Ride on the Sleep Train

I'm going to mix metaphors and sprinkle competing analogies liberally here. I'm tired.

That's not new; I have a pre-schooler, a full-time job, and a husband in a band (who is also tired), but the pre-schooler, who has never been the best sleeper on the planet, has developed a new habit of bedtime torture.

To the pain.

You may recall that "To the pain" means that one will be left in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.

I may be behaving a bit dramatically, but hyperbole is the last refuge of the truly privileged, so I am going to stomp and whine like my ridiculous demon child because this is my space, so NYAH!

Awhile back, we instituted some progressive waiting, in the hopes that it would help babywhumpus learn to fall asleep on his own, without persistent lullabye-ing or boob. It worked pretty well. We could tell him we would check on him in 5 or 10 minutes, and in general, he would fall asleep before the time was up. We had incidents, sure, but nothing to write here about.

Then last Friday rolled around.* daddywhumpus had a gig, and I was coming down with something.** I decided that I was going to be Low-impact Mom (code for: Lazy Mom) and let him eat at his little table in the living room while he watched his movie or show of choice. I needed to sit and stare.

At 9:07, after minutes of talking, water, wipes, fixing the music, asking for the planets spinning, I gave him the five minute warning. At 11:25, I decided that if he wasn't asleep, I was going to cry again.

In between, there was crying, screaming, calling "I'm poopy," saying his tummy hurt, asking for medicine, I have a poop, My diaper is wet, I have a wet diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have  a poopy diaper. It's poopy. My diaper is poopy. It's poo poo. Change my diaper. Change my poopy diaper. Mama! Daddy! No! I don't want to! (screaming, waiting for a response, screaming, kicking on the bed.) I don't want to go to sleep. I don't want to take a nap. I have snotties. Mama, I have snotties. Hey, Mama, I have snotties. MAMA! MAAAMA!!! MAAMAA! Mama, where are you? Mama, oh Mama. Come back! Come back! Hey Mama! I don't want you to go. I want more drinks! Mama! Come back!

I broke down at 6 minutes, like an idiot. He was standing right by his bed, and he handed me a wipe so I could wipe his nose. I was loosing my temper, not calm like I want to be in these instances. I told him I would have to close the door if he got out of bed again, so he ordered me to come back and close the door.

Commence: No, mama, no mama, no mama no no don't do that. don't do that. hey mama don't do that. (Now it's just bad song lyrics.) Hey mama I told you don't do that no don't come back don't get your computer open. Don't, I told you not to. I don't want mama. I want mama to close the door. Mama Mama Mama Mama. Mama don't. I don't want you to open the computer. I'm wet. I'm WET. No. I'm wet. I have a wet diaper.  Mama come back right now. Mama I told you. Mama. I want daddy. I want daddy, mama. Mama I don't want you. I want to wake up. AAAAAAH! I scream! Mama! Mama! NOOOOOOO! NOOOOOO! Mama I wanna wake up!

At 9:42, I went in, in silence, put him back in bed under the covers, closed the door, and latched it.

Commence: Knock knock who's there? It's mama. Is it mama? Yes. Come back! Owie Owie Owie Owie. Daddy! Owie, you closed the door. You closed the door. Open the door. Knock Knock. Knock Knock. Knock Knock who's there? Is it Mama? Yes? Mama where are you come back now. Come in. Come in. I told you not to close the door. I want my daddy. Mama come in. Mama right now. Mama come in. Mama come in.

From 9:48 to 9:59, I completely broke down and tears and lost it while he sat on my lap, dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. I used one of his flannel wipes on my mascara-stained face, and I put him back into bed, and he began screaming again. I sat on the couch, trying to suppress my own scream, which I could feel building in my throat

He kept it up until 11:25

Saturday, it was the same show, different night, with the added attraction of him pummeling his wooden seal push toy handle into the closed wooden door of his bedroom. We sat in the living room in silence, he on the couch, me in the rocker until he lay down and fell asleep at 11:30. I put him into his bed at midnight.

Sunday and Monday have been similar--though admittedly not as bad--with the difference that daddywhumpus has been home, which really hasn't been helpful. Not that it's been hurtful, but any hope I had that he was just acting out for me or because daddy was out has been totally dashed. I am going into tonight, assuming it, too, will suck.

(To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears.)

*we are now almost two weeks into the sleep strike. I have been sitting on this for awhile.
**still sick.

Seen It

This is the Lady Gaga of winters.

Epic. Relentless. Record-breaking. Tedious in the extreme. When it first started, it was kind of interesting--even pretty. Beautiful at times. And then, it became the same show, different day. Snow; thaw. Snow; thaw. Snow, snow, snow. Any day, I expect Winter to show up, drunk on the streets of Paris, wearing only a bra and panties.

It's clearly an attention whore, and I have had enough of its headlines and emergencies, cancellations and posturing. Sure, we are known for our winters here in Minnesota, and we like to conbrag about them, but this has reached the point of becoming a mental health issue, not a season.

When we walked out of my brother's house to head home, there were new inches on the ground, and it was still coming down. I made some standard grumbling remarks about how over winter I am, and then when I stopped at the car, I heard something strange. A mellow hooting, coming through the air.

