It's Gaga Tuck Time!

A question to all you moms out there:  What if you found something that entertained your early-waking, extremely active toddler for hours on end?  Suddenly, you could shower, eat, talk on the phone, visit with friends, and even get some writing done?  Sounds awesome right?  But, what if that something consisted of endless Youtube videos of garbage trucks?  Orange garbage trucks.  Green garbage trucks.  Blue garbage trucks.  What would you do?

Every morning, at the crack of dawn, I hear:  "Mama!"  Delighted that my son wants my divine presence immediately, (but not so delighted that it is 4:55am), I head into his room.  He says, "Hi!"  Oh, the tone of that greeting.  I am his whole world!  Then, "Mow?  Mow Gaga Tuck?"

Oh, right.  I'm his whole world all right!  I am the person who allows him access to his very favorite thing in the whole world right now, the almighty garbage truck.

After a few weeks of watching garbage trucks on Youtube with my son, I learned that there are many types of garbage trucks.  There are Heil Automated Side Loaders (Jax's favorite), and Automated Front Loaders.  There are orange garbage trucks, green ones, blue ones, and even pink ones that are painted as such to support breast cancer.  Jax clearly had some preferences, and I began to dream of garbage trucks.  (Who the hell spends their time creating endless youtube videos of garbage trucks anyway?!  Oh yes, these folks are likely other crazed parents desperate for a shower or a warm meal).

Jax's obsession grew, and I started to HATE the garbage truck.  Watching endless videos of the elusive "ohwange gaga tuck" and the highly preferred "boo gaga tuck" started to make me insane.  So, I did a little research and discovered that Toys R Us makes a fabulous motorized garbage truck that actually dumps trash!  This might be the very thing to steer Jax away from videos and towards a more appropriate play activity!  Score!  We happened to have a gift card to the most stressful place on earth (e.g., Toys R Us), so off we went to secure a garbage truck of our very own.  Through this experience, I learned some important lessons:

1.  NEVER tell your child you are going to a store to buy a particular item or toy.  This will inevitably result in the toy being out of stock.  I had repeatedly, and excitedly, discussed that we would be buying a garbage truck.  We sang the garbage truck song (that I made up, it sucks, don't ask), the WHOLE way to Toys R Us.  When we got there, we did a lap around the store, bypassing a multitude of snotty kids, crying kids, and grim-faced parents.  We searched every shelf, and every section.  No garbage truck.

By now, Jax was saying "Gaga Tuck?"  He said this in a plaintive little voice that made my heart ache, coupled with his adorable sign for the word "where."  There is just no way to explain to a toddler that the store didn't have it.  I didn't even attempt to go there.  We just kept looking, frantically, until I started sweating and praying a gaga tuck would magically appear.  We could not leave the store without something that resembled a gaga tuck.

Thankfully, a kind store employee noticed my distress and helpfully informed us that she would order the fabulous motorized gaga tuck.  She even waived the shipping charge, perhaps detecting the hint of desperation and panic in my demeanor.  Then, we found a a small, dinky garbage truck to hold Jax over until it arrived.

I discovered that if I reacted with a ridiculous level of excitement, Jax would think that this crappy, small, non-motorized garbage truck was just as awesome as the one we were looking for.  "THERE IT IS!"  I yelled, spying a small gaga tuck that I think is from Toy Story 3.  (I now realize I could have introduced the same level of enthusiasm towards a paper bag, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble here!)  Off we went, and Jax seemed somewhat nonplussed.  A few days later, the fabulous gaga tuck arrived, and I learned something else:    

2.  NEVER introduce a new toy just before naptime, bedtime, or any other time that involves your child doing anything that does not involve the new toy!  Unfortunately, I was just opening the garbage truck toy when MH brought Jax back from the park.  They were late, and MH had failed to feed Jax any lunch (MH is on my sh*tlist for that misstep).  Jax ran in, saw the giant motorized gaga tuck, and froze.

Then, his eyes became as big  as saucers, and he whispered, "gaga tuck" with the same degree of reverence one would show the Mona Lisa.  He raised his little arms, and of course, I handed it to him immediately.  He was so excited, but quickly became frustrated with the dumpster, thanks to the lack of food and sleep.  But, try as we might, we could not get Jax to let go of the gaga tuck, even to eat.  This brings me to my third point.

3.  NEVER give your toddler a fabulous, motorized, amazing anything without first inspecting it, and Macgyvering any difficult to attach non-toddler friendly pieces.  I am certain the folks who design these toys have never seen a toddler, let alone had a child themselves.  The dumpster attachment caused 3 tantrums before I wrestled the damn thing away from Jax and taped it to the gaga tuck with an industrial-sized piece of gorilla tape.

All in all, the gaga tuck caused five meltdowns within the first 24 hours.  It ate dinner with us on Jax's high chair tray, because he refused to sit and eat without it.  But, by the next day, we had faded it to the dining room table for mealtime.  By the second night, Jax blew his gaga tuck a kiss and walked to his room all by himself.  He even said, "Nite, gaga tuck!"

The next thing on my list is a set of toy garbage cans....

Oh that Leap Day Magic...

For those of you who are wondering, yes it was a fluke.  Yes, I am still the involuntary president of The Rooster Club!  We were up 3 times at up for good at 5:00am on March 1, and last night was no different except that my husband was off and spent the night snoring like a chainsaw right in my ear all night.  So, I am back to looking like a raccoon, wondering how I will get through the day, and much like a crack addict, I am sitting here watching the coffee pot drip its addictive fuel into the pot so I can guzzle it all day.

