Early last week, I was getting the kids dressed in the morning.  Chessa, being the ever helpful big sister offered one of her four (yes, four) pacifiers to her little brother.  Cole refused it.  Turns out, my second-born prefers his thumb. 

Seeing an opportunity to talk about the inevitable-but-who-knows-when-because-I’m-chicken Binky Bounce, I asked Chessa if she wanted to box up all her pacis and give them away to new babies who needed pacis.  “Pacis are for babies,” I said matter-of-factly.  “Since you’re a big girl you can give your pacis to other babies, right?”

“NO!”

“OK, but what if you give them to Santa instead. And he’ll give you toys?”

She thought for a moment and seemed to agree. “Santa bring toy-ess.” 

“Yep, if you give him your pacis, Santa will bring you toys.” 

“Santa take pacis and give toy-ess, OK.” 

“OK,” I said.  “In a few months.”

Twenty minutes later, the pacis were left in her crib and we were downstairs when she came running up to me with a terrified look in her eyes. “Santa take Chessa’s pacis. No!  No Santa!” 

Uh-oh 

So I dropped it.  Gave everyone a heads up to my not-so-smart parenting moment. The few times that she mentioned it that day, I reassured her that Santa wasn’t coming for a long time and by then he’d probably have completely forgotten about her pacis. 

She didn’t mention it for a few days, so I assumed it was a non-issue. 

Until last night, when Craig had her playing in the garage (what? isn’t that where your kids play?) and she saw a 2-foot Santa tucked away in storage and I received the following text message from my husband.

“Chessa doesn’t like Santa now because he takes pacis.” 

Well, shit.

It was one of  THOSE nights. 

You know the kind where nothing went wrong, per say.  But I was looking so forward to bedtime.  I did the solo bedtime routine and it was starting to look up. A little less crying from the two kiddos and a lot less wanting to tear my hair out by me. 

I was reading to Chessa while feeding Cole, feeling oh so proud of myself and my improvement at this bedtime dance.  Chessa looked at me and asked for Elmo and a “nap”. 

“You got it kiddo,” I said.  Anyone who has been a parent longer than 5.4 seconds knows that when a healthy child asks for bed, you seize the moment. 

I laid down the boy, thinking he had enough in his belly to hold him for the moment or two it would take me to say goodnight to his sister.  I picked Chessa up and walked to her room. 

Everything was right with the world. 

I walked to the white noise machine and pressed the power button expecting the soft sounds of waterfalls to fill the room. 

Nothing. 

Hmm.. that’s weird, I thought. 

I pressed some buttons on the four-day-old white noise machine and nothing happened. 

I put Chessa down, “Just a minute, honey,” I said.

“A minute, honey” she repeated. 

I pressed some buttons, unplugged it and plugged it back in again. 

The radio worked but the sound buttons?  Still nothing. 

Then, I heard Cole starting to yell from down the hall. 

I pressed more buttons.  Waterfall.  Nothing.  Summer night.  Nothing.  Raindrops.  Still nothing. 

I looked behind me and noticed Chessa pulling out toys and books.

“No, honey,” I said.  “It’s bedtime.” 

“Bedtime,” she repeated. 

I called Craig.  “Why won’t this thing work?!” 

“I don’t know,” he said carefully.  “All I did was press the power button this morning.”

Cole’s cries become louder.  Chessa’s toys are now overtaking the room.  My blood begins to boil.

I unplug the sound machine and go find the instructions. I’m doing everything right.  (OK, the instructions didn’t say anything about hitting the piece of electronic equipment, but it felt right.)

Back in her room, one last attempt to plug and unplug the machine and still no peaceful sounds from the peaceful sound machine. 

With anger that can only come when electronic equipment doesn’t work at bedtime, I deliver it one last thump with my hand and through gritted teeth mumble, “Piece of shit!” 

(You know where this is going right?)

With big eyes, Chessa looks up at me and repeats “Piece of shit!”

