the pieces of my life

We had a very busy couple of weeks. The weekend before the last was of course Hanukkah, filled with all the joy that is Hanukkah as well as all the smelly-house latke-old-oil fun, too-many-pieces-of-Hanukkah-gelt and it’s-time-for-the-kids-to-go-to-bed fun, spending-way-too-much-on-gifts-fun, and oy-what-a-mess fun. In the course of one weekend, I hosted a lunch for my in-laws for Adam’s birthday, attended two Hanukkah parties, and threw a Hanukkah open house. The next night was Adam’s work event. Two nights later was the aforementioned night of kindergarten information, a day which started with a 5:30 a.m. boot camp class and ended with me running from the kindergarten information night to my b’nai mitzvah class, meaning I fell into bed about eleven. Of course there are holiday cards to mail and school events to help organize (remind me again why I signed on as room parent?), and general mishegas to deal with. Adam has been working a bunch, and he’s been just as exhausted as I am.

Enter last Thursday. I’m beat. Adam’s beat. We’re ready for a bit of relaxation. But Thursday was predicted a storm–a biggie–and I was determined to be ready. This was already our second snow storm of the season–the kids have already had one snow day already–so Pie and I ran a zillion errands in the morning (including one where I asked Adam, “What’s that L.L. Bean bag sitting in your car?” and he replied, “Oh, that? Remember about a year ago I bought that sweater I wasn’t sure I liked? It’s been sitting there so I can return it. Here, wait, take a look at it. Do you think I’d ever wear it?” That sweater was returned). We got gas for the car. We rented DVDs for grown-ups and kids. We bought food for both nourishment and for festivity. We picked up things that we were low on at the drug store. “Bring it on!” I said. “We are prepared!”

I got Doodles home after preschool and sure enough, shortly after, the snow began to fall. And fall. And fall. Adam left his office at 1:42 p.m. for the 20-minute commute home… and he arrived at 4:50 p.m. Late in the day, I plopped the kids in front of a video, donned my snow gear, and began to shovel. I shoveled a nice path for Adam to get his car into, cleared the front walk. I’m feeling macho, as I toss that snow away. I shovel until Adam comes home at which point, Adam joins me for a bit of shoveling. All told, I shoveled for about an hour and a half, and by the time I fed the kids and put them to bed, the walks needed shoveling again.

Adam and I had a generally relaxing night. Finished watching The Sopranos. Had a nice dinner. I worked on holiday cards while Adam fell asleep in the chair. We stumbled into bed, both of us pretty exhausted.

In the middle of the night, Doodles, as he is wont to do, stumbled his way into our bed. The next morning, I could feel him stirring, and I looked up and saw it was 6:30. I looked out the window and could see lots and lots of white. Doodles hopped out of bed. Adam stirred for a moment, said, “I’ll be up in a sec,” and then passed out. Doodles and I got dressed as quickly and quietly as we could and we headed out into the snow. Shovels in hand, we began to dig. And dig. And dig. Doodles quickly bored of the task (remember the song from Free to Be You and Me, “Helping” by Tom Smothers? “Some kind of help is the kind of help, that helping’s all about! And some kind of help is the kind of help, we all can do without. Want to guess what Doodles’s shoveling was like? “No, Doodles, please! Don’t put snow on the area I just took snow away from!”), so he played in the snow and then went inside.

I cleared so much damn snow. At one point, I stuck my head inside and asked Doodles to read me the numbers off the clock. He said, “Um, seven. Four. Three.” The night before, on his mega-commute home, Adam’s Check Engine light went on. So I told Doodles, “Go wake Daddy and tell him if he needs to bring his car in, he should get up now.”

Doodles wakes Adam up and everyone quickly gets ready for school and work. Adam gets out the door by about 8:20. But he’s in a mood! He’s harrumphing and snipping. Nothing’s going his way. Finally, I say to him, “Why the hell are you so grumpy?”

And what do you think my Dartmouth- and Harvard-educated brilliant husband answered? What did he dare to say to me? He replied, “I got too much sleep last night.”

I don’t think there’s a jury in this country that would convict me for murdering him.

The Pie, she’s a screamer. She was a screamer as a baby when she wanted to feed three times a night. Dr. Ferber cured her of that. For about a month. Now, at almost 2 and 1/4, she’s still a screamer. Only now she has a litany of requests.

Anyone who’s read this blog long enough (which I think is just my dad), remembers BATNA. It’s the Best Alternative to Negotiated Agreement (we used it when car shopping in the years pre-Doodle). BATNA is a concept I had a little difficulty grasping at first, but as Adam pointed out, when it comes to sleep, Pie understands BATNA better than anybody.

First thing you need to understand is how many things Pie has in her crib. Every night there’s an inventory. This is a typical night:

7:30 p.m.
Pie: Where’s hippo?
Adam: Hippo’s right here. Pumpkin bear is here. Pumpkin is here. And look, here’s Hello Kitty.
Pie: Trains! I need trains!
Adam goes to get two trains that for some unfathomable reason were actually returned to the train table.
Adam: Here you go. Two trains.
Pie: Water!!
Adam: Your sippy is right here.
Pie: Where my books?
Adam: Here’s your animal book. And here’s your truck book.
Satisfied, Pie lays down and yells to Adam: Blanket!
He places the blanket on her and can leave.

