The Case of the Missed Nap
Scene: Saturday, 4:11 p.m., our condo
Baby Boy needs to nap. Badly.
He is a great napper, normally. Goes down without a problem most of the time. But today we were out running errands during that crucial 2-3 p.m. window, and he didn’t sleep in the car. Now we are paying for it. Now he is so not a good napper.
He was sobbing in his room, and it was escalating into the Really Seriously Upset zone, so I went in. He was standing up in his crib, wearing just a diaper, a onesie, and socks. Hanging onto the bars, crying his little heart out. When I went over to him, he grabbed and yanked at my shirt like an overzealous date until I picked up.
Then he wrapped his little arms around my neck and held on for dear life.
And I melted.
He’d never hung on like this before. Not this tightly. It was like every once of him was desperate to not be put down. I sang to him and rocked him, standing there next to his crib, and every time he sensed I MIGHT put him back down, he tensed up and clung even tighter.
I wanted to stand there and hold him forever. It’s what he wanted. It’s what I wanted, too. In the back of my mind, I knew that was a bad idea, but it is so hard to concentrate on practicality when someone wants you — and loves you — so very much.
I have learned, in these 7.5 months of parenthood, that you often have to do things you don’t want to do, because it’s in the best interest of your child. And this child really, really needed a nap.
I put him back in his crib.
He screamed. And kicked. And reached for me.
I kissed him and soother-ed him and turned his music back on.
And then I headed for the computer and began writing this post, because it is the only thing stopping me from going back in there and scooping him up. I think this is harder on me than it is on him.
The path of destruction
I’ve always made fun of Darling Husband for leaving a “path of destruction” throughout our condo.
If he’s been home, I can literally enter a room and say, “Oh … Darling Husband, I see you re-heated some pizza,” (baggie on counter, dirty plate on counter, used fork on different counter) “walked over to the fridge, got a drink of Coke,” (empty glass on counter, bottle not put back in fridge) “opened the mail,” (paystubs and bills scattered) “emptied your lunchbag,” (dirty plastic containers everywhere) “and then left the room … oh, and then you went into the living room to watch TV” (couch cushions are all askew, remote is wedged between the cushions).
Even though messes make me twitchy, it’s kind of hilarious.
And by “Hilarious” I mean “Amusing … but clean it up nowwwww, please!”
This morning, Darling Husband got up with our darling monster at his new improved new painful wake-up time of 7:15 a.m., and let me sleep in. I would add “for the first time in weeks, because he’s always working so I am stuck with the 7:15 a.m. wake-ups” here, but I’m not a martyr. Nope.
Anyway, 10 a.m. rolled around, he put Baby Boy down for a nap, and then crawled in bed himself. I was awake by then, and got up for the day. I could immediately see every step of what I’d missed by sleeping in …
- By the highchair in the middle of the kitchen, the empty (gluey-looking) bowl of baby oatmeal, the spoon, the soiled bib, and the globs and Cheerios on the floor, I can deduce that he sat across the room and threw Baby Boy his breakfast in a slingshot
- By the vast amount of toys scattered all across our living room floor, I can deduce Baby Boy invited in several other seven-month-olds and they had a wild, rousing playdate
- By the dented couch cushions, askew throw pillows and remote stuffed in between them, I can deduce the morning was a total breeze, and Darling Husband was able to lounge while our son amused himself by bringing his daddy drinks and snacks
But you know what? I’ll take a little “path of destruction” any day, if it means I get three extra hours of sleep.
Dizzy dizzy, in a tizzy
It’s been a rough few days. Baby Boy is getting up three or four times a night — I think it was … five? … last night. I have been cleaning like mad because TA-DA — we’re trying to sell the condo (more on that soon).
And I have been feeling … supremely dizzy. Every day.
I am probably WAY OFF on this, and it could very possibly be LOTS OF OTHER THINGS, but I am writing this for posterity …
… anyway …
It feels familiar.
Very familiar.
Um, stay tuned.
The sparkly Mary-Janes
I saw these baby shoes in a store the other day.
They are sparkly. They are metallic. They are Mary-Janes (my favourite shoe style for, like, my entire 27 years on this planet).
I didn’t buy them, even though it just about killed me. It is no secret that I want a baby girl (next, if possible, but I can wait until Kiddo #3 … or #4 … or #5 … Did I mention I won’t stop until I get a girl, OR until I have enough boys for a boyband?).
Here’s my conversation with Darling Husband while I showed him the shoes:
ME: If we have a girl, I’ll spend a lot more on clothes than I am for Baby Boy.
DARLING HUSBAND: I know.
ME: I mean, I love buying clothes for him. But it’s way easier to resist a graphic tee that says “Superhero” than it is to resist SPARKLY MARY-JANES.
DARLING HUSBAND: Uh-huh.
ME: And pink-striped TIGHTS! And HAIRBOWS! And LEGGINGS! And … and … SUNDRESSES! Oh my God, I can sew SUNDRESSES!
DARLING HUSBAND: Yes, Dear.
ME: Maybe I should just buy the shoes—?
DARLING HUSBAND: No.
ME: … Well, it’s a good thing I’ve saved us so much money with Baby Boy’s clothes. You know, buying used stuff, getting hand-me-downs …
DARLING HUSBAND: Yup.
ME: … Because then I can go ALL OUT buying girl clothes someday!
DARLING HUSBAND: Can we go?
Then and now
Then: “Okay! Let’s take off this outfit and get you a nice new one. Into the laundry you go, Mr. Onesie! Now let’s get some fresh socks to match …”
Now: “Hmm. Sleeper looks clean. You can wear that again tonight. No, let’s leave these socks on, they’re still fine.”
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