My children are home again, a blessing of course, but the youngest might see an early death if he does not quickly adapt back to our routine. Among my frustrations is the early rising. This child tossed and turned, played, fussed, and made racket in his bed until nearly 10 PM last night, so why did he still wake before seven this morning? In fact, why is it that no matter what time a small child is put to bed, he will rise at the same hour? When I am struggling to open my own peepers, the last crack I want to see is dawn’s much less anyone else’s.
Yesterday, we planned an outing, a snack, naptime, and an afternoon date at the playground. We scored two of four. My son would not nap, and played in his room until he was allowed to descend from it at 3:15. On the way to the playground, he fell asleep, which meant turning around, driving back home for a now late-in-the-day nap, and a whole screwed up evening schedule—thus 10 PM frolicking. Because I was in and out of his room getting him settled (for example, removing the lamp that he insisted on playing with, shutting his door as a consequence, and retrieving a toy he was distracting himself with), my own work downstairs was constantly interrupted and I did not finish until late.
This morning, suddenly weaseling in my bed was my little Tiny Man. I was still fighting the concept of waking.
“Mommy!” he whispered excitedly. He slipped his cool hands around my neck and shoulders for a snuggle. This is beautiful and my favorite part of motherhood—the super sweet snuggles. What troubles me is the banging, noise making, stomping, and pow-pow psshtt boom sounds coming out of his mouth prior to this little moment and immediately after.
So today, I am tired, but it’s a new day. Today I will wear my children out at the river. We will look for bugs, fish, and ducks. I will listen to the kids giggle and splash. We will sleep on time. I will go to bed earlier. And maybe, I will duct tape that little child to his mattress… just kidding… maybe….
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Patron Saint of Napping Bundles
Today I had the honor of being a Patron Saint of Naps; I subbed at my son’s school during rest time. These kids are three and four, but under their blankies, sleep entranced, and lips pursed, they are once again babies. I had the pleasure of sitting between the two most nefarious nap-fighters, my son and his best friend. The instructions I was ordered to follow included: lay them tummy down, rub their backs, discourage noise. The boys were restless, but true to the promise of his teachers, sleeping and making little whuffles and buzzes after 20 minutes. Their partner in crime, a third boy of whose stubborn qualities we had not been warned, refused to co-operate at all and was not so precious. There was kicking. There was prodding. There was poking. There may even have been some grunting. The other mother in the room became exasperated and so I escorted the wee tyke out to the hallway.
“Buddy, you know there are sleeping kids in there.”
“Uh-huhhhhh.”
“And I know you cannot sleep today, but you need to be still and quiet.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
“Bud, you can’t kick the floor and make banging sounds. It’s disrespectful to the sleeping children and to the teachers.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
After a few more words of level-headed logic, I scooted him back to his cot, tucked him in, and started adjusting the blankets of his friends. Apparently, I was not as effective as desired. Of course, you knew this was coming. Boomp, boomp went heavy feet, poke, poke went little hands, and the other mother, after another diligent effort on her part, picked the child up, and carried him out and away from the lines of sleeping and more cooperative little people.
We never saw him again. He may have been bussed out and sent to stay with detainees at Guantanamo Bay as a form of torture—for them.
“Buddy, you know there are sleeping kids in there.”
“Uh-huhhhhh.”
“And I know you cannot sleep today, but you need to be still and quiet.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
“Bud, you can’t kick the floor and make banging sounds. It’s disrespectful to the sleeping children and to the teachers.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
After a few more words of level-headed logic, I scooted him back to his cot, tucked him in, and started adjusting the blankets of his friends. Apparently, I was not as effective as desired. Of course, you knew this was coming. Boomp, boomp went heavy feet, poke, poke went little hands, and the other mother, after another diligent effort on her part, picked the child up, and carried him out and away from the lines of sleeping and more cooperative little people.
We never saw him again. He may have been bussed out and sent to stay with detainees at Guantanamo Bay as a form of torture—for them.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Woeful Wails and Bedtime Tales
I have a terrible secret to share with you. I really, really do not look forward to my children’s bedtime. Each night I walk up the stairs with the same dread as Sisyphus rolling his rock up the hill.
