Lily woke up in the middle of the night with a fever boiling through her bloodstream. I knew because she was snuggled up next to me and I felt my own blood start to simmer until I realized that she was tucked in the crook of my arm. I touched her head, put my hand on her rising belly and she was on fire. I reached for her little sister on the other side of me and she, thankfully, did not feel the same. She turned over to avoid my handling of her little body and I tended to her big sister. That was the first night.
The next evening, antibiotics in hand for the raging ear infection that was plaguing my girl, we tried again. Lily on my right and Virginie on my left. Everyone tucked in and medicated or whatever was needed to allow a comfortable night's sleep and healing. We made it to 3 AM. At 3 AM, Virginie started wheezing as if she'd swallowed a balloon. She could not seem to take a full breath without this full, croupy cough taking over her tiny body. She would cough and tremble and cry, all while trying to fall back to sleep. I offered her inhaler every fifteen minutes until she could breath easier. Unfortunately, her coughing woke Lily who began pulling at one of her ears, coughing herself, and complaining of pain. For her there were pain killers and a back rub. In fact, with each one sandwiching me into the middle of the bed, I rubbed and patted them, arms outstretched, until 5 AM when I heard the last labored breath subside to soft, even whistles. Then I slept.
I've spent countless nights alone with the girls and most nights they are well, though often chatty and wake in the night. When they are sick or scared or in need, I am available for them too, will take care of what needs caring for until it is right. The good days greatly surpass the bad, but the bad ones fuel the fuzzy-brained, rain-clouded, barbed-wire pressured, and angst-filled stories of parenthood. Those nights leave me feeling so low and lonely, mostly because I am sleep deprived and insane (JEG, you know who you are), like I don't have a prayer or a hand or a friend.
This morning, my neighbor offered to take the girls for a while to play with her children. She and her husband had run their errands and handled their business and knew that I was alone for the long, holiday weekend with the girls. I tried to bow out, excuse myself, convince her that it wasn't necessary, that the girls were fine with crazy me. Though I have longed for a community, a tribe, a village to help me raise my children, I don't think I ever considered what I was really asking for. It wasn't something mythic, epic, poetic, romantic. It wasn't only a dream or an expression used in speeches when children had again been marginalized or ignored. For me, it was having someone that I trusted and that I knew cared for me and my children, take them for a bit. Nurture them. Feed them. Play with them. Entertain them. So that I might have a moment to regenerate, take a shower without a guest lecturer present, hell use the bathroom without having a conversation about only God knows what with a person sitting one foot in front of me. On the floor.
I let the girls go for a bit when a friend called requesting Virginie, the four year old. My friend's four year old was down for a full afternoon of play that involved multiple costume changes, a bath, coloring, a trip to the pool, all the cool stuff the pre-K set is into. She went. She stayed. I saw her at 6 pm. Lily, too, stayed out and I did things. Fun things, housework things, banking things, lying down things, standing up things, alone things. I later sat in the yard having an afternoon drink with my neighbor while we watched our children ride bikes and scooters up and down the drive. A family of friends who were walking by on their way to the train station, continuing on to the airport and a European vacation, stopped for a quick beer. I promised to check in on their house and their visitors. (They were doing a house trade with a family in France.)
I felt the village forming around me. I always see in my mind a Native American or African tribe of my imagining with huts configured in a circle, women working and tending to their children, men hunting and gathering, doing what they do. It is an image that comforts me, though it lives in my fantasy and is not drawn from any particular group or tribe. It's just what I want. The houses in my neighborhood are close enough for my children, young as they are, to walk from our home to a friend's without my being nervous. In the nearly two years we have lived here, we have amassed a small tribe of families to whom I would entrust my children, my home, our pet (Baby Dragon, the newt). There is a wonderful exchange of childcare, babysitting, dinners, evening cocktails, and conversations that gives me peace. The girls have learned to respect and consider other adults (and children too) and other ways in which families live and households are run. But as important, I have learned to trust, to fall into the arms of people who want to love and support me, who would allow me to love and support them, who have helped me give and receive in equal measure despite myself.
The village that we have chosen to call home has given me a place in the circle. The people we have added to our circle have given me no corners to be pushed into and no walls to hide behind. I am grateful for the connections and the community. When the nights are insufferable and days or weeks alone threaten my sanity, my village comes to my aid. It takes a village to raise a child. This one has raised up my family too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Blow your nose
I have been on my own with the girls for a long ten days thus far. While we do get into a rhythm that serves us well, I am beat down like a clown tending to absolutely everything in our lives with an insane amount of precision, efficiency, and organization. That is my proto-OCD at work. I have but one safe place, and it is just relatively so. Sleep, night time, my dreams. Unfortunately, even that has been encroached upon. First by my obsessive desire to catch up on two seasons of Game of Thrones and Homeland in just a matter of days (Yes, I know, my brain is nearly ready to explode.) and second, by the almost four year old's sniffling and coughing. Again.
