Tour de Bedtime

Most parents of small children love bedtime. Admit it. As much as you love, adore, and cherish your children, you love it when they are asleep. Their sweet little faces relaxed and innocent, the sound of their gentle breathing, and most of all, the prospect of a few minutes of peace and quiet where you can return to your preparent state and not worry about anyone but yourself and maybe your spouse. Heck, you might even actually remember what activity it is the two of you engaged in that made you parents in the first place.

I love bedtime. I long for bedtime. There have been days where I've gotten out of bed in the morning and the thought of bedtime is what got me through my day. It's wonderful - you can watch a television show that doesn't feature any characters hopping around singing the praises of brushing your teeth, going potty, or the letter of the day. (I refuse to watch American Idol for this very reason.) You can read a book without anyone crawling all over you or having to fend off a request for yet another horsey ride. You can finish your sentences, talk on the phone, make an unaccompanied trip to the bathroom, or even just listen to music and take a hot bubble bath. You can even go to sleep, if you like. No doubt about it, bedtime is one of my favorite parts of the day.

But my friend Tracey (who can potty train in her sleep) hates bedtime. Absolutely dreads it, fears it, and would do almost anything to avoid it. She admitted this to me recently. I was stunned, shocked, appalled. How on earth, I thought, could you hate bedtime?

Then I remembered. She and her husband are operating on a different plane of reality than the rest of us. They just had their third boy. And if this little guy is anything like his dad, he's probably already contemplating how he's going to parachute out of his crib to get in on the action on the ground. Considering that their other two boys are ages 6 and 4, they cannot be held responsible for their temporary insanity.

I remember when our first baby was just one year old, and I asked my friends about just how the heck I was supposed to get the darling little monster to sleep. I got tons of advice about a nice warm bath, story time, and laying the kid down "while they are drowsy". Above all, the parenting books caution, stick to the ROUTINE, and in a few weeks, the kid will fall in line. Like potty training, this was a bunch of hogwash and certainly didn't work for my kids.

As I got to think of it, it isn't actually bedtime that I'm so enthralled with. What really works for me is when bedtime is actually over and done with; check marks the block, so to speak. The ramp up for the actual "bedtime" is something only experienced parents can truly appreciate for the volume of activity it generates. The actual activities preceding bedtime are worthy of a workout akin to Lance Armstrong training for the Tour de France in terms of blood, sweat, and tears before you slip on the yellow jersey and head for the finish line (your own bed). We won't discuss the possibility of chemical stimulants.

First Leg: And They're Off: Announcement that it's bedtime

Upon announcement that it is, indeed bedtime, your children suddenly remember that there is a school project that is due the following day which requires a trip to the store to purchase $37 worth of supplies to create something ominous called a "diorama" or the equally sinister "plaster of paris" statue which will be worth 80% of your child's grade for the year. If your children are not of school age, this announcement will generate a burst of energy in your child which you only see in the most experienced sprinters during the Olympic games. A debate as to whether or not it's bedtime ensues. Your ability to read a clock is insulted, as well as your judgement as to how much sleep a human being actually requires before falling over in their tracks is also usually part of the reparte.

Second Leg: Transportation Station: Getting them into the bathroom

You debate with yourself whether the little angels are really all that dirty, and if the teacher will notice the sand under your child's fingernails the next morning. Remembering that it's probably easier to clean their feet than clean and change all the bed linen, you weigh in on taking a bath. Ignoring the dishes from dinner, the toys that still need to be picked up from the afternoon's reenactment of "Toy Story", you manage to extricate at least two of your children from their hiding spaces beneath their beds or in the closet and herd them into the bathroom. If you get really lucky, the third cooperates by being lured in to the vicinity by the sound of running water.

Third Leg: Wash Station: Actually accomplishing the purpose that you're in there for.

I've learned not to expect too much actual washing to go on at bathtime. It's easier for all concerned if you fill the tub with soapy water and hope some gets splashed in the appropriate nooks and crannies. Washing the hair is only conducted when it really, really needs it or that day's activities included sand or mud. Between the dodging, shrieking, and wiping water out of the eyes, I've discovered an expedient means of rinsing them off: the shower. This apparatus also serves as the means of getting the kids out of the tub. What really drives me crazy is after all the fuss of actually getting into the tub, you have to use a spatula to scrape them out of it. The water could be a mere memory, it's freezing cold, but they beg for the chance to splash in just one more puddle.