At 8 pm, blocks must be picked up, legos collected, dolls brought upstairs. There’s crying from the youngest and the oldest magically seems to remember that there are a hundred toys left downstairs that must be retrieved—one toy at a time. The smallest child recovers from tears and scampers up and down the stairs gleefully challenging us, and on occasion, mooning us. Oh, the resistance to the end of the day. Once the short people are officially upstairs, there’s the bath, the teeth brushing, the search for pajamas and pull ups. I usually have to conduct some kind of peace negotiation between one child and the other. There are loads of explanations: Honey, this is why we don’t like to buy blue toothpaste. Tiny Man, water stays in the tub. There are reminders: Didn’t I just tell you to find your blanket? Did you dry your hair? Why are you drawing naked on your bed when it is time to get dressed and your hair is still sopping wet? And there are threats: Your mother is going to collapse from exhaustion unless you are in bed and quiet before 9 PM. You will find her motionless and bourbon will be required to revive her.
Children all of a sudden have a million reasons and a million excuses at bedtime. They have brain damage. They have a renewed sense of energy. I, on the other hand, have one mission, a limited period of time, and a limited amount of patience. I’ve been holding down the fort all day and I am ready to end my shift. By the time those warm, clean bodies have been snugly tucked into covers, prayers have been said, stories told, songs sung, and a million kisses exchanged, I am thankful for my motherhood, yes, but tired enough to have run a marathon.
“It’s 8:45,” I might announce. “Mommy is now off duty!”
“One more kiss!” pipes the youngest. How can anyone resist that? Even off duty?
My mother recently confessed her own distaste for the bedtime routine when she was raising my sister and I. Since I consider her the paradigm of all things maternal, I was particularly struck by this revelation. After all, my mother seldom raised her voice to us, she was home after school so we could make peanut butter balls, she let us fingerpaint, or watch her sew clothes for us. She was an incredibly intense and serious mother, but she was always there, always loving, always patient. I’ll never forget one Mother’s Day when I asked her why there was a Mother’s Day and a Father’s Day, but no Children’s Day.
“Because,” she sighed with fatigue, “every day is children’s day.” (This might explain why at one point, my father took over the final tuck-in and storytelling.) At the time I didn’t understand, but I have since learned that not only is every day for children, but really, every night, too. And long after the short people are comatose or at least should be, I am still working. There’s laundry, there’s research, there’s writing, there’s general household maintenance so that this place is sanitary and functional for short and tall people alike. There is some peace though, to that routine until I hear footsteps in the middle of the night.
“Why are you still up?” I call out. Pick a response from below.
“I had to go potty.”
“I was thirsty.”
“I was cold.”
“I was hot.”
“I heard a funny sound.”
“There’s a dinosaur in my closet.”
The tall, handsome man of the house, my line of reinforcement, who is actually responsible for the singing of the final song each night, must troop back upstairs and remind the child gone AWOL from bed that there is no negotiating sleepy-time. I might at first hear pleading or giggling depending on the situation, but ultimately, there is silence. And upstairs resumes the stillness of slumber for good this time.
Last night I surfed the web for suggestions to expedite bed time routines. One site said to put the kids to bed earlier—not an option for us most nights. Another said to explain the importance of sleep to the child. Umm, did that writer even have children? There were reminders to be patient, reminders to keep the pre-bed activities low-key—even suggestions to dim the lights to help the body read the bed-soon code. None of these sites really help me, especially in reference to the dinosaur that seems to have taken up residence in a closet.
The days are long, but the years are short, said someone to me once. I try to remind myself of this. Soon, the youngest will be too big to dance naked with glee before bathtime. And the oldest will eventually lose interest in the songs we sing. I might despise bedtime’s business, but the total lack of any of the craziness or comedy at night would be terribly sad, as it is when the children are away. I can keep doing this, I know. Besides, the reward is in those kisses I steal when children sleep like angels and the perfume of their slumbering warmth rises from the sheets. Perfect sweetness, which will fade when Sisyphus’ rock rolls back down the hill in the morning for the AM madness of readying for school.
I think we’ll be okay if I can just figure out what to do with the dinosaur.