There are few things more difficult to teach a child (for me anyway) than how to blow her nose. I am still not sure to this day how Lily learned how to do it, but she is a pro. She does take gruesome interest in whatever is in that tissue once she's done it, but that is another matter. She can blow her nose, clear out the mucus and other gunk, and generally keep herself free of the dreaded ear infections that seem to plague the under six set. Virginie, not so much. And when I say not so much, I mean not at all. Her nose blowing consists entirely of sucking that mucus all the way to the back of her brain and then rubbing a tissue over her dry nose. Both in Barbados and here in the States, this little person suffers from some sort of reaction to allergens, cold viruses, tickles in the throat, lungs, and nasal passages. It feels like we get a free week or so and then we're back at it. But this time around there is no need for her prescribed inhaler. What she needs is to blow that nose!
I woke up this morning (extremely early for me) to a sniffling, sucking, chattering Virginie sitting upright in my bed (when Papa's away...) picking away at the boogies crusting her little nose. I tried, in my sleepy stupor, to teach her to blow, threatening her with saline drops and the aspirator. I acted like a crazy person. I was desperate to clear her face and steal a few more minutes. I am sure any relatively astute television viewer or complete idiot could see what I couldn't. We were never going back to sleep. She was not going to blow her nose. I needed to finish the last two episodes of Homeland so that I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight...because we were about to be up and ready to start the day.
Poor, little soul. She is sniffling away as she parades around the house in her "princess coat," a tiny leopard print, swing coat that she is wearing over her princess pajamas. Lily is sitting in front of her trying to show her how to "smell a flower and blow out the candles" with her nose. I hear a lot of sniffle sucking and then blowing out the candles with her mouth. Up early and ready to do things. We will have to go to bed early anyway. Perhaps there will be some sort of antihistamine administered to aid in her sleeping. Plus, the "Easter bunny" is going it alone this time and has to get up to that attic and construct the monster baskets that are popular these days. LalaLoopsies, Barbies, candy, and maybe a little Jesus in there, you know, for Easter. God willing, there will be some nose blowing in our future or maybe I will just never sleep again.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
There are few things more difficult to teach a child (for me anyway) than how to blow her nose. I am still not sure to this day how Lily learned how to do it, but she is a pro. She does take gruesome interest in whatever is in that tissue once she's done it, but that is another matter. She can blow her nose, clear out the mucus and other gunk, and generally keep herself free of the dreaded ear infections that seem to plague the under six set. Virginie, not so much. And when I say not so much, I mean not at all. Her nose blowing consists entirely of sucking that mucus all the way to the back of her brain and then rubbing a tissue over her dry nose. Both in Barbados and here in the States, this little person suffers from some sort of reaction to allergens, cold viruses, tickles in the throat, lungs, and nasal passages. It feels like we get a free week or so and then we're back at it. But this time around there is no need for her prescribed inhaler. What she needs is to blow that nose!
I woke up this morning (extremely early for me) to a sniffling, sucking, chattering Virginie sitting upright in my bed (when Papa's away...) picking away at the boogies crusting her little nose. I tried, in my sleepy stupor, to teach her to blow, threatening her with saline drops and the aspirator. I acted like a crazy person. I was desperate to clear her face and steal a few more minutes. I am sure any relatively astute television viewer or complete idiot could see what I couldn't. We were never going back to sleep. She was not going to blow her nose. I needed to finish the last two episodes of Homeland so that I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight...because we were about to be up and ready to start the day.
Poor, little soul. She is sniffling away as she parades around the house in her "princess coat," a tiny leopard print, swing coat that she is wearing over her princess pajamas. Lily is sitting in front of her trying to show her how to "smell a flower and blow out the candles" with her nose. I hear a lot of sniffle sucking and then blowing out the candles with her mouth. Up early and ready to do things. We will have to go to bed early anyway. Perhaps there will be some sort of antihistamine administered to aid in her sleeping. Plus, the "Easter bunny" is going it alone this time and has to get up to that attic and construct the monster baskets that are popular these days. LalaLoopsies, Barbies, candy, and maybe a little Jesus in there, you know, for Easter. God willing, there will be some nose blowing in our future or maybe I will just never sleep again.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Sleep charts, training, and bribes
I had to make a sleep chart for my 3 3/4 year old child whose interest in conversation and chatterboxing at all hours of the night and early morning was killing my beauty rest, my peace of mind, and was slowly eroding my sanity. I promised a worthy prize at the end of ten nights of uninterrupted sleep. No waking in the night to talk or demand food or play on the iPad allowed, but escorts to the bathroom or checks for illness or bad dreams were permitted. Not one to miss a prize, Lily signed on too. I had to allow it though I knew she'd breeze through this challenge and get the reward. Including her was like allowing an Olympic swimmer to compete against middle school challengers but I had to to be fair...to her. The oldest doesn't quite understand that she's already reached these milestones, been coddled and handled through these obstacles in the very recent past. All she sees is the possibility of a toy and knows immediately that only one of them in this fight ain't right.
