…or…On the Effects of Sleep Deprivation in Mothers of Toddlers.
I kept getting kicked in the head last night.
She’s really quite strong, my little Z.
And so, instead of a real blog post, I give you a quote from poet Maureen Owen:
…Some mornings it is cleansing
to lean from bed lift the window and scream I HATE CHILDREN
into the lovely green yard.
We like to pass our finer points on to our children. Our striking good looks, endless patience, witty sense of humor. Unless you’re me, and have none of those things (okay, I’ve got the good looks and the sense of humor. Yes, I do say so myself). At any rate, if you are like me, you can also pass on both your tendency to hoard things, and the things you hoarded.
See my Photographic Evidence below.
Photographic Evidence A
This is my E.T. Tea Set, circa 1982. Utterly fabulous. I had to battle TWO black widows to rescue it from the clutches of my doll closet. The doll closet is a whole other picture, but I’m not about to venture out to the Love Shack (garage/guest room) at night to take a photo.
Photographic Evidence B
Here we have the companion to my tea set, a Read-Along Book & Record set. Not pictured are my “Gingerbread Man” and “Walt Disney’s Peter Pan” Book & Record sets.
Sadly, the records have disappeared. Not that I would know what to do with them if I had them. Z might use them for serving platters for her tea parties.
Photographic Evidence C
See the treasures I have unearthed! It’s The Cabbage Patch Kids! What joy!
Photographic Evidence...What Letter Am I On?
Vintage souvenir t-shirt from Great America (now Six Flags or something completely different. I’m hoping I never have to keep track).
Photographic Evidence Too Much
Is there no end to the wealth of wonders? This flowered cat is companion to…I kid you not…a flowered camel. Don’t ask me why.
I’m SOOOO glad I saved them though!
Photographic Evidence The End (Finally)
There are scores more books where these came from. [Hey look, it’s the Peter Pan book!] Her current favorite books include “Bedtime for Frances” (mine), “E.T. Read-Along” (mine), and “Peter Pan Read-Along” (also mine).
All of this, and more. As my parents will tell you, since they hauled it all to our garage as soon as we bought our house.
And these are just the things I found lying around. I didn’t have to search for them. There’s also the unicorn shirt which I desperately wanted a photo of, but Z happens to be sleeping in it right now. It screams 1980s.
If I can’t give my daughter good looks (like I need to; she’s beautiful on her own) or any of my other desirable qualities, at least I can give her lots of cool junk.
The funny thing about toddlers is they fall. All the time. Sometimes it’s tragic, and my daughter’s screams just make me want to weep with pity. Other times it’s freaking hilarious and I stifle laughter while wiping away her tears. I mean, really–running into the doorway? Or listening to her say, “Run, run, run, run….” BOOM! Priceless.
Yesterday, though, I was starting to feel like a toddler myself. Not falling so much as accident prone. Clark the cat, bless her, tried to jump on my lap, missed (okay, I moved at the last second), and scratched/punctured me knee. Ouch.
Then Z thumped into my lap to read a book and crunched my finger. Ouch again, but I recovered quickly and went on to read Baby Bear’s Books (Jane Yolen) through gritted teeth.
Finally, during Five O’Clock Disco Dance Breakdown, I did the electric slide onto a small pink prism for the shape sorter cube. I truly thought my dancing days were over. Husband had to work late, so I limped around for the rest of the evening, giving Z her bath [UPDATE: She now takes her bath in the bathtub proper, and the infant tub is stored in the garage, waiting for Z’s hypothetical sibling] and getting her ready for bed. I thought of using my practically broken foot as an excuse not to exercise today, but I couldn’t even trick myself, so I guess it’s not that bad.
Still hurts, though.
Today has been better. I walked behind Z as she climbed upstairs and watched her take risks. She let go of my hand, then let go of the railing, then twisted sideways, gallumped up two steps, paused on the third. She gave a sort of hop. Fine of course, no falls. Toddlers fall down frequently, but the beauty of it is they have something adults grow out of: resilience and fearlessness.
My foot still hurts, and I’m going to be extra vigilant when “clearing the dance floor” in the future.
[Further UPDATE: The vertical blinds ARE GONE! Husband read my entry “The Land of Dull Knives and Duller Wits” and I think something spoke to him. Next time I’ll complain about the macabre drapes in the front room. It will be magic! I write, and they disappear!]
A year and five months ago I proudly showed off my new home to a couple of friends. “Wow, this place is great!” they said. When we reached the family room, the tone changed. “OMG you have to get rid of these vertical blinds.”
