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Tuesday
Apr272010

When Stubborn People Mate, They Get Stubborn Squared

If you had asked me five years ago how I felt about co-sleeping, I would have looked you straight in the eye, tried to determine if you were insane, and considered if I thought you had a tendency towards violence when angry. If I decided it was safe, I would have gone on to tell you all about how stupid co-sleeping is. "Co-sleeping is for wimps who can't say 'no' to their kids!" I would have declared. "Co-sleeping is dangerous!" I would have maintained, thinking of all of the cases of a child who died when smothered by a sleeping parent. "I would NEVER do that!" I would have said.

I was stupid.

If you were to ask me the same question now, my reply would be something like, "Co-sleeping? Ooooh . . . I LOVE co-sleeping!" I might mutter something about how I'm really glad some harebrained "expert" decided to give a fancy name to that which I call My Kid Owns Me Between 9pm and 6am.

Because, uh . . . my kid owns me between 9pm and 6am. Truly. It's not because I don't know how to say "no" or because I'm weak or because I haven't tried like crazy to get the kid to stay in her bed. It's because the kid has her own opinions on the whole thing, and damn if she doesn't have two legs that help her carry out the actions her little brain desires.

For the first year of her life, Alexis slept in her crib. She had a bedtime routine, never slept in our bed, and generally had great sleeping habits. Except that she never really slept through the night. Ever.

I tried the whole cry it out thing when she woke up fussing. Alexis rewarded me by figuring out how to get so upset that she could puke at will. It's kind of hard to convince a kid to quit crying and go back to sleep when they are covered in their own slimy vomit.

I gave her means to sooth herself. Pacifiers and stuffed animals and music all helped, but DUDES, the kid doesn't need sleep. She never has. (See photo in previous post--she was 3-weeks old at the time and ALWAYS FREAKIN AWAKE.) (REALLY. ALWAYS AWAKE.)

The always awake thing ate away at my soul for two years. Lots of brain cells died during that phase. Mostly mine. Then we moved into the World of the Toddler Bed. I became THAT parent who spent half the night escorting a wandering kid back to her bed. It took her a few weeks to figure out that she could escape, but once she did, she was like a college kid backpacking across Europe--she left no corner of her world unexplored. We wore a rut in the carpet between the two bedrooms as she tried to sneak into our bed five to ten times per night and I escorted her back five to ten times per night. It went on for months.

(I should note one very important detail--Mr. Husband has always slept through every frakkin second of the night-time drama. Oh, to be male and deaf . . .)

When it became clear that she wasn't getting the hint, I started locking her in her room. Oh, yes, I did. I tried baby gates and locking the door and force fields and telepathy but NOTHING WORKED. Either the Littlest Ninja would break through my barricades or she would get so incredibly pissed off that I had the nerve to expect her to stay in her room that she would torture me. Loudly. For hours.

People, she once stood at a baby gate shaking it like a rabid howler monkey, screaming at the top of her lungs, and bawling like I had kicked her puppy in the face. For. Two. Hours. I was so tired after two hours of listening to her test her ability to break the sound barrier that I gave up.

I just plain gave up.

It turns out that it's easier to sleep through a kid kicking me in the face than it is to sleep through a kid screaming at the top of her lungs.

She wants to cuddle. She swears she needs to cuddle. She gets to cuddle.

I just hope she escorts herself back out of our bed by the time she starts college. If not, things could get a bit awkward.

 

 

Monday
Apr262010

Saying It "Goes By Fast" Is The Biggest Understatement In Life

You see this:

 

I see this:

It doesn't matter what crazy words come out of her mouth, what amazing things she does, or what ridiculously huge clothing I try to squeeze her into, the kid is still a wide-eyed baby in my eyes. Period.

I think that's why I was a wee bit shocked at the State of the Universe when I had to go hunt down a new car seat. After the Clueless Lady decided stop signs were optional, I was left to replace a car seat we were still perfectly happy using, and that was still well within the safety guidelines. At first I thought we would just buy the same one. I even found a REALLY fantastic deal on it (we have an extra cover--the ugly wasn't going to be a problem).  But then I realized we don't really need a car seat that converts down to teeny tiny new baby size.

I checked the weight charts on various seats. I looked at Alexis' stats from her 4-year check-up. I looked at Alexis. I looked back at the weight charts. I looked back at Alexis.

According to the delusional people that make car seats, she's big enough to sit in a booster. Like, the kind that Vern Troyer uses to see over the steering wheel. Like, a BIG GIRL BOOSTER.

*passes out*

Meh baybee is now sitting in a big girl car seat. But . . . but . . . but what do you mean she's not a baby anymore?

 

Sunday
Apr252010

His Life is Just SO Horrible

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me."

Those words have left Mr. Husband's mouth at least a dozen times this past weekend.

He's talking about his preshussss TV. It died.

*insert moment of silence for the dearly departed television*

It was a young TV, having only entered our lives three years ago. It was a super-bargain open box buy. In retrospect, I suppose "bargain" might be quite a bit of a stretch since it only lasted three years. I still have the TV I bought right after I graduated high school and it pretty much works, but a few weeks after Mr. Husband finally hung his 3-year old over-sized plasma TV on the wall in his Man Cave, death and devastation.

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me."

I might have rolled my eyes at that statement. A LOT. I mean, how great is his life that a TV dying is the worst thing of all time? I rolled my eyes so hard at his VERY REAL sadness that I could see the back of my brain, and it was holding a sign. It said, "Don't even think about letting him rush out and buy a new one."

My brain can be smart sometimes.

I decided the man would have to suffer through the horror of watching one of the other two TVs in our house, or he would have to move one of old STILL WORKING hunks of junk from the garage into The Man Cave. I didn't say anything, I just made sure to not even flinch when he brought up the subject of buying a TV. I had to be careful. In Manspeak, sometimes it's one blink for "yes," but sometimes two blinks can be considered a double-negative and interpreted to mean "yes." You just never know. It's best to hold your breath, not move a single muscle, and wait for The Man to spot something shiny and get distracted.

While I was busy ignoring all TV communication efforts, I do believe Mr. Husband tried to share a bunch of information. I think he researched how much it would cost to fix the dead TV and learned that it was almost as much as a whole new one. I think he also checked new TV prices at approximately eleventy-seventeen-hundred-forty-ten-all-possible online stores. I'm not entirely sure because I was busy making sure I didn't breath, blink, flinch, or fart. You can never be too careful, you know.

And then the Penguins game came on. I was strong and steadfast in my Suck It Up, Man! stance when he sat next to me to watch the game.

I made it through three incidents of yelling at random people on the TV screen who can't really hear you before the wall started to crumble. Fast.

Then he pulled out the Big Guns. After the game ended, the man reached over and grabbed the remote.

He flipped through a couple dozen channels.

I started to twitch.

He flipped through a few more channels, finally settling on a mind-numbingly boring show on HGTV.

I twitched some more.

When the mind-numbingly boring show broke to commercial, he flipped through more channels.

I twitched so much I probably looked like a super floppy fish out of water.

He flipped and flipped and flipped, occasionally settling on some random show that made me think it was the worst show ever created, except that a few moments later, he would find one that was even worse. In those moments, I remembered OMG, CHANNEL FLIPPING MAKES ME HOMICIDAL.

There's a reason the man has his own prehusss TV and a Man Cave. It's called FOR MY SANITY. I have to stay strong through this Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened to Him Phase.

Must. Stay. Strong.

(Psst . . . Mr. Husband, if you finish the landscaping in the backyard without whining, I may be willing to strike a deal. Please don't destroy my brain in the meantime. PLEASE.)