We were off to a rough start. Well, Virginie was...and by association so was I. The first night was as miserable as all those before the chart went up. She asked me why she had water in her sippy cup instead of juice. Then asked me to change it. I didn't. There were tears and desperation. She asked about the colors in the rainbow. She wanted me to say them and then she would repeat them. When I did not state them with the right dose of enthusiasm she cried and asked me to do them all again. I did while drifting off to sleep, so she nudged me, poked me in the eye, whispered in my ear., "Mommy, why are your eyes closed? Why do we have to sleep? I don't like to." I foolishly engaged. "We need sleep for our health. We need it to function during the day and do the things we want to do." She asked, "What is function?" I answered, "To be able to do things correctly, do them well." "Why do we have to function?" And it goes on and on like that until I think I am going to fall down the rabbit hole and I start to beg.
We did eventually get to sleep about an hour and a half later, but by then I was nearly willing to give away all the government secrets. The next few days we started to get on track. I kept reminding Virginie that the end goal was a prize and that it wouldn't be something whack from the dollar store. A real prize. Lily got the idea. She was on it. I don't think she even got out of bed to use the bathroom until daybreak. Every morning Lily would ask, "Did you have a good sleep? Can I get a star?" And she could because she'd slept through the night. Seeing that first star go up, Virginie got the fever. She was not about to miss out on a prize. So sleep training commenced.
While I know Virginie was thrilled out of her face to see those stickers go up, no joy could overtake my own. That first morning that I woke up face down with drool on the pillow, I almost didn't recognize where I was. I was so used to sleeping twisted up in a ball of blankets and special lovies in a teeny, tiny toddler bed that the incredible sensation of space and warmth around me nearly had me convinced that I was on an alien abduction operating table. "Oh, glorious sunlight shining into my life!" I thought. WOWZ. This is what everyone was raving about! Another night, then another and another. I was getting hooked on this stuff! I would have bought a Barbie castle and sports car for this wonderfulness! Though I knew a habit took more than four days to form, I was optimistic.
Imagine my shock and surprise when Virginie called for me on that fifth day and wanted to talk about "that thing that Annabel had on her head" and "why Papa and Lily were sleeping and we're not." We stayed up for almost two hours and I felt defeated. Somehow, despite this setback, we made it to ten days, ten stickers, and a present. We walked as a family to the toy store in town where each of the girls got to choose a small toy. I didn't set a price limit but I did tell them that it was not Christmas nor was it their birthdays, that this was a reward, a token to celebrate their achievement. Lily clutched a bug-eyed unicorn named Magic to her chest and, no surprise, Virginie chose a Rapunzel bath toy that could detach from her floating shell and play with the other Rapunzels in her collection.
I know that ten days, ten stickers does not a habit make. Last night, after having received her ten stickers, Lily called me in the night crying about a "bad choice" she'd made that was racking her brain. We sat up for an hour talking about forgiving herself and being kind to herself and with a little snuggling and kissing, all was forgiven. I cuddled up behind her in her little bed and we promptly went to sleep. One hour later I was tip toeing back to my own bed. The chart still hangs and will continue to be loaded with stars and encouragement. I don't really care so much about the number of stickers and stars, don't even mind if we don't really get to ten each time. They feel really proud when they've made it overnight, are jazzed that Mommy has had some rest and has a genuine smile on her face to greet them. And when we all get some sleep? That is the best reward of all.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
We were off to a rough start. Well, Virginie was...and by association so was I. The first night was as miserable as all those before the chart went up. She asked me why she had water in her sippy cup instead of juice. Then asked me to change it. I didn't. There were tears and desperation. She asked about the colors in the rainbow. She wanted me to say them and then she would repeat them. When I did not state them with the right dose of enthusiasm she cried and asked me to do them all again. I did while drifting off to sleep, so she nudged me, poked me in the eye, whispered in my ear., "Mommy, why are your eyes closed? Why do we have to sleep? I don't like to." I foolishly engaged. "We need sleep for our health. We need it to function during the day and do the things we want to do." She asked, "What is function?" I answered, "To be able to do things correctly, do them well." "Why do we have to function?" And it goes on and on like that until I think I am going to fall down the rabbit hole and I start to beg.
We did eventually get to sleep about an hour and a half later, but by then I was nearly willing to give away all the government secrets. The next few days we started to get on track. I kept reminding Virginie that the end goal was a prize and that it wouldn't be something whack from the dollar store. A real prize. Lily got the idea. She was on it. I don't think she even got out of bed to use the bathroom until daybreak. Every morning Lily would ask, "Did you have a good sleep? Can I get a star?" And she could because she'd slept through the night. Seeing that first star go up, Virginie got the fever. She was not about to miss out on a prize. So sleep training commenced.
While I know Virginie was thrilled out of her face to see those stickers go up, no joy could overtake my own. That first morning that I woke up face down with drool on the pillow, I almost didn't recognize where I was. I was so used to sleeping twisted up in a ball of blankets and special lovies in a teeny, tiny toddler bed that the incredible sensation of space and warmth around me nearly had me convinced that I was on an alien abduction operating table. "Oh, glorious sunlight shining into my life!" I thought. WOWZ. This is what everyone was raving about! Another night, then another and another. I was getting hooked on this stuff! I would have bought a Barbie castle and sports car for this wonderfulness! Though I knew a habit took more than four days to form, I was optimistic.
