Month: February 2004

Beauty Sleeping!

Well, miracles never cease.

I have moaned and belly-ached and griped and complained and whined about my baby’s lack of naps. She quit napping sometime last October, when she was just a little more than a year old. This was not at all okay with me, but what could I do? I could not bear to plop her into her crib and let her scream for an hour, so I went with the flow. I adjusted my expectations and decided to just enjoy nursing her and holding her while she napped for thirty minutes each day.

Today, I nursed her, as usual, in the gliding rocker in her room. After a few minutes, she sat up and pointed to her crib. I said, “You want to lay in your bed?” She nodded. I said, “Okay,” and put her in her bed. She laid down and I covered her up with her afghans. Without a pause, I walked out and closed the door, fully expecting to hear her protests.

But no. She napped! She napped for a full hour in her crib. I read a chapter in a book, read a message board, wasted time. I really did not know what to do with myself, but I didn’t want to make a noise or do something to jinx this miracle (like starting a project that required a measure of time to complete).

Tonight was the third night in a row that I’ve put her to bed fully awake. Each night she has gone to sleep without another sound.

A baby finally figuring out how to sleep well on her own is a miracle in its own way. After all those weeks and months of staggering through the day in a sleep-deprived haze, I sleep again.

Now, if I could just get my husband to stop snoring, I’d be all set.

The Tedium

What really gets to me is the tedium, the monotony, the grinding routine of doing the same stuff over and over again, every day. Each day, I’m crestfallen when I remember I have to think up dinner again. I just made dinner last night. I pick up the same toys. I wash the same clothes. I flush the same toilets, which surprisingly enough, the boys always forget to flush. I wear the same clothes. The only thing different each day is my stupid hair, which has a mind of its own which is in cahoots with the weather.

I hate the alarm ringing in the morning. I hate waking up in the dark. I hate mornings.

The sad thing is that this is what life is made of–the small stuff, the boring stuff, the routine stuff. Sticky floors and unfolded laundry and a stack of papers on the counter are my life. I am the Queen of the trivial detail, the Servant of the household demand, the Slave to the kitchen.

I need a make-over!
I need a chef!
I need a vacation in Tahiti!

But I’d settle for two hours at Target on Saturday. Without a baby in my cart!

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Lately, I have been thinking about my dad. He died when I was 24, which is now 15 years ago, though he died in September and my birthday was just a few days ago. So, I was 24 and a half. He was 47, just barely.

I miss him so much. He never got to experience Seinfeld or the internet or being a grandpa. And that’s just the beginning of all he missed.

But this is not about missing him. This is about the time he took me out to have pie.

When I was about 10 years old, he invited me to go with him to have a piece of pie. This invitation struck fear into my cautious little heart. My dad had never taken me anywhere alone. He worked the graveyard shift and slept all day and hardly ever sat at the dinner table with us. I was a little scared of him because he was a tall man who was never home. He was stoic and unaffectionate.

And then he wanted to take me out to eat pie. I was suspicious because I’d already found a spiral bound steno pad under the couch with my mother’s handwriting in it. There were two columns: “His” and “Hers.” She had divided up their meager possessions into these two lists. I realized with horror what this list must mean, but I shoved it back under the couch without a word and figured if I pretended I hadn’t seen it that my world would not spontaneously combust. But, of course, I was wrong.

On the way to the restaurant, my dad asked if I’d prefer to eat or talk first. I said eat. So, I choked down pie. I can’t remember any small talk. I can’t even remember the pie. What I cannot forget, though, is my dad telling me that he and my mother would be getting a divorce. “We still love you,” he said. As if that made the catastrophe somehow better. Yes, your world will collapse, but we still love you. Okay, then. I will just stay here buried under the rubble while you love me. Thanks so much.

I used his hankerchief to wipe my tears and snot. You’d think that a father informing his daughter about his divorce from her mother would remember to bring a box of tissues, but no. He was not the kind of dad who would think of that.

They were divorced when I was 11. And I’m still not a big fan of pie

Yawn

It’s nearly 11 p.m. and the weekend has come to an end. My family room floor is littered with junk food crumbs from our very loud Superbowl party. If you can call it that. Friends needed childcare for a couple of hours this afternoon, so we had our kids, plus their three kids. Yes, that means twin 10 year olds, a 9 year old, twin 8 year olds, a nearly 6 year old and Babygirl. You would not even believe the level of noise. None of the boys has an “indoor” voice. They had a great time, though, and happily, they were outside during the half-time show which featured Sean Puff P. Diddy Daddy Combs (whom I despise) and his crotch-grabbing friend, Nelly, (my great-aunt is named, Nelly) and Janet Jackson’s bare right breast.

My husband worked on Friday (his day off) and Saturday (his sort of day off) and then, of course, today. He hasn’t had a whole day off in weeks. Every one of my days looks exactly the same. Entertain the baby, sit outside while she plays in the cold chill, figure out how to keep everyone fed, wash and dry and fold laundry, pick up toys so no one trips . . . the monotony drains me.

But here’s the good news: everyone is healthy this week! Last week was a horror of sore throats and fevers.