Now that’s some fantastic parenting right there.

Yep, I’m still pregnant.  Although why that surprises me or anyone else at this point is beyond me.  Technically, I’m only a little over 38 weeks.  With C, I still had another 20 days to go. 

So, while I count down the hours until Monday moring and do my best not to cringe at every Braxton Hicks contraction (painless, my ass) and fight the urge to check the clock and start trying to time them, I’m thinking about something.  Thinking about how screwed I might be. 

C was/is an easy baby.  Yes, we had a week or two of crying in the late evenings, but it didn’t take long until I either figured out how to soothe her or she grew out of it.  By four or five weeks  old she was only getting up once a night, around 4AM, for a bottle.  By ten weeks she was consistently sleeping through the night.  We haven’t had too much trouble with teething.  Other than her molars, she barely needed Tylenol to help her with the pain and she wasn’t really fussy with any of them. 

There was the nap strike thing that drove me right the edge of insanity, but she worked that out too.  She’s happy, she’s playful, she charms the pants off everyone she meets, she loves other kids and will go to just about any adult that wants to show her some attention.  (Unless it’s me picking her up from my in-laws at 5:00 and then she runs away from the door yelling for her Daddy.)  She throws tantrum every once in a while, but so far we’re dealing OK with those (and once I can have wine again, I suspect my ability to deal with those will get much better.)

All in all, this tiny little person has made this parenting thing seem way less difficult than I imagined when I was 40.5 weeks pregnant with her. 

You don’t get this lucky twice do you? 

What if this baby doesn’t sleep ever?  What if his/her fussy period is colic and lasts forever? What if I can’t figure out how to soothe him?  What if he only wants me and freaks out when someone else tries to help? What if? What if? What if? 

What if every thing I think I’ve learned through C’s 17 months is completely thrown out by this one?

AHHH!!!  Monday needs to get here fast before I decide that it’s better to just stay pregnant forever!

Sometimes I’m too quick with her in the morning, rushing her through changing the diaper, getting out of her pajamas, dressed and out the door.  I think to myself, “If I were better at this, I’d have taken two minutes to blow raspberries on her belly or give her extra kisses before she leaves.” 

Sometimes, I’m not patient when she’s whining about play plastic mustard and coffee containers whose caps don’t come off,  I take them from her and hide them because I can’t fix her frustration and I’m over the whining.  I think to myself, “If I were better at this, I’d find a way to explain it or distract her so she doesn’t care.”

Sometimes, when she runs for her daddy or when it’s only him that she wants to play with her, I think to myself, “Well, maybe if you did more playing among the diaper changing, feeding, dressing, bathing and day-to-day care, she’d want to play with you too.” 

Sometimes, when she falls, I clap my hands and holler, “hop up, big girl” in an effort to ward of the tears before I realize that this time she really did hit her head hard and she hurts.  And I think to myself, “Stop being so hard on her, she’s just a baby.” 

Sometimes when I hear the noise of the radio that someone got her for Christmas, the one that only has one volume setting – “crawl out of your skin loud” and plays music that makes me want to practice swan dives off of our roof, I imagine myself throwing the radio out the window and onto the street.  Then I think to myself, “but she loves it. And you’re going to miss seeing her dance to that radio someday.  Stop wishing her life away.” 

But, sometimes.  When she wakes up in the middle of the night and I lift her out of her crib, sit in the rocking chair and slowly move back and forth, she rests her head on my shoulder and her little curls tickle the side of my face as I nuzzle my nose into the back of her neck, I think “This?  Now this I do just right.”

Last Christmas. My first Christmas as a mother, Craig’s first as a father, C’s first… well, her first. I balanced the anticipation of wanting to show off our almost three month old to all of our family and friends with some kind of odd maternal instinct that told me I wanted to snuggle up and stay home on Christmas. It was time to start new traditions. And they would not include driving to five, yes that’s right FIVE, different houses to celebrate.