Imagine my shock and surprise when Virginie called for me on that fifth day and wanted to talk about "that thing that Annabel had on her head" and "why Papa and Lily were sleeping and we're not." We stayed up for almost two hours and I felt defeated. Somehow, despite this setback, we made it to ten days, ten stickers, and a present. We walked as a family to the toy store in town where each of the girls got to choose a small toy. I didn't set a price limit but I did tell them that it was not Christmas nor was it their birthdays, that this was a reward, a token to celebrate their achievement. Lily clutched a bug-eyed unicorn named Magic to her chest and, no surprise, Virginie chose a Rapunzel bath toy that could detach from her floating shell and play with the other Rapunzels in her collection.
I know that ten days, ten stickers does not a habit make. Last night, after having received her ten stickers, Lily called me in the night crying about a "bad choice" she'd made that was racking her brain. We sat up for an hour talking about forgiving herself and being kind to herself and with a little snuggling and kissing, all was forgiven. I cuddled up behind her in her little bed and we promptly went to sleep. One hour later I was tip toeing back to my own bed. The chart still hangs and will continue to be loaded with stars and encouragement. I don't really care so much about the number of stickers and stars, don't even mind if we don't really get to ten each time. They feel really proud when they've made it overnight, are jazzed that Mommy has had some rest and has a genuine smile on her face to greet them. And when we all get some sleep? That is the best reward of all.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, February 11, 2013
The Ol' Ball and Chain
For those who refer to their significant other as "the ol' ball and chain" I would like to introduce the three and 3/4 year old girl. My dear baby child is exceptionally bright, charismatic, funny, precocious, and loving. On the days when it's good, it's really, really good. But on the days when it's not so, you just might see the terror in my eyes. She's not spoiled, not more than any other suburban American, pre-K girl whose parents are concerned about her not being too selfish or spoiled or self-involved, inconsiderate, bratty, and obnoxious, and she's usually quite thoughtful and open and concerned about those around her. Now I will admit to letting her ride in the stroller rather than having her walk along on longer trips. Mostly because I want to move the program along. And I talk with her and play with her like she's older than her 3 3/4 years because I know that intellectually she needs that challenge.
Both girls are loved and adored. We kiss and hug and listen intently, try to shore up their sense of self-worth before the demands of being a girl and then a woman in the world start to fray the edges of their confidence. Much that we do, like many other parents, is focused on the girls or at least considers them. We are not of the "children should be seen and never heard" belief but my strictly disciplined childhood and Didier's proper French behavior do not allow us to put up with too much nonsense. To us, everyone in the family has a voice, even if some (Mommy's and Papa's) are weighed more heavily.
On the walk to the sledding hill yesterday, Virginie and I followed behind a larger group because I wanted to be sure that she ate a proper lunch. I knew that the sledding would be exhausting and that we would afterwards have dinner and spend some time with our friends, so I wanted to give her a little time on her own with me, going at her own pace, before we caught up with the big girls. She was surely not going to get a nap, not that she has been interested in one of those for quite a while, so I wanted her to move at the little girl's pace and not try to keep up with the older ones. She ate and we dressed to head out. The snow banks and sidewalk corners would have made travel with the stroller rather difficult (besides the fact that it was in the trunk of the car Didier had driven into the city) so I decided we'd walk if we were to go at all. We walked and I carried her and then carried her until she'd walk and then I'd carry her and then carry her and then, once my back was sufficiently twisted and we'd arrived, I put her down. Ball and chain. Sure, I could have stood my ground and waited for her to just walked in out, but seriously, we'd been here before and she can outlast me. I don't want to stand in the cold, miss the action and have THAT meltdown, so I carry her. All in all, she probably walked a third of the trek and that felt like something to me.
The sledding hill, though not particularly steep, was a bit daunting for her, so I agreed to go down with her. I love sledding and it's a good thing. We must have gone at least ten times together. Riding down then walking up the hill holding her hand and carrying the awesome glider and then doing it all again. I'm hardly youngish and the workout provided, though ultimately needed, maybe welcomed, kinda wrecked me and threw off my equilibrium. When we'd all had our fill, everyone began the walk home. On the return there was walking and carrying and dragging on the sled and carrying and crying and fighting and my desperate hope that she just might, somehow, fall asleep in my arms. No such luck. Just a heavy lump of a coal and a crap attitude from an overtired three and 3/4 year old. Ball and chain.
We ate, drank, and were merry. The kiddles ate and played until they were all bug-eyed and weary. I kept saying over and over again that I should leave, leave while the baby girl was still in good spirits. She put on a dance costume, drew pictures, ate a banana and an apple after some pasta. She ran ragged with the other kids upstairs and could be heard laughing and telling pre-K jokes. After an incredibly enjoyable day, sledding and hanging with friends and neighbors, my girl, overtired, exhausted, sunned and snowed, fell out. What I'm talking about is not getting upset or even having a tantrum. I am talking about eyes rolling, screeching, arms flailing, internal clock resetting that happens on such an epic scale, even adults stop and stare at her like, "WTF?"