The family room is a fabulous room. Funky wood floors, an old wood stove, big windows, and three doors to the backyard. Doors covered in…vertical blinds! The blinds were supposed to be white once upon a time, or at the very least cream colored, but now they have a sort of sallow, yellow look. If a paint company needed a name for this precise shade, they might choose “malarial yellow*.” And because the family room has two sliding doors and a french door, there are three sets of vertical blinds. It’s practically all you see when you walk in.
Yeah, I know. Ew.
But we move a little slowly in this house, not only when I’m on the elliptical machine, but also when it comes to getting things done, and while we have finally actually looked at various options for the blinds, we haven’t found anything we like…at least that we can agree on. This slow relaxed pace doesn’t only apply to large-ish jobs like window treatments. We usually start off with, “It would be so much easier to find things in our closet if we had some kind of storage system.” (Piles of shoeboxes and stacks of folded shirts continue to topple out every time we open the door.) Or, “Hmm, maybe we should you know, clean the scum out of the bathtub so our toddler can graduate from her infant tub.” (She’s still in the infant tub.)
Frustrated when trying to carve the turkey last Thanksgiving, Husband’s parents gave us a knife sharpener for Christmas. Five months later, we have sharpened two (2) knives. Even really simple chores, like replacing the sprinkler heads so our lawn doesn’t turn brown, get shuffled to the end of the to-do list in favor of a) reading, b) writing, c) sleeping, or d) just about anything else.
How I wish I could blame it on Z. She was the perfect screaming scapegoat when she was four months old and permanently attached to my chest. I could barely take a shower, much less manage to vacuum or unload the dishwasher. Now that she’s older and can play on her own for up to an hour, I’m fresh out of scapegoats. The truth is, we’re just not the type of people who enjoy productive pursuits.
Sometimes I fantasize about going back to Jane Austen time, when people could dabble in painting, learn languages, and embroider because they had nannies and gardeners and cooks and maids.
Then I remember: not every person had those perks, because somebody had to actually be the nannies, gardeners, cooks, and maids. So while I’m nostalgic for a time I’ve never known, I end up wondering: would I have been Elizabeth Bennet, touring the countryside and popping up at Pemberley, or would I have been Hill, catering to every freaking complaint of Mrs. Bennet?
It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I’ll manage my own child, garden, sandwiches, and laundry, thanks.
– – – –
*Yes, I realize malaria is not the same as yellow fever. Creative license, dears.
Just when you think you’ve got a good rhythm going, when the routines are working okay, and there’s an occasional night when she sleeps in her crib until five or six in the morning. Just when you can do some dishes without her affixed to your shins like a Mighty Leech, and you can run outside to water the plants while she watches contentedly from the window. Just when you let your guard down…
The Unholy Terror of Screaming Proportions attacks.
With a vengeance.
It’s teething. Right? I mean, it’s the perfect excuse. Now we’re onto the molars, and yeah, extra painful probably. They’re the perfect scapegoat, as no one is brave enough to stick a finger back there and actually check (the UTSP bites). Teething mysteriously comes and goes, and it gives you a chance to pity the UTSP instead of resenting her (sometimes. Maybe not at 2:55 in the morning).
We’ve always done “the co-sleeping thing.” Not because it’s trendy or cool, or so down-to-earth. But because we’re lazy. L-A-Z-Y. Why rouse ourselves in the middle of the night, spend fifteen to thirty minutes soothing a child to sleep, and then try to get back to sleep? Why not just zombie-walk to the kid’s room, pluck her out of her bed, and snuggle up next to her in our own?
I’ll tell you why not. The two reasons come with five toes apiece. The UTSP has been armed with a Mighty Kick and instructed to fire at will. By employing strategies of random, rapid fire movements she has almost shattered my cheekbone and nearly ensured, via a lucky strike to a certain sensitive area on Husband, that she will be an only child.
So now: not only am I rethinking every single aspect of the beginning of my novel, but I’m currently reevaluating Child Number 2. As well as making decisions on cellular blinds, granite countertops, and paint colors. Because, of course, we couldn’t be content with only 30 pounds of upheaval in our lives. We had to go ahead and add some remodeling to the mix just to see how much we can take.
On the very bright side, our new soon-to-be-installed kitchen faucet comes with a built-in soap dispenser. I am Over The Moon about this soap dispenser. It will solve All Life’s Problems and Bring Me Happiness. As my mother-in-law said, “It’s the little things.”
And Z, our UTSP, is a little thing. She is charming, intelligent, and has a great sense of humor. And when she isn’t demonstrating her finer qualities?
Well, I can just run into the kitchen, squirt some soap from our built-in soap dispenser, and life will seem fine just fine.
Beth Hull 