Fourth Leg: The Sprint: Drying them off

Forget those adorable pictures you see in magazines of children laughing delightedly with a hooded towel draped just so over their heads. Processing the clean children from point A (the tub) to point B (into their pajamas) is accomplished by tossing the towels in their general direction as they sprint out of the bathroom. Air drying is soooo underrated.

Fifth Leg: Pit Stop: Pajamas and Stories

Depending on the ages of your children, this can be accomplished with a minimum of fuss or the ability to do 6 things at once. Even if I lay out the pajamas on his bed, my oldest will inevitably get distracted by a book, a toy, a loose crayon. While wrestling my youngest child into his pajamas, I call out various cutoff times along the way, "if you don't have your left sock on by the time I count to 5" or, "if those pajamas are not on after 7:45 p.m., we're talking about missing a story". My middle son, as of late, delights in demonstrating his creativity by putting his pajama bottom on his head, and putting his feet through the arm holes. While I'm impressed with his thinking outside of the box, it does tend to derail my ultimate goal: bedtime.

Sixth and Final Stretch: The tuck in

By now, if you aren't completely exhausted, you can sense the end is near. If you get really, really lucky, they actually stay in their beds after they are inserted into them. In really, really unlucky cases, you're talking about two siblings sharing a room and a bunkbed, which can get challenging. I remember going to check on my two oldest boys' progress in the sleep department and being greeted by two completely wide awake children busily tying the sheets together to form a bungee cord.

We had to put up a baby gate in my middle child's doorway once he figured out how to open the door himself. We have caught him sneaking into his big brother's room (way past both their bedtimes) in order to conduct experiments in gravity. Needless to say, we were not amused. But I have to admit that the deer-in-the headlight expression on his little face when we caught him was priceless.

We've also had the priceless experience of both our older children sleeping in our room when we finally had to allow our youngest the educational experience of "crying it out". Since the baby's room is right next to the two older boys room, his shrieks of indignation were keeping them up. It was right about 3 in the morning when I gave up trying to share a king sized bed with a fully grown man and two smaller versions of the same and headed for the sofa. I had to, as I was nursing two broken ribs and a black eye from the thrashing of two small children who both insisted on snuggling up to Mama.

But, finally, when it's all done, there are three beautiful angels to look in on before collapsing into my own bed. And I remind myself of the famous philosopher who said, "this too, shall pass". I just wouldn't mind if I could get one night to pass with everyone in their own bed.

The Messy Husband

This posting was originally going to be titled, "Top 10 Reasons It's GOOD to have a Messy Husband", but I had to squash that idea when all I could come up with were two good reasons. Hey - it's harder than it sounds. I got all kinds of input about how messy husbands drove their wives crazy, but it was a little harder, apparently, to think of anything good about them.

And I know that this title is sexist and perpetuates all kinds of gender stereotypes, but pooh on you. So girls, I'm socking it to you (us). OK, strap on your armor, leave your sensitivity behind and keep reading.

I am so with my fellow frustrated sisters with MESSY HUSBANDS. I know, I know, I'm making broad generalizations that we thought we left behind in the 1950s. Ha! In my circle of friends and acquaintances (which are a considerable number), I can only count two husbands who would get on their wives cases if the house was messy when they came home. They just didn't seem to have any idea of the havoc small children could wreak. Or big ones, for that matter. But those two gentlemen were West Point graduates who went on to become explosive experts. In their particular cases, I applaud their innate sense of neatness and attention to detail.

However...the other 99% of my sample of men (including my father) were incurably messy. My particular favorite (I happen to be married to him) could, in the process of merely entering a house, leave disorder in his wake like swells of water behind an ocean liner. A jacket laid over a couch, keys, change, wallet and sunglasses left on a counter, shoes mysteriously winding up in the middle of the floor, and glasses left on a table. It's like our long dead historical icons with plaques and statues all over the place, shouting out, "I was here!". You would never mistake whether or not the man was present. Signs were everywhere.