7:40 p.m.
Pie: Daddy! Daddy! Daddy, I need potty! Daddy, I need potty.
Adam looks at me: Do I fall for it?
I shrug. Pie is still in diapers, but she’s been going on the potty about twice a day.
Adam sighs, gives in and gets her. Pie sits on the potty, pleased as punch. After a minute, she pees.
Pie: I peed on potty! [She starts singing the potty song to herself, sung to the tune of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”]: Pie peed on the potty, Pie peed on the potty, Pie peed on the potty ’cause she’s a great big girl.
Pie goes back to bed.

7:47 p.m.
Pie: Daddy! Daddy! Poop on potty! I need poop on potty.
I look at Adam and shake my head.
Me: Don’t fall for this one. That never happens at night.
After 15 minutes Pie falls back to sleep.

12:45 a.m.
Pie: Daddy! Daddy! Put blanket on, Daddy! Daddy!
Adam enters and puts on her blanket. Leaves. Closes door.
Pie: Daddy! Close door! Close door!
Adam opens the door.
Adam: Sweetie, the door is closed.
Pie: Okay

2:45
Pie: Daddy! Daddy! Daddy, I need Daddy!
Adam: What is it, Pie?
Pie: Shma! Say Shma! [The Shma is Pie’s bedtime prayer, which is said, surprisingly, at bedtime]
Adam: I already said the Shma. Go to sleep, Pie.
Pie: Daddy, change diaper!
Adam: Your diaper is fine. Good night, Pie.
Adam leaves and closes door.
Pie: Daddy! Close door! Close door!
Adam opens the door.
Adam: Sweetie, the door is closed.
Pie: Okay

These nights aren’t great. But they are better than the nights when we have these conversations:

12:45 a.m.
Pie: Daddy! Daddy! Put blanket on, Daddy! Daddy!
Adam enters and puts on her blanket.
Pie kicks off blanket, becomes more hysterical and makes the same demand.
Pie: Daddy! Daddy! Put blanket on, Daddy! Daddy!
Lather, rinse, repeat until Pie is standing in her crib, jumping up and down inconsolable. We go through stages where this kind of thing lasts for a day or two and then we go back to reasonable Pie. During the unreasonable Pie stage, there’s absolutely nothing you can do for her but let her cry. Going in just exacerbates the situation.

During these stages, we just hope she doesn’t wake up her brother (who often sleeps through it). If he does wake up, he just comes into our bed, which is somewhat of a relief because then I can stop worrying that she’ll wake him up. Backward thinking, I know, but it’s the way my mind works.

Okay, so fast forward to last night. Adam is in Orlando for work, which means I’m on kid duty 24/7. For what it’s worth, she said her mouth hurt in the back and when I stuck a finger in, sure enough I felt a little molar starting to poke through. Before bed, I give her some Motrin. She actually goes down with no complaints, which I find odd, but choose not to question. When Adam’s out of town, I just put Doodles in our bed by default. It makes bedtime easier all around and he’s willing to go to bed on the earlyish side when he’s in our bed.

Now, Adam and I have different nighttime philosophies. My philosophy is that she who cries, will eventually stop crying and go back to sleep. So when Pie started crying at 2:45 a.m., I did the only reasonable thing–I partially closed my door and stuck my head under the pillow. She just hollered for her father. By 3:05 she stopped. By 3:20 she was crying again. By 3:43 she had stopped. By 3:53 she was crying again. I took my head out from under the pillow but couldn’t understand what she was saying.

At close to 4:30 a.m. I went into her room cautiously. She immediately sat up and stopped crying. I heard a rather odd noise. In a most reasonable voice, she said, “Train!”

As I got closer I noticed that one of the trains she had was a motorized one. And it was on. And it was stuck in her hair. The wheels had been set into motion and had wound it’s way around her hair and was now stuck. It wasn’t painful–no pulling involved–but Pie definitely had a train stuck to her head. I tried to remove it, but couldn’t.

Me: Hold on, Pie. I need to get a scissors.
Got the scissors, cut it out.
Me: Lay down, Pie.
She complies.
Pie: Blanket! Blanket! Blanket!
I put the blanket on, but she pushes it off.
Pie: Need train! Need train!
Me: That train has your hair in it.
Pie, beginning to get hysterical: Need train!!
I get her another train. She lies back down.
Pie: Blanket!!!
I put her blanket on, I leave, and close the door.
Pie: Close door! Close door!
I open the door.
Me: Sweetie, the door is closed.
Pie: Okay

She falls back asleep till 7 a.m.

The next morning we’re talking to Adam in Orlando and I tell him a train got stuck in Pie’s hair. He said, in his biggest duh voice: We’ll I never giver her motorized trains in bed.

Gee, thanks. You think you could have told me this before you left town?

Happy birthday, Sweetie! Promise next year I’ll be in the same city as you for your birthday.

I didn’t think it was scientifically possible, but it’s true–last night was longer than usual. Somewhere between 9:42 p.m. and midnight, an extra two hours and 27 minutes were snuck in.

All four waves are here. The break room is a madhouse, and I now have to wait for a computer.

The make-me-gag gift card of the night: on the book It Takes a Village by Hilary Rodham Clinton, “Children are precious. If you teach them well they can change the world. Never underestimate your powers as a parent.”

Why are there so many matchbooks in my pocket? Adam, how many times have I told you to stop picking up matchbooks where ever you go? We have plenty. We have enough to get us through about hundred power outages, at least. You’ve got to stop this nasty habit.

Oh, and I did not detect any shower action happening between last Tuesday and now.