he run in the time it would take me to put my shirt back on? I love those dressing rooms with walls and doors all the way to the ground--alas, this was not the case today.

Rows and rows of lace, bows, and padding...which ones will do the trick? It is no wonder women are wearing the wrong sized bras (according to Oprah). Is there really any standard? I tried on bras that are supposed to be my size and they were too small. I tried on the next size up, they were too big. The "lacy" bras look sexy and cute, but you can see the lace through my tank top--not so cute. The "minimizing" bras minimize by spreading your chest down your tummy or over towards your armpits. They might as well be called the smushing, flattening, man-like bras. Then there are the "stand-alone" bras which require none of your own filling. They pretty much stand up on their own, but might become concave if someone gives you a big hug. Then there are the "cone-shaped" bras..who wears these things? They pretty much distort your boob into a three dimensional triangle. Then there are the "soft, comfy" bras, the ones you want to buy until you put your shirt on and realize that the reason they are so comfy is that they are providing zero support... Ugh!

While picking up spilled ice, quieting screams of "too tight, too tight" (prior to his Houdini-like escape from the stroller) and "WET" as he points to his coffee stained T-shirt, I manically hurry through about 50 bras. About every third bra I retrieved the freed toddler from the empty stalls next to me. In the end, I walked away with six. One "stand-alone" bra, three slightly "lacy" bras, and two "soft, comfy" ones. (Andrew walked away with a stuffed dog, another attempt at distracting and pre-occupying. ) Here's hoping they last a long time!

It's summertime! We live in the pool now :)

Be careful what you wish for...

Yesterday my facebook status update described what I "wish"ed were easier about watching the boys at gymnastics (ie not having to chase Andrew around the viewing room). I immediately received a loud and blaring warning from my self-conscious: "Be careful what you wish for."

Andrew is at that hard age between one and two--I think it is the hardest age, at least until he becomes a teenager. He is into everything. He ambles up the cabinet drawers and sits on my stove top searching for snacks (which I need to move). He runs off and finds (makes) disasters wherever he goes. He is too young to formally discipline, yet he needs constant correcting. He is constantly moving. He is exhausting.

BUT he is SO sweet. He spontaneously uses his newly learned word, "hugs," and gives me full-body, full-strength squeezes around my neck. With concerned looks, he pats my back (like I do his) when he perceives that I am upset. He smiles at me, and then gives me wet little babykisses right on the lips. He demands, "up" and will cuddle right into my lap. His little body is so precious, words can't express my joy. I am his absolute favorite person. Be careful what I wish for.

As with everything, there is always the greener pasture, the other side of the fence. It is always so easy for me to look forward to a time when things will be easier. I suppose the challenge is always to take the good with the bad and enjoy it in the present moment. Pudding in the dogs fur, and high heels in the bathtub water are a small price to pay for the joy of his current, curious, exploratory, affectionate, mommy-worshipping age.

Proceed with Caution

So I guess this is kind of a "duh" statment, but when you write, you have to be honest and share yourself, or it's just a bunch of dull nothing. But when you share yourself, especially on the web, (even if I only have one follower :) ), you are putting personal stuff out there. I have been having "whoa nellie" moments, wondering if I shouldn't just put this stuff in my diary and call it a day. Perhaps I will. But, then again, some people express themselves loudly and clearly every day by opening their mouth and talking. I tend to keep my lips together quite often. I express myself best when I sit down at the computer, or with a pen and paper. So, perhaps, while it makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, it is a needed exposure. I don't know. Maybe it's not. Maybe I will just scrap this whole blog thing. Maybe not...

In the Pool

Three, rather, four in the water.
I forgot myself
Amid the screaming,
The squirting shark guns,
The constant complaining about beastly brothers,
The desperate clamoring to what seems to be the top of my head,
The bathing-suit pulling,
The mascara dripping,
The ever-exuberant splashing, and
The crying.

My bleary, blackened, hawk-like eyes constantly scanning
For three young bodies.
Counting heads:
One, two, yes, three.
Following the youngest
On his land-loving quest around the pitted deck,
Reaching for the tiny pink gun
Floating two inches too far beyond.
Catching the wide-eyed middle as he leaps,
Thud! on top of me
And struggles back and forth,
To and from the pebbletec steps.
Bracing for the eldest, as he
Canonballs off the boulder,
Splashing and drenching with his
Well-aimed birthday present super soaker water blaster.

