Screw You January 23rd

That which we do not speak about has, as always, lived up to expectations. GAH!

Butt I Want it Back

Alexis has essentially lived in dresses for several months. On the rare occasions that she has worn pants, it's been the same jeans. Over and over. It seems that when a kid only wears pants every other week or so, the same ones are always on top in her drawer. So when a strange little miracle happened earlier in the week and I managed to get Alexis to wear DIFFERENT jeans, I was shocked.

Very shocked.

Girlfriend who used to be super-chub? Not so chub.

Girlfriend who used to have stocky little stubs for legs? Not so stubby.

When exactly did the kid who could wear capris in winter, just so long as I rolled them up a bit so they weren't too long, suddenly start outgrowing pants based on the length? BEFORE the waist stopped fitting?

And, when did her knees get knobby? I distinctly remember numerous layers of adorable little fat folds on those knees.

And where the hell did her butt go? She has no butt. She had a butt. Now she doesn't. Were do butts go? The butt impound?

*sigh*

She's growing up, isn't she?

I'm Just Never Happy. Or Well Rested.

I'm not particularly proud of it, but I know for a fact that Alexis has ended up in our bed 349 out of the last 365 nights. That's 349 nights that she has wandered down the hall and spent a portion of her sleeping hours kicking me in the head, yelling at the top of her lungs, fighting with the Bulldog, punching Mr. Husband, pretending to be a Toddler Helmet, and otherwise just making sure that I never get sleep again.

She likes it that way.

I don't.

So, why is it that on the extremely rare occasions that she actually stays in her own cozy bed, I still can't sleep? I awoke this morning at a painful 3:45am, realized she wasn't on top of me, and couldn't fall back asleep. The reason? My brain, in its sleep-deprived state, was worried that something was wrong. Did she fall out of bed and crack her skull, leaving her brains to ooze all over her delicate IKEA not-really-wood floor? Had she stopped breathing after dreaming about pairs skating with Sidney Crosby? Had she figured out a way to break through the baby gate that blocks our stairs, pried open the front door, and was at that moment, wandering our snowy, frigid neighborhood in search of Dora? Had she opened her window and made like Superman, flying through the air on her quest to save the world from the evil Steely McBeam?

And yet, part of my brain was functional enough to realize just how crazy it was to even consider that she was doing anything other than sawing some logs in her bed. Thus, I had an internal argument.

"Just go check on her."

"That's stupid. Go to sleep."

"Just go check on her."

"I told you, that's stupid. Go to sleep."

Back and forth. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

For an hour. For an hour my brain refused to shut off and grant me the bliss of peaceful sleep.

Then a miraculous thing happened. Meg (the Bulldog) did the most helpful thing she could have possibly done, perhaps the most useful thing she has EVER done: she farted.

It's amazing how fast you can jump out of bed to check on a kid when the heavy weight of Bulldog toots hover in the air.