She fell out on the floor. She cussed me in a way only a tired child can. It's not the words, it's the expression on her face and the knowing glance that somehow it is my fault a little. Or entirely. Though we live just a few houses down, our host volunteered to drive us home and my little person screamed and acted a monkey the entire ride. We got into the house and, unhappy at how I had taken off her boots outside the door, she asked me to reenact the scene with a more pleasant disposition from me. I obliged after standing off for 15 minutes. I tried to walk away a bit, to give myself some distance, and she begged me to hold her. Hold her while she was screaming in my face. I held her, kissed her, whispered that I understood she was tired and tried to lead her to her room. The mention of being tired sent her back to Crazytown and I found myself stumbling down the hallway with a whining, screaming freak show and an older sister trying to ease my soul with kisses to my knees and elbows. Ball and chain.
Dressing Lily, the oldest, for bed, I lay Virginie on her bed propped up so that she felt that she was not going to bed but just talking to Mommy and Lily. She passed out there. Lily fell asleep quickly and I went to sleep shortly thereafter feeling like I had won a small victory. I had. Until 5 am when Virginie came to my room and asked me why I was sleeping there. I told her that it was my room and that it was the middle of the night. She asked if she could sleep with me for a bit and the answer was, of course, yes. We lay together for about 5 minutes when she asked if we could return to her room. Sigh. Sure. So we squeezed into her IKEA bed together where we pretzeled into a sleeping yogini pose. I closed my eyes to rest all of ten minutes when she woke me to tell me that she likes pajamas without feeties too. I told her that I did too and tried to go back to sleep. She then tapped me again. "How about no feeties?"
"Let's sleep, baby," I suggested. But she was having none of it.
"I want the pajamas with no feet."
"I think we should go back to sleep, dear girl."
With tears and increasing volume, "The other pajamas! The other pajamas!" So sue me, I changed her. We went back to sleep for 35 seconds whens he realized that she did not actually want feetless jammies. I mean, who would? So she begged and pleaded to be put back in the others. I changed her and cried and she thanked me and we went back to sleep. Ball and chain.
I got up at 7 am, after one jagged hour of sleep, with Lily and Virginie slept until 8:45 am. I love her to bits. She is gaining independence and growing by leaps and bounds. I know that one year, maybe even six months from now I will look back at these times and just giggle to myself at how ridiculous they were. But right now, with the little one chained to my side, with me, learning from me, the laughter is sharp and occasionally bitter, laced with awe and fatigue. These people are amazing and maddening and they will never feel me releasing my grasp, never feel a jerk in the chain, never be dismissed or shrugged off. I made a commitment to the ball and chain and I'm sticking with it.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Both girls are loved and adored. We kiss and hug and listen intently, try to shore up their sense of self-worth before the demands of being a girl and then a woman in the world start to fray the edges of their confidence. Much that we do, like many other parents, is focused on the girls or at least considers them. We are not of the "children should be seen and never heard" belief but my strictly disciplined childhood and Didier's proper French behavior do not allow us to put up with too much nonsense. To us, everyone in the family has a voice, even if some (Mommy's and Papa's) are weighed more heavily.
On the walk to the sledding hill yesterday, Virginie and I followed behind a larger group because I wanted to be sure that she ate a proper lunch. I knew that the sledding would be exhausting and that we would afterwards have dinner and spend some time with our friends, so I wanted to give her a little time on her own with me, going at her own pace, before we caught up with the big girls. She was surely not going to get a nap, not that she has been interested in one of those for quite a while, so I wanted her to move at the little girl's pace and not try to keep up with the older ones. She ate and we dressed to head out. The snow banks and sidewalk corners would have made travel with the stroller rather difficult (besides the fact that it was in the trunk of the car Didier had driven into the city) so I decided we'd walk if we were to go at all. We walked and I carried her and then carried her until she'd walk and then I'd carry her and then carry her and then, once my back was sufficiently twisted and we'd arrived, I put her down. Ball and chain. Sure, I could have stood my ground and waited for her to just walked in out, but seriously, we'd been here before and she can outlast me. I don't want to stand in the cold, miss the action and have THAT meltdown, so I carry her. All in all, she probably walked a third of the trek and that felt like something to me.
The sledding hill, though not particularly steep, was a bit daunting for her, so I agreed to go down with her. I love sledding and it's a good thing. We must have gone at least ten times together. Riding down then walking up the hill holding her hand and carrying the awesome glider and then doing it all again. I'm hardly youngish and the workout provided, though ultimately needed, maybe welcomed, kinda wrecked me and threw off my equilibrium. When we'd all had our fill, everyone began the walk home. On the return there was walking and carrying and dragging on the sled and carrying and crying and fighting and my desperate hope that she just might, somehow, fall asleep in my arms. No such luck. Just a heavy lump of a coal and a crap attitude from an overtired three and 3/4 year old. Ball and chain.
We ate, drank, and were merry. The kiddles ate and played until they were all bug-eyed and weary. I kept saying over and over again that I should leave, leave while the baby girl was still in good spirits. She put on a dance costume, drew pictures, ate a banana and an apple after some pasta. She ran ragged with the other kids upstairs and could be heard laughing and telling pre-K jokes. After an incredibly enjoyable day, sledding and hanging with friends and neighbors, my girl, overtired, exhausted, sunned and snowed, fell out. What I'm talking about is not getting upset or even having a tantrum. I am talking about eyes rolling, screeching, arms flailing, internal clock resetting that happens on such an epic scale, even adults stop and stare at her like, "WTF?"