In years past there was a visit to Craig’s parents, my parents, both of my grandparents’ and Craig’s aunt’s homes. The baby? She gave me the perfect opportunity to stop the madness, admit defeat and say “Sorry, folks. We can’t get everywhere, so we’ll be going nowhere.” We invited our parents and siblings to our house for Christmas lunch. We’ll eat around 1:30, I said.

Ha.  HA HA.  HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Um… yeah. We ate at 3:00. Cooking for 13, it appears, is a lot harder and more time consuming than cooking for two or making a side dish and picking up a bottle of wine. It all started out innocently enough. I peeled potatoes while listening to Craig sing “Rock-A-Bye Baby” to my daughter, and my heart swelled. My brother came early and took turns holding the baby. I chopped up herbs and rubbed down the prime rib with the garlic horseradish mixture from Mr. Tyler Florence and popped it in the oven.

A couple hours later, when I came back from showering and changing out of my sweats, I thought all I’d have to do is make the salad, roast the green beans and mash the potatoes. Turns out I came downstairs to a cranky baby who needed a nap, but didn’t want to sleep (In hindsight, this was the beginning of our nap wars) and a big slab of meat that was only at an internal temperature of 110*.  Also, I found out that sautéing four pounds of green beans takes longer than five minutes and cutting up vegetables for a salad can’t be done at the same time one is mashing potatoes with a hand mixer.

When the prime rib was finally done, (keep in mind I have a father and a husband who don’t like it when their steaks are pink – weirdos) and all the side dishes were in the pretty bowls we got as wedding gifts, I called everyone to the living room. And C started crying. Loudly.

While our families ate and enjoyed wonderful conversation, Craig and I hung out in the nursery, trying to soothe the baby back to sleep or at least calm her down enough so she would be appropriate company.

This year? Oh, this year will be different. Because you see, I have a plan. I have a list of all the things I need to do Christmas morning and the times that I need to do them. Prime rib comes out of the fridge at 8:00 and goes in the oven at 10:00. (In the last 363 days, I’ve learned that it will cook better if it’s not cold when you put it in the oven.) C. will go down for a nap at 11:30 and she will stay there until she naps, SOHELPMEGOD. Potatoes will be put on the stove at 12:15 and green beans will be started at 1:00. If the food is ready before the invited guests arrive, everything will be kept warm in the oven until 1:45, when I swap that stuff out to warm up the rolls. At 2:00, or when C wakes up, we will eat and all will be right with the world.

Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

And, my hope for all of you is that you get a little peace, a little love and a lot of chocolate or wine (or both!) over the next few days.

Good-night, sweetheart,” I whisper as I lay her down.  “I love you bunches.”

As I close the door, I place a hand on the door frame and make a silent promise that tomorrow will be a better day. 

Today was supposed to be our better day.  She slept well, had kicked her cold from the day before and spent all but one of her waking hours being equal parts cute and charming.  I was giving kisses, blowing raspberries and bouncing her on my leg.  We made rice krispie treats, read books and played with puzzles. It was the perfect day. 

And then. Like clockwork.  It was 5:00. 

And the little bit of whining that comes when a toddler doesn’t know how to tell you what she wants turned into louder and longer meltdowns of a little one who doesn’t know what she wants.  My fuse grew shorter as I got dinner out of the oven and on the table all to the tune of an unhappy toddler who was hungry, starting to get tired and, in all likelihood, bored.  Through dinner my pleading for her to eat was answered with frustration because she wants to do it herself but lacks the coordination to get the spoon full of food to her mouth. 

After she rubbed her eyes with hands covered in mashed potatoes and chicken, I declared dinner over.  As I cleaned up, I ran interference between her and the garbage can, pulling her away when more things were coming out of the trash, rather than going in.  She emptied drawers and unrolled the wax paper.  And as she pulled on my pants asking for me to pick her up while I was washing the casserole dish, I snapped.  