NAME CHANGE!

Okay, I'm learning about blogs. Blogs with the word "Sweet" are rare and far between, especially when the content goes on to describe the mess of life. Anyway, the "Sweeter" original title was more of a "holding title" if you will, while I came up with a more appropriate, more inspired name. I think I found one! I am not very good at photo shop, so I am still working on this title page, but it is getting closer to what I want...:)

The complication of naps...

When naps are taken by the appropriate people at the appropriate times, they can be heavenly...for me and the napper. However, when schedules are thrown off, and naps sneak in when they are not supposed to, household sanity is at risk.

Andrew is upstairs crying, and Sammy is downstairs sleeping on the couch. The exact opposite of "an ideal situation." Andrew slept for 20 minutes in the car, and now is crying in his crib, unable to sleep. Sammy stayed up late last night having fun, and now is so exhausted that he remained asleep despite a transport and a wardrobe change. Unfortunately this means he will be up until about 9:30 or 10:00 tonight, fussing and rattling around in his bed. Andrew's shrieks from his crib make it hard for me to enjoy my typical mid-afternoon sanity break. How exactly does a 20-minute cat-nap make up for 2 hours of missed sleep?

Yesterday I attempted to take a small nap, having been up most of the night wired from a "decaf" coffee I had early that morning. I'm not even sure I slept more than a five minutes between intermittent shrieks , cries, and complaints about TV shows. However, somehow it was enough to keep me up until 10:30 pm, even though I crawled into bed around 8:00 pm.

Growing up, I remember being confused and annoyed when my mom would wake me up if I fell asleep on the couch. Why did she care if I slept or not? I was tired! Hmm....perhaps it was my knocking on her door at 11:30 pm complaining that I couldn't sleep? Ah, the wisdom of motherhood. She knew about the complication of naps...and the price mothers pay for children (over the age of 3) sleeping during the day.

Too loud to be Thomas

Okay, I will admit it. I heard the loud banging, I heard the gradual thuds down the stairs. I heard the grunts of effort coming from his mouth. But I assumed that as usual, Andrew was throwing pieces of his train set over the stair gate and down the stairs. I know, not the best of occupations, but hey, the stairs are carpeted and it keeps him busy. So I ignored it. If I followed this monkey around all day I would get absolutely nothing done.

However, the banging got louder. The thuds were undeniably too loud to be Thomas and Percy, or even their roundhouse. Even so, I took my time getting to the stairway; I just assumed he had found some slightly larger toys to throw. Eventually however, I came to the conclusion that I had no choice but to investigate. To be honest, after that last thud, I was slightly afraid it was Andrew himself.

As I approached the stairs, my questions were answered. There on the first landing I found two jumbo bottles of Kirkland shampoo, two bottles of Listerine, one bottle of Coppertone suntan lotion, some shoe polish, and a package of 32 Gilette replacement razors. He had been raiding my supply closet! As I am scolding myself for having been a social worker and not having a lock on the closet door, I turn the corner and look up the rest of the stairway. There, at the top, is Andrew, grunting as he hoists a can of "Whipple Blue" Dunn Edwards paint as high as he could muster. I was just in time. One more second of denial, one more dish in the dishwasher, and my currently undecorated stairway would have been painted for me. Blue disaster averted!

While I am putting away all of the bathroom supplies, and PAINT(!!!), Andrew disappears again. When I come back downstairs to look for him, there he is, sitting on top of the kitchen counter, drinking out of a sippy cup that I had just retrieved from the car. He looks up at me, makes a face, and shoves the cup out towards me. "Yuck," he says. I am beginning to think that those child leashes are a good idea.... or at least those child locks.

Quantity and Quality...