Two owls sat near the top of a tall tree, calling to each other, silhouetted against the peachy cast of streetlights on snow, car and city sounds softened by the white mantle on the ground.

And there, in the winter theatre, a family stood, looking up to the sky, snow falling on our shoulders, watching and hearing a rare scene. Were it not for the snow, we may have missed it.

So thanks for that pearl. It helps make it worth the slogging and shoveling.

And top that, pop star.

Great.

Measles was once nearly eradicated in the United States and Europe, but the disease resurfaced abroad after vaccination rates dropped, health officials said.

Thankful that I came to my senses on this one.

Wine with Dinner

I want cereal!

We're having spicy noodles.

NOOO! I want cereal!

We're not having cereal for dinner. You can have cereal for dinner when you are a 26-year-old bachelor.

NOOOOO!

We're having spicy noodles.

This is how we wound up playing Legos for dinner.

I think that I should try some of these preschool tactics in a future meeting or work situation in which I am presented with a situation I do. not. like. There is whining, of course, but the most effective display is the flop and drop, with the back arch.

Karen, we would like you to make 2600 cold calls as part of this research project.

Karen throws head back, screaming NO. Arches back and flops to floor on face, whimpering.

Pasta, broccoli, and raspberries

Finn is home.

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It's all gone quiet.

After a week, or maybe a month, of what seemed like nonstop activity. Work, and work, gigs and visits, more than 14 inches of snow has fallen, the boy is on his way to his grandparents' house, and it has all stopped.

It's only a lull, but the absence of the boy is the most silent of the gaps. Since I came home from, rushing unsuccessfully to get one last kiss and hug, I have been sitting on one corner of the couch, reading. My pile of library books had grown, and I was nearing the end of two; so I finished them. I riffled through two picture-type books for anything interesting and, finding nothing, put them into the return pile with the novel I marginally liked and the scientific-social analysis I thoroughly enjoyed.

There's nothing to do.

There's everything to do.

We don't have to cross the city to get him at day care; no one is going to drop him off. We are not waiting for anything and trying to cram chores into the cracks of time we have left before the whirlwind of whine and questions and demands descends.

We are just us, with a gap. A gap of quiet where the boy usually lives, filling our time with noise, love, Dragon Movie, and mess.

He's left behind some dirty diapers, stickers, a puzzle, his little chairs, and other miscellaneous errata we will no doubt stumble upon as the days pass by. And parents who will periodically get misty and also revel in a few days of relative freedom.

Maybe we will watch a movie we have never seen before. Maybe we will sleep through the night.

Maybe it will never stop snowing.

Book Discussion: Origins: How the Nine Months Before Birth Shape the Rest of Our Lives

"How the nine months before birth shape the rest of our lives" is not the most promising title for the mother of a preemie. But it's probably because of my circumstance that I was curious in the first place. For me and my son, five and a half of those nine were in-utero, and the rest were ex-utero.

It was the New York Times that sold me on this book, so I decided to read it, even though the quote on the cover is from "Dr. Oz," and I have heard some not terribly credible medical advice come out of his gob not to mention some completely un-credible, but his name probably sells books.

It's interesting to think how relatively little research has been put into pregnancy, presumably because its a woman's subject, but even men have to gestate and be born sometime, so you think there would have been some interest along those lines. It's also easy to come into a book like this thinking, oh great, more advice for pregnant women; more things to worry about, like: everything I do could turn my fetus into a freak or a genius.

The book is divided into "Months", 1-9, not necessarily corresponding to fetal developments during that time, but isolated to discussion of one issue, like how what you eat affects the fetus. It also corresponds with the author's pregnancy, which progresses along with the book. This kept reminding me of things like, "Hmmm, I am in 'Month Five,' in this book, and my pregnancy is almost over." She gets to waddle on through month nine and her scheduled Caesarean section AND be a paid, free-lance writer.

I was hoping for some discussion of prematurity in this book, but aside from many, many examples of how low birth weight can correspond with heart disease or other issues later in life, it does not get into any detail about it. Fine, OK. I get it, this is about fetal development. But considering that 12.5% of births are premature and that number is rising, it may have deserved at least a dedicated paragraph, even if that paragraph is only to say: there has not been much research into prematurity, its causes, and its long-term effects.

As a woman who has been pregnant, if only for a brief period of time, the book makes you think about things like "Your fetus is what you eat." Well geez, what did I eat while he was in there? What was I eating when he was in the hospital? Was I eating? What was I eating when he came home? The only thing I remember from pregnancy is the necessity of fresh-squeezed orange juice. It mentions that arugula is rich in Vitamin K and Omega 3's. These are good for normal clotting of the blood and reducing the risk of heart disease, respectivelty. Omega 3's may alos improve learning ability in children. Did I get enough Vitamin K and Omega 3's? Is consumption of this elitist leafy green one of the reasons President Obama is so smart?

All-in-all, I enjoyed this book. The science is accessible, and the research references are extensive. I think she is clear on what issues are speculative and which warrant more study, and it does seem like an area where many scientific discoveries can be made that could have a positive effect on society as a whole if we are able to translate the knowledge into rational public policy.

Still, toward the end, she makes the comment: "Each of us spent nine months inside the womb..."

Except for 12.5 percent of us didn't.

P.S. Third trimester "urge to nest." Is that a real thing?