She fell out on the floor. She cussed me in a way only a tired child can. It's not the words, it's the expression on her face and the knowing glance that somehow it is my fault a little. Or entirely. Though we live just a few houses down, our host volunteered to drive us home and my little person screamed and acted a monkey the entire ride. We got into the house and, unhappy at how I had taken off her boots outside the door, she asked me to reenact the scene with a more pleasant disposition from me. I obliged after standing off for 15 minutes. I tried to walk away a bit, to give myself some distance, and she begged me to hold her. Hold her while she was screaming in my face. I held her, kissed her, whispered that I understood she was tired and tried to lead her to her room. The mention of being tired sent her back to Crazytown and I found myself stumbling down the hallway with a whining, screaming freak show and an older sister trying to ease my soul with kisses to my knees and elbows. Ball and chain.
Dressing Lily, the oldest, for bed, I lay Virginie on her bed propped up so that she felt that she was not going to bed but just talking to Mommy and Lily. She passed out there. Lily fell asleep quickly and I went to sleep shortly thereafter feeling like I had won a small victory. I had. Until 5 am when Virginie came to my room and asked me why I was sleeping there. I told her that it was my room and that it was the middle of the night. She asked if she could sleep with me for a bit and the answer was, of course, yes. We lay together for about 5 minutes when she asked if we could return to her room. Sigh. Sure. So we squeezed into her IKEA bed together where we pretzeled into a sleeping yogini pose. I closed my eyes to rest all of ten minutes when she woke me to tell me that she likes pajamas without feeties too. I told her that I did too and tried to go back to sleep. She then tapped me again. "How about no feeties?"
"Let's sleep, baby," I suggested. But she was having none of it.
"I want the pajamas with no feet."
"I think we should go back to sleep, dear girl."
With tears and increasing volume, "The other pajamas! The other pajamas!" So sue me, I changed her. We went back to sleep for 35 seconds whens he realized that she did not actually want feetless jammies. I mean, who would? So she begged and pleaded to be put back in the others. I changed her and cried and she thanked me and we went back to sleep. Ball and chain.
I got up at 7 am, after one jagged hour of sleep, with Lily and Virginie slept until 8:45 am. I love her to bits. She is gaining independence and growing by leaps and bounds. I know that one year, maybe even six months from now I will look back at these times and just giggle to myself at how ridiculous they were. But right now, with the little one chained to my side, with me, learning from me, the laughter is sharp and occasionally bitter, laced with awe and fatigue. These people are amazing and maddening and they will never feel me releasing my grasp, never feel a jerk in the chain, never be dismissed or shrugged off. I made a commitment to the ball and chain and I'm sticking with it.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
A little space
Yesterday afternoon while cleaning the house (which actually just started as a small two-loads of laundry, sweeping, possibly mopping morning and exploded into an OCD cleaning fest) I got the brilliant idea that the girls "queen-sized" bed should be separated into the two twins it actually is. The ultimate kiddie sleep bed was born out of necessity. I was just too tired and physically wounded from sleeping in either one of their little twins when called upon in the middle of the night, so I put them together, placed a soft featherbed on top and queen sheets, and got some good sleep sandwiched between Thing One and Thing Two. And whilst I got some semi-enjoyable shut eye, I was doing the girls no service preventing them from learning to sleep alone and denying them their "own" beds. So they were split.
We all marveled at the space created in the room with the separated beds. How each would have her own place to sit and daydream. How there was greater access to the chalkboard wall. The bookshelf that is home to about 1,000 books was turned upright, rather than on its side, and gave the place a cool sitting room, hang out vibe with greater floor space and room for their work table and chairs. We were all giddy and high, save Papa who really thought it was cool but is French so has to be pretty laid back about the whole thing, and I allowed myself to dream of a full night's sleep in my own king-sized bed that has been home to one sleeping Frenchman and not to the Frenchman and his lovely bride (me).
When we went to put the girlies to bed that night and by we, I mean me (I did), Lily started in with the whole, "I'm not sure I'm ready to be on my own" nonsense, while Virginie was all, "I am a big girl. I totally got this" jam. I had to take turns spending a few minutes with each ladybug in her own tiny crawl space, cuddling, hugging, promising to love each other forever. When I last landed in Virginie's bed (this after going back and forth between them about 100 times), Lily fell fast asleep. Virginie, who had been up late the night before and up early, was still chattering away about what a big fucking girl she was, even though I was in the dang bed with her! She then asked if we could go to my bed for a second and yes, judge not lest ye be judged, I went with her hoping her talk in the other room would not wake up her now long sleeping sister. We sat there for about 30 seconds and then she asked to return to her own bed, but alone. Without Mommy. Yay. What she meant was that I needed to come but that I should not sleep in her bed with her. I was to sit on the floor holding her hand.