Why is it so hard to have a good day? Maybe there are more good points than I remember, but I definitely remember the bad parts...where I lose my cool, where I grow so frustrated at the screaming that I become the screamer. When did I become this person? I also wonder, why is it so hard for me to "play" with the kids? We can talk, we cuddle, but I am not very good at "playing." I feel selfish a lot of the time too--rushing through activities, rushing to get them to bed, rushing to get some time to myself. It is hard for me to slow down, to remind myself of the preciousness of the moment, to realize that flour all over the counter is not the end of the world. I need someone to remind me to take some deep breaths. I need someone to put me in time out. I start feeling like it was unfair of me to have had so many children so close together...but then, they enjoy eachother, so hopefully it will be a worthwhile payoff, at least someday?

John is very good at playing. He loses his temper too, and gets frustrated like I do, but he plays better. He comes home and they make forts, they tell stories, they build "booby traps." I feel very happy for the boys that they get this exposure and this relationship with their Daddy, but I also feel a bit jealous of John's ability to do this with them, and the amount of enjoyment they express. I rationalize that when John is home, he really only focuses on the two older boys, so it is a lot easier. He does not have to worry about "the Andrew factor." He also has spent his day locked away in an office somewhere, so he is excited to see his kids and play. I am with them all day and I find it hard to get energized to play in new and creative ways. John is also more energetic and playful by nature I suppose.

Hopefully somewhere within all of the quantity of time I spend with the guys there is some quality! Sometimes I feel very sad that perhaps there is not. I don't know why it is so hard for me to create it.

Creative...?

I keep taking these tests (okay, yes, most of them are on facebook so I am sure they are very accurate) and they keep telling me I am right-brained, I am creative, I am an artist...and it makes me question, what have I been neglecting? What have I been doing with myself? I love singing, I love creating art, I love thinking of creative ways to say things, or write things...but I don't really do much of it. I think part of it is the pessimistic/practical side of me--I assume I am not good enough to do much with it. Anyway, lately I am trying to ignore this voice and go with the creative. I am trying to cultivate this "talent." Trying to take time and write something every day, whether it be a poem, a blog post, or a bit of prose. Maybe eventually I will have the time to take a real art class and express myself that way...but for now...at least I am doing some writing.

I have realized that listening to music is somewhat inspiring to me, it affects my mood. I don't usually listen to much of it, so I have been adding that to my mid-day writing, computer, creative break-time :).

Pandora.com

If you haven't checked it out, http://www.pandora.com/ is a very fun, free website. You put in your favorite music, and then it makes up a radio station for you! It starts selecting other songs/artists that you might like. If a song comes up that you don't like, let them know and they won't play it again. Definitely the most enjoyable listening experience I have had in a while. I don't like half of the music on any given radio station, or even on any given CD. With Pandora, they are all songs that I like, mixed up and randomized--and you don't have to download anything. Too fun. Okay, somehow Pandora now thinks that I like the BeeGees--they are playing it now. Gotta go and and let them know...I don't.

An act of "green" rebellion

I am the first one to save energy. I hate spending money on electricity, air conditioning, etc. I think we waste far too much. Everytime I open a toy, or put out my garbage, I marvel at the sheer mass of waste and mess that even one family produces. I believe in conserving nature and the beauty of the earth. I buy the re-usable grocery bags at the stores. I don't want to breathe in toxic smoke, or fumes or anything similar. I enjoy the no-smoking rules inside restaurants. But I am GREATLY annoyed at the paranoia and emotionalism surrounding "Global Warming" "Climate Change," or whatever term they will choose tomorrow. I am annoyed by the insistence that those who believe are indisputably right, when there are plenty of scientists out there who disagree. It pisses me off. I think the world is much more threatened by the possibility of a nuclear explosion than the "man-made," gradual warming of the earth. I would MUCH rather money be spent on PEOPLE who really need help, like the homeless, veterans, sick children, or individuals with special needs. I am annoyed by people shoving this urgent, green hype down my throat.

I find it ironic that these same people who cry about keeping the earth beautiful want to spread gigantic windmills and solar panels across this same earth---to actually run anything by solar or windpower will require a ridiculous number of these ineffective eyesores. Perhaps eventually, they will make these energy sources more effective, but for now...

So, yesterday, at the mall, when the lady asked me if I wanted to "go green," by getting the gift card with a picture of some trees on it, I originally said, "yes." No skin off my nose. But then when she told me the card would be two dollars more, to help prevent "climate change," I was so annoyed by the term, I did the politically incorrect thing, and said, "no." She stared at me like I was a complete heathen. Yes, it is me, a green rebel. I am not interested in "buying" into the ridiculous hype--even if it is just 2 dollars.