Newspapers are a particular bone of contention, as they are left spread across 7/8 of the kitchen table while the rest of us try to eat on the remaining horizontal surface not covered with newsprint. Or, I'd wake up in the morning to a living room floor carpeted in newspaper, since "someone" left them opened on the floor next to the couch the night before.

It was never a mystery as to who had last been in the bathroom. Towels on the floor, a dozen toiletries left out on the counter, the rug rumpled and the hamper lid open with socks trailing out onto the floor.

It used to drive me crazy, especially when we were first married. I'd trail behind him, straightening, picking up and putting away the chaos he left in his wake like a passing tornado. He'd walk past a basket of clean, folded laundry without it ever occuring to him to pick it up and return the clothes to the appropriate drawer. I'd bite my tongue anytime I went near the sink, which mysteriously filled with glasses whenever I wasn't looking.

From my many conversations with my girlfriends, and attending a university with a 10 to 1 male to female ratio, I was assured this trait was almost universal among the male of our species. Once, while my tactical officer was inspecting my room, he commented, "girls are neater than boys" after a fruitless 5 minute search for dust. To which my roommate answered, "we smell better, too."

Then, a few weeks ago, my husband went away on a business trip for a week. Midway through the second day, as I went through the house musing on the odds of getting my 20 month old down for a nap, it hit me. Our house was completely neat. No dishes in the sink, no laundry to do or put away, no beds to make. The dishwasher was empty, the carpets were clean, I'd mopped the floors that morning, and my oldest was quietly reading while my middle child was taking a nap. I almost didn't know what to do with myself.

Then I realized: some day (hopefully about 50 years from now, God willing), there would come a day where the house would always look like this. I wouldn't have to clean up after anybody else's mess anymore. Because nobody else would be there. I'd be alone.

Needless to say, my husband was welcomed home rather more enthusiastically than he anticipated. And the next day, when the newspaper was on the floor, a pair of boxers draped on the back of a chair, and his cell phone, keys, change, wallet, and sunglasses were decorating my kitchen counter, I just smiled.

2 Reasons why it's good to have a messy husband

1. He never notices if the house is a mess. Think about it. What if you take the day off and make mud pies in the backyard instead of doing your usual chores? A messy husband probably wouldn't even notice you'd skipped housekeeping that day. (The muddy footprints might tip him off, but I wouldn't count on it.)
2. You are a queen when you find his stuff for him. So, the next time you hear, "honey, have you seen my _____ " look at it as an opportunity to stun the man with your magical powers.

Potty Training

I hate potty training. I mean, I know nobody actually likes it, but I really, REALLY hate it. No watering it down with words such as, "dislike" or "distasteful". Remedial Potty Training, make way for me.

And those of you smug parents out there who give me a superior look and inform me precisely how easy it was to potty train your children, go away. This article is not for you. And if one more person starts a sentence with, "what YOU need to DO is....." I will not be held responsible for my actions.

I saw a book titled "How to Potty Train Your Child in A Single Day". It caught my eye because I was out buying yet another set of 2T-3T underwear with an obnoxiously cheerful train printed on the rear. I'll leave it up to your imagination as to the fate of the last pair I bought.

Leafing through the book, I got the gist of the author's method. You buy a doll that can tinkle, then give it plenty to drink. Placing the doll on the potty, you demonstrate the basics of the procedure you'd like your child to emulate. When the doll is finished, you throw the doll a party. Works like a charm, the authors state confidently.

Well. Another mother strolled by with her kid in the shopping cart, saw what I was reading, and started gushing. She was so enthusiastic, I began to suspect she had financial ties to the publishing house. She went on and on about how easy this method was, and how fast her daughter caught on, and how nice it was to finally be done with diapers. I stood there, with a carefully neutral expression on my face, torn between manners and desire to start jumping up and down doing the "pee pee dance", just to see how she'd react.

I tossed the book back on the shelf and headed towards the diaper aisle. Are you kidding? Everybody knows that all you need is a huge bag of m&m's and not go anywhere for awhile....say a few weeks. Then again, in my case, make that a few months.