I will spare you all the bloody details but suffice it to say, the Brave went down about thirty minutes later. I got out of the room and was pissed. I'd spent the night, my time, battling with the kiddle, while the husband cleared the table, put the dishes in the sink, and promptly went to his computer to read and listen to music. I came off the battlefield to the soaking dishes, laundry on the bed, and the next day's backpacks and lunches needing to be prepped. Somehow I must give off the sexy vibe during these rageful moments because there was the husband looking for a lovin' spoonful. "I just want to be alone for a minute, babe," I imagine I said, but more than likely barked. I do pretty well during the course of a twelve hour plus day of giving, giving, giving, but when the night time comes around and I have still not had a break, I let myself go to Crazytown.
The people are little and the new sleeping arrangement was a change. They will get used to it and sleep better and longer one hopes. My thinly worn patience revealed a slowly healing wound underneath. I just needed a little privacy, a little thinking time, a little space, the sound of no one's voice, the touch of no one's hand. That was just for tonight, not always. A good night's sleep can fill Mommy up and prepare her for better days. that's all I want.
Still waiting on the good night's sleep but happy to have the girls meet me in my bed in the morning, proud of themselves, giddy with proof of their getting to big girl status, and excited to do it all again. (Except for the chattering on and on part.)
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
We all marveled at the space created in the room with the separated beds. How each would have her own place to sit and daydream. How there was greater access to the chalkboard wall. The bookshelf that is home to about 1,000 books was turned upright, rather than on its side, and gave the place a cool sitting room, hang out vibe with greater floor space and room for their work table and chairs. We were all giddy and high, save Papa who really thought it was cool but is French so has to be pretty laid back about the whole thing, and I allowed myself to dream of a full night's sleep in my own king-sized bed that has been home to one sleeping Frenchman and not to the Frenchman and his lovely bride (me).
When we went to put the girlies to bed that night and by we, I mean me (I did), Lily started in with the whole, "I'm not sure I'm ready to be on my own" nonsense, while Virginie was all, "I am a big girl. I totally got this" jam. I had to take turns spending a few minutes with each ladybug in her own tiny crawl space, cuddling, hugging, promising to love each other forever. When I last landed in Virginie's bed (this after going back and forth between them about 100 times), Lily fell fast asleep. Virginie, who had been up late the night before and up early, was still chattering away about what a big fucking girl she was, even though I was in the dang bed with her! She then asked if we could go to my bed for a second and yes, judge not lest ye be judged, I went with her hoping her talk in the other room would not wake up her now long sleeping sister. We sat there for about 30 seconds and then she asked to return to her own bed, but alone. Without Mommy. Yay. What she meant was that I needed to come but that I should not sleep in her bed with her. I was to sit on the floor holding her hand.
I will spare you all the bloody details but suffice it to say, the Brave went down about thirty minutes later. I got out of the room and was pissed. I'd spent the night, my time, battling with the kiddle, while the husband cleared the table, put the dishes in the sink, and promptly went to his computer to read and listen to music. I came off the battlefield to the soaking dishes, laundry on the bed, and the next day's backpacks and lunches needing to be prepped. Somehow I must give off the sexy vibe during these rageful moments because there was the husband looking for a lovin' spoonful. "I just want to be alone for a minute, babe," I imagine I said, but more than likely barked. I do pretty well during the course of a twelve hour plus day of giving, giving, giving, but when the night time comes around and I have still not had a break, I let myself go to Crazytown.
The people are little and the new sleeping arrangement was a change. They will get used to it and sleep better and longer one hopes. My thinly worn patience revealed a slowly healing wound underneath. I just needed a little privacy, a little thinking time, a little space, the sound of no one's voice, the touch of no one's hand. That was just for tonight, not always. A good night's sleep can fill Mommy up and prepare her for better days. that's all I want.
Still waiting on the good night's sleep but happy to have the girls meet me in my bed in the morning, proud of themselves, giddy with proof of their getting to big girl status, and excited to do it all again. (Except for the chattering on and on part.)
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
The Judgment of Solomon
I have had the distinct pleasure of spending the entire cold, rainy Sunday in the presence of Lily and Virginie and Lily and Virginie only. With five loads of laundry, a dishwasher full of dishes, two beds to strip and remake, play, clean up, play, clean up, it should be obvious that I am beat down like a clown and pretty short on nerves. After a bath this evening, the girls were trying to decide which pajamas to put on. For many children I can only imagine that it is not the game show drama and madness that it is over here. We can't just put on whatever Mommy leaves out for us, no matter that we chose these pajamas at the store ourselves. We need to make pretty precise decisions about why each pair is appropriate for this particular evening. Tonight, Lily requested the "princess pajamas." Okay, the princess pajamas are some pink flannel numbers with all of the Disney bitches on them that both girls used to own. Used to because the 2T's that were once Virginie's can now fit their doll babies and the 5T's that were once Lily's are creeping high on her leg. Her tiny bum fits snugly but the pajamas really are too short. There is now just one pair of jammies and it doesn't really fit either of them.
When the people discovered that there were princesses to be had, they each went pretty much out of their minds and demanded that they be given the jammies to wear. Neither gave a damn about the other's feelings. "She can wear the reindeer. She can wear the penguins. I want the princesses." It's been a long day and Mommy's brain was just not up for the closing arguments that both girls were about to offer so your judgeship came up with this. "You wear the bottoms and you wear the tops. Find what you are missing and let's keep it moving."