At 8 pm, blocks must be picked up, legos collected, dolls brought upstairs. There’s crying from the youngest and the oldest magically seems to remember that there are a hundred toys left downstairs that must be retrieved—one toy at a time. The smallest child recovers from tears and scampers up and down the stairs gleefully challenging us, and on occasion, mooning us. Oh, the resistance to the end of the day. Once the short people are officially upstairs, there’s the bath, the teeth brushing, the search for pajamas and pull ups. I usually have to conduct some kind of peace negotiation between one child and the other. There are loads of explanations: Honey, this is why we don’t like to buy blue toothpaste. Tiny Man, water stays in the tub. There are reminders: Didn’t I just tell you to find your blanket? Did you dry your hair? Why are you drawing naked on your bed when it is time to get dressed and your hair is still sopping wet? And there are threats: Your mother is going to collapse from exhaustion unless you are in bed and quiet before 9 PM. You will find her motionless and bourbon will be required to revive her.
Children all of a sudden have a million reasons and a million excuses at bedtime. They have brain damage. They have a renewed sense of energy. I, on the other hand, have one mission, a limited period of time, and a limited amount of patience. I’ve been holding down the fort all day and I am ready to end my shift. By the time those warm, clean bodies have been snugly tucked into covers, prayers have been said, stories told, songs sung, and a million kisses exchanged, I am thankful for my motherhood, yes, but tired enough to have run a marathon.
“It’s 8:45,” I might announce. “Mommy is now off duty!”
“One more kiss!” pipes the youngest. How can anyone resist that? Even off duty?
My mother recently confessed her own distaste for the bedtime routine when she was raising my sister and I. Since I consider her the paradigm of all things maternal, I was particularly struck by this revelation. After all, my mother seldom raised her voice to us, she was home after school so we could make peanut butter balls, she let us fingerpaint, or watch her sew clothes for us. She was an incredibly intense and serious mother, but she was always there, always loving, always patient. I’ll never forget one Mother’s Day when I asked her why there was a Mother’s Day and a Father’s Day, but no Children’s Day.
“Because,” she sighed with fatigue, “every day is children’s day.” (This might explain why at one point, my father took over the final tuck-in and storytelling.) At the time I didn’t understand, but I have since learned that not only is every day for children, but really, every night, too. And long after the short people are comatose or at least should be, I am still working. There’s laundry, there’s research, there’s writing, there’s general household maintenance so that this place is sanitary and functional for short and tall people alike. There is some peace though, to that routine until I hear footsteps in the middle of the night.
“Why are you still up?” I call out. Pick a response from below.
“I had to go potty.”
“I was thirsty.”
“I was cold.”
“I was hot.”
“I heard a funny sound.”
“There’s a dinosaur in my closet.”
The tall, handsome man of the house, my line of reinforcement, who is actually responsible for the singing of the final song each night, must troop back upstairs and remind the child gone AWOL from bed that there is no negotiating sleepy-time. I might at first hear pleading or giggling depending on the situation, but ultimately, there is silence. And upstairs resumes the stillness of slumber for good this time.
Last night I surfed the web for suggestions to expedite bed time routines. One site said to put the kids to bed earlier—not an option for us most nights. Another said to explain the importance of sleep to the child. Umm, did that writer even have children? There were reminders to be patient, reminders to keep the pre-bed activities low-key—even suggestions to dim the lights to help the body read the bed-soon code. None of these sites really help me, especially in reference to the dinosaur that seems to have taken up residence in a closet.
The days are long, but the years are short, said someone to me once. I try to remind myself of this. Soon, the youngest will be too big to dance naked with glee before bathtime. And the oldest will eventually lose interest in the songs we sing. I might despise bedtime’s business, but the total lack of any of the craziness or comedy at night would be terribly sad, as it is when the children are away. I can keep doing this, I know. Besides, the reward is in those kisses I steal when children sleep like angels and the perfume of their slumbering warmth rises from the sheets. Perfect sweetness, which will fade when Sisyphus’ rock rolls back down the hill in the morning for the AM madness of readying for school.
I think we’ll be okay if I can just figure out what to do with the dinosaur.
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