“Just a minute!”  I yelled.  “I’m doing the best I can, I just need a minute.” 

And when I looked down and saw the hurt look in her eyes, my heart shattered. 

I dropped the dish and quickly picked her up.  Kissing away her tears as new ones brimmed in my eyes and flowed down my cheeks.  I took her to the living room where we cuddled for a moment until she looked at me and saw the tears on my face.

“Boo-boo?” she asked. 

“No, honey, Mommy’s OK.”  

We spent a few more minutes playing with toys and puzzles while  I thought about how quickly children forgive and felt eternally grateful that they do.  I wondered why the 5:00-6:00 hour is always so tough on us, even on the best of days.  I made excuses for myself and realized that no excuse was good enough. 

By the time we walked upstairs all was forgotten.  She happily played in the bathtub and asked to brush her teeth, just like she does every night.  When she was snug in her jammies, I rocked her and read a book.  And she got and gave the same amount of kisses tonight as she did the night before. 

But now, as I write this and see her on the monitor lost in her baby dreams, with her arm drapped over her stuffies, it takes everything I have not to go pull her out of bed, snuggle her neck, kiss her cheeks and tell her how sorry I am that I wasn’t more patient.  Wasn’t more understanding,  Wasn’t enough.  Wasn’t… better.

side note: this was actually written Friday evening, not today.  it just took a while for me to hit the publish button.

Why, tonight, when she squirmed away from me as I tried to put her pajamas on, did I giggle and chase her to the other side of the bed?  When another night this week, I placed her on her back and sternly told her it was time to get ready for night-nights? 

Why, tonight, when she wiggled as I changed her diaper, did I blow in her ear, pat her butt and lovingly call her a ‘stinkerpot’ as I laid her back down?  When another night this week, I sighed and bit my tongue and looked at the clock? 

Why, tonight, when it was already 45 minutes past her bedtime, did I read her two extra stories?  When another night this week, I skipped over pages of Brown Bear, Brown Bear to get to the end faster? 

Why, tonight, when the book talked about ears and she reached up and grabbed mind, did I say “that’s right, those are Momma’s ears.”?  When another night this week, I asked her to sit still and look at the book? 

What was different about tonight?  I’m not less tired than I was another night.  Work wasn’t less annoying.  She wasn’t better behaved than another night this week.  I don’t crave a bubble bath less tonight than I did earlier in the week.  So, why tonight, am I able to be the mother that should be getting her baby ready for bed every night. 

The days are spinning by so quickly.  And when I catch myself in moments like this being the parent I want to be, it breaks my heart that there are times that I’m not.  Days when I’m short with her.  Evenings when I beg her to sit still because I am tired and don’t want to chase her.  Nights when I rush through the bedtime routine and breathe a sigh of complete relief when I close her door and pour the bubbles into the warm, running water. 

Not tonight.  Tonight I didn’t do those things.

But why?  Why was tonight different?

I use this space of the internet to laugh about all the things I do to screw up my kid or fail at this parenting gig.  Like my knack for forgetting to pack bibs and burp cloths, thus prompting me to dig out half used napkins out of the pocket of the front seat, or eating an Oreo when she rolled over for the first time, or turning on cartoons in the morning because the sight of her dancing to the music is what keeps me going throughout the workday. 

But sometimes.  I really screw up. 

It was just about time for dinner Sunday night. Craig was at practice and I headed to the kitchen to make a sandwich so I could eat while I fed the wee one.  C was playing at my heels.  I could hear the tap tap tap as she crawled along the tile floor.  I pulled out a roll and wondered if the tap tap tap sound was moving further away. 

Just as I wondered what she was doing, I heard the splat and I knew. 

As I heard her cry out, I knew she had found the steps again. And this time, without someone watching her she had fallen. 

Down the steps.

Onto the tile. 

I dropped the loaf of bread and sprinted the seven steps that separated me from the the foot of the steps. 