Virginie is now wearing the top of the pajamas with her naked booty wiggling free and Lily is topless with some highwaters on her legs. Tonight the fight is over pajamas; other nights, it's over the television or a Polly Pocket or me. Can I be split in two? Lily would like me to snuggle with her before bed in her room (the room shared with Virginie). Virginie would like to stay up and watch TV, or argue about it at least, in my room. They both plead their cases with pretty lame arguments, "because I want you to" is a pretty popular one, and then I am forced to stand before them and hand down a verdict. I try to do so with a lot of kisses and reassuring "You know I love you's" but my decision usually comes down with one of them melted onto the floor in a jiggly puddle of tears, the other, near gloating, which shows itself as insane motormouthing and explaining about some trivial little girl nonsense like whatever the heck Twilight Sparkle has up her sleeve or have I heard of these beyond fantastic slippers called Stompies.
What's funny is that they do not think I am on to them. They somehow believe that this game, this competition is going to end with one of them on top and the other vanquished. We go back and forth. I threaten to destroy the toy, project, playdough, book that is being wrestled over rather than hand it over to just one, only to find that they are quite capable of sharing and working it out. Four out of five times Virginie just wants to see Lily squirm. She just wants to hold the baby snow tiger plushy for thirty seconds and is then perfectly willing to give it to Lily to love down to the ground. But not tonight. Nothing comes between a girl and her Princesses. Nothing.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
When the people discovered that there were princesses to be had, they each went pretty much out of their minds and demanded that they be given the jammies to wear. Neither gave a damn about the other's feelings. "She can wear the reindeer. She can wear the penguins. I want the princesses." It's been a long day and Mommy's brain was just not up for the closing arguments that both girls were about to offer so your judgeship came up with this. "You wear the bottoms and you wear the tops. Find what you are missing and let's keep it moving."
Virginie is now wearing the top of the pajamas with her naked booty wiggling free and Lily is topless with some highwaters on her legs. Tonight the fight is over pajamas; other nights, it's over the television or a Polly Pocket or me. Can I be split in two? Lily would like me to snuggle with her before bed in her room (the room shared with Virginie). Virginie would like to stay up and watch TV, or argue about it at least, in my room. They both plead their cases with pretty lame arguments, "because I want you to" is a pretty popular one, and then I am forced to stand before them and hand down a verdict. I try to do so with a lot of kisses and reassuring "You know I love you's" but my decision usually comes down with one of them melted onto the floor in a jiggly puddle of tears, the other, near gloating, which shows itself as insane motormouthing and explaining about some trivial little girl nonsense like whatever the heck Twilight Sparkle has up her sleeve or have I heard of these beyond fantastic slippers called Stompies.
What's funny is that they do not think I am on to them. They somehow believe that this game, this competition is going to end with one of them on top and the other vanquished. We go back and forth. I threaten to destroy the toy, project, playdough, book that is being wrestled over rather than hand it over to just one, only to find that they are quite capable of sharing and working it out. Four out of five times Virginie just wants to see Lily squirm. She just wants to hold the baby snow tiger plushy for thirty seconds and is then perfectly willing to give it to Lily to love down to the ground. But not tonight. Nothing comes between a girl and her Princesses. Nothing.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Between a rock and hard place: A story in sleep torture
It seems that mine is a life of sleep deprivation and contorted positions. Before Lily was born I'd been given stern warning by mothers and women, friends and strangers even to get my rest. "Sleep now," they'd say,"because it all goes to hell when the baby is born." How could I have known, a single girl well into my thirties, who'd been able to drop in and out of bed whenever I chose, whose boyfriend/fiance/then husband was still willing to put some tape across his nose and rid himself of the rhinosounds, squeaks, and hisses, and who was still able to put in earplugs because the only thing she'd had to listen out for was, well, nothing, that these ominous warnings would predict a future so bleak that I should have been lying down all day every day?
Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family. It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister. None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.
We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt. I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down. She turned it up a notch to hysteria. I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow. She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me. She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her. I was knackered. Just wanted to get to sleep. My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.
As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired. When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed. Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company. Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks. "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom? May I wash my hands? Can I go to the bathroom?" Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle. Thank you. We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket.
Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door. I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls. My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either. I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom. While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay. He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea. Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.
During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old. Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results. I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me. But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her. After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction. I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired. I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night. This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.
I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years. I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago. For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors. Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them. Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me. I'm awake"
Night night.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family. It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister. None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.
We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt. I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down. She turned it up a notch to hysteria. I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow. She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me. She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her. I was knackered. Just wanted to get to sleep. My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.
As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired. When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed. Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company. Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks. "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom? May I wash my hands? Can I go to the bathroom?" Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle. Thank you. We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket.
Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door. I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls. My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either. I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom. While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay. He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea. Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.
During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old. Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results. I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me. But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her. After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction. I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired. I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night. This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.
I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years. I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago. For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors. Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them. Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me. I'm awake"
Night night.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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