It was a pre-menstrual, congested, eye-infected, potty-training accident, cereal-munching-husband, painful receding gum-line, kind of night.

I think that about says it. I got about 2 hours sleep and I'm miserable.

Insomniac Philosophy

So it is 1:14 in the morning, and I would much rather be in bed. But here I am thinking about women in Saudi Arabia being forced to wear black sheets, African women having their genitals mutilated, and how women across all cultures are traded as sex slaves, even in America. I have been reading this book to Aaron called, A Street Through Time. It shows pictures (drawings) of one place, and then walks you through time, showing you what that same place looks like over the centuries. When you see the Romans living luxurious lives, and then on the next page they are being sacked by invaders, it makes you realize that the luxuries we take for granted are not guaranteed. I see our culture completely taking for granted all the hard work and thought that has been put into creating the America that we live in today. More and more people expect the government to take care of them, and we expect that other cultures will be "nice" to us, as long as we are nice to them. Seems completely naive.

It makes me reflective on the future of women, even in America, because I think that women, as the weaker sex, are always vulnerable to reverting back to the status of wearing black sheets. We rely on justice and laws to keep us safe, and to support our claim of equality, but if we lose the ability to defend and uphold our laws, if we are snoozing at the wheel at the wrong time, "might" will make "right," once again.

A piece of grass went to heaven Mommy!

When my Grandma died last December, Aaron was upset that he had never thanked her for the Christmas presents she had sent him. We suggested and arranged for him to attach a"thank you note" to a helium balloon, and let it go up into the sky.

While we were in France, John's mom took Aaron to visit her mother's gravesite. Aaron never met "Granny", but suggested to Grandma Bev that he wanted to send her a note with a helium balloon (any excuse for a helium balloon). Anyways, Grandma Bev thought that it was an amazingly sweet idea, and bought the balloon and attached a note. In the process of getting the note ready, a piece of grass got stuck to the tape, and according to Aaron, is now up in heaven with "Granny."

I thought I'd be "grown up" by now...

Okay, so I have to MAKE myself make my bed. There is no way that I can tell my children they have to make their beds when mine is a disaster. Not a hard task, really, it's not. It is just one of those things that I can easily neglect.

Also, I love blue lollipops, Superman Icecream (if you live in Michigan you know what I mean), fruit snacks, fruit roll-ups, otter pops, and pretty much anything with artificial coloring. Walking around with a blue tongue is probably not the most attractive or mature thing to do, but it has to be done once in a while!!

My linen closet is an absolute disaster. Is anyone with me here? I should take a picture, but I am too embarrassed to bring the complete truth to the light of day. I was sure that when I grew up my messy bedroom would be a thing of the past. Suddenly my closets would be organized, my sheets neat and tidy on their shelves. I would start seeing fruit loops for the sugar coated nothingness that they are. I thought POOF! it would happen. Not so.

My Anniversary

It's my 15th Anniversary! Can't believe it. I am struck by how blessed that I have been, and I am almost paranoid and afraid to announce it because life is so unpredictable. I can't help but think about my family and friends who have not been so fortunate, and it breaks my heart. Some who have never found anyone to share their lives with, others who thought they had found their love, and have been desperately disappointed, some who have lost their spouses to a devastating illness, or tragic accident. Some have lived through MORE THAN THEIR SHARE of all of this. It is so hard to understand.

I also think about how hard it is to truly help other people. We cannot help cure a disease which will devastate a life (and the lives of their family), we cannot force another person to get help for their overwhelming depression, we cannot make our alcoholic friend become sober, we cannot find the soulmate for our friend who is desperate to be married, we cannot give our friends a job (most of the time)! We cannot remove pain from another's heart, no matter how much we desire to. I wish I were better at reaching out and coming beside people in their pain. It is hard for me to know how to comfort, to know how to help, or to have the patience to talk and spend time with the socially difficult. I feel so helpless in my desire to help my friends and family lead happier lives, and it saddens my heart, because I desperately want it for them! Prayers, phone calls, emails, cards, and gifts...that is the extent of my help, and I don't even do enough of that.