There was my baby girl, in a heap, face down. 

I scooped her up with a prayer that I wouldn’t see blood and that nothing was broken. 

It wasn’t.

A few “ssshhh”s and “it’s okay”s and she was fine.  No new bumps or bruises.  Since the sound was a splat and not the crack of a forehead making contact with the tile, I’m guessing she caught herself on her hands and that she was scared and not hurt. 

But here’s the thing.  I. DON’T. KNOW. 

Because I wasn’t watching.  I took my eyes off of her. Only for a few seconds, but still.  If I had been watching, I would have kept her from falling.  I would have kept her from being hurt. 

At some point this may be one of my funny parenting stories, but today this one still hurts.

PS. I haven’t asked (begged) in a while, but…If it’s not too much to ask, would you please take a second and spare two clicks for me on Top Baby Blogs. XOXO!

Remember when my daughter laid still for a diaper change or after her bath and all I wanted was for her to roll over?  Remember that?  Remember how for weeks she would get oh, so close to rolling over and I’d get all excited and then she would fall to her back with a big oomph?  And, then one day, she did roll over but I missed it because I went to the kitchen for an Oreo?  But even still I was so excited for her accomplishment?

Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. 

Now that she rolls and army crawls, parenting, ie. keeping her alive, just go a lot harder.  My days of sitting her down, turning my head and her staying put are long gone.  Now, I’m lucky if while I turn my head she doesn’t bang hers off of something or start chewing on something that shouldn’t have been within her reach. 

C is contantly on the move, pushing past the soft toys and picture books and heading straight toward the slate in front of the fireplace or the edge of the coffee table.  My kid hasn’t liked being cuddled in a few months, but now she doesn’t even want to be held.  She pushes herself out of my arms almost instantly in an attempt to hurl herself toward whatever must-have item is on the floor.  

I love this new stage.  I really do.  I love playing on the floor with her.  Chasing her as she scootches across the floor looking over her shoulder to see if I’m behind her.  Tickling her and blowing raspberries on her belly until she squeals with delight.  Although I could do without her grabbing fistfuls of my hair and kicking me in the gut.

But also? I sort of miss those days where I wasn’t desperately grabbing her by the leg before she falls of the bed or trying to stay a step ahead of her, keeping things like cords and sharp edges away from her hands and head.  

Sweet Jesus help me, I think it’s time to babyproof.

I have forgotten the first night of my child’s life.  I can recall (most) of labor like it was yesterday.  I remember the second night in the hospital when I desperately tried to soothe her and she cried and I didn’t know what to do so I cried and wondered what I thought I was doing having a baby anyway.  Every 30 minutes for four hours, I walked her around the room, I pulled her into bed with me, I tried to feed her, I changed her, I cuddled her and as soon as she fell asleep and I laid her down she would howl.  Lather, rinse, repeat. 

But that first night?  After my parents and in laws left, after Craig left.  I don’t remember that night.  Did I let the nurses take C so I could sleep?  Did I keep her with me?  I really don’t know.  Craig thinks I kept her with me.  My mom thinks she went to the nursery.  Did I send her to the nursery but feel guilty and tell Craig that she stayed with me?  No.  I’m pretty sure one of them is wrong.  I don’t remember getting up in the middle of the night with her, but I don’t remember calling the nurse to ask them to bring me my baby. 

You can say that it’s OK.  That Iwas recovering from labor and the effects of the drugs were still wearing off and I could probably be convinced.  But this is my baby and that was the first night of her life and I. Don’t. Remember. 

So that’s why this corner of the internet exist.  So that I can write down what she does and when she does it.  With more than just a two inch space to jot down the date.  I can write about the look of satisfaction and surprise when she figured out how to scootch herself across the floor and the kind of shoes she was wearing.  So that in another year when I can’t remember when she started trying to crawl, I can look at this blog, read the post and remind myself. 

This is why I blog.