Luckily, it is a gorgeous day here in sunny southern Cali.  Don;t get me wrong, I am grateful, SO grateful to have the life I have.  But...it would be nice to sleep in again.  I almost feel like the Leap Year fluke screwed me over by giving me the expectation that if I did everything exactly the same as I did that night, Jax would sleep again the following night.

I am burned by my expectations ALL the time, and I think we all are.  Especially when it comes to kids, marriage, careers...you name it.  We all carry unrealistic expectations about things.  In fact, expectations themselves are quite possibly unrealistic:  symptoms of mental dysfunction, monkey mind, whatever you want to call it.  Things are what they are and I can still choose to enjoy this day.  Until the coffee runs out....

Leap Year Luck?

So today something occurred that has never happened before, and I am afraid to develop any expectations about it.  Jax slept until AFTER sunrise.  I woke up at 5:45am and shot out of bed like a bat out of hell, wondering if he had somehow escaped his crib or if he was deathly ill.  Frantically, I checked the monitor for signs of life, and then I realized that nothing was wrong at all!  Jax was simply asleep-like most of us are at this ungodly hour.

It was an entirely different kind of day.  I did not have to resort to multiple cups of tea and coffee to survive until nap time.  I actually had the energy to get dressed, AND put on a necklace.  For those who know me, you know that I have not been able to put on a different pair of pants for the last 21 months, let alone accessorize!  I hummed a tune in the shower, and found myself smiling as I looked truly forward to the day ahead.

The sun was out, and it was crisp and cool as we walked the dogs.  Later that morning, we toured the airplane museum.  I even went to lunch with a friend and enjoyed myself, rather than being so tired I felt like falling over, or feeling rushed to get home because I knew I should be resting instead of socializing.  In the afternoon, we went to a park with some friends, and I rejoiced in chasing my son all over the place, rather than slogging along making half-hearted attempts to engage with him, and our playdate.

We cooked dinner in a lazy kind of way, and bedtime became a "whenever" rather than a "seven-o'clock sharp,"  because I was not so wrecked I could hardly wait for Jax to go down so I could pass out.  Nope.  This evening, we played puzzles, read books, and watched some videos before bed, and then a well-rested Jax went down so easily I almost wondered whose life I had accidentally switched with!  

In short, it was a glorious, wonderful day.  But one thought kept marring my exuberance.  I mean, it is February 29th.  Leap Day.  My poor, hopeful brain went into overdrive trying to determine what, if anything, had contributed to this amazing stretch of sleep that allowed us to have a schedule that permits joyful interaction with others.  But alas, I could come up with nothing.  Everything we did yesterday was exactly the same as we had done countless times before.  Yet, for some reason, last night, Jax slept.

The only difference between today and other days is that today is a special, strange day, when time and space do not coincide.  Yes, a mystical, magical day when fairies and leprechauns scamper about, and a pixie sprinkles dust on my son.  Or something.  I am grateful, so grateful for feeling like a halfway-normal person today!  But I can't help but fear that this amazing experience will not happen again for another four years!  Because, trust me, I have often had the expectation that "this was it!"  Jax will sleep tonight!  He has had no nap, eaten tons of food, pooped, run around maniacally all day, and went to bed at 10pm....wait, nope he's up again.  And again.  And again...

So you see, I have been burned by my expectations so many times, and yet I can't help having them.  Expectations SUCK.  They are the bane of my existence.  This is why I must resort to a nice delicious glass of malbec to rid myself of these insane, mentally dysfunctional thoughts.  Well, cest la vie, right?  What does that even mean?  I suppose that I can look forward to sleeping in again in four years!  And by sleeping in, I mean getting up after the sunrise.  You know, in a strange way, I kind of missed our Sunrise Walk.  An After-Sunrise Walk just isn't the same.

Hours of sleep logged this week:  18!

Sicky Sick Sick...Again

So everyone is sick again.  I am sick, Jax is sick, and Mighty Hubby is also sick.  As anyone with two children knows (and yes, I am counting my husband as the second child in our house!), when your kids are sick, mommy's needs come dead last.  Or not at all.

Yesterday, Jax fell asleep around 8:30am, after being up since 4.  I tried to go with the flow, but instead of resting, I had to prepare for our tax appointment.  I drank three cups of uber-strong coffee, and in a cracked out haze, I managed to get  almost everything done.  Just as I sat down to rest, Jax was up and raring to go. He slept almost 3 hours, which is a nice long nap for him.  But, alas, since he went down so early, it was now only about noon.  I put on my happy face and decided to push on through the day, and put him to bed early, take Nyquil, and pass out myself.  I can do this!  I only have to make it to 7:00pm...

Unfortunately, as we headed home around 4pm, Jax knocked out in the car.  I tried to quell the rising tide of anxiety that this triggered.  Now what?!  If he naps now, even for 15 minutes, he WILL NOT go down for at least 4 hours.  I know this for certain, as I have tried literally everything other than drugging the kid to get him back down before his "window".

I frantically calculated some times as I drove.  Luckily, my fried, fevered brain had been sharpened by the hours I spent that morning adding up receipts.  My pathetic thought spirals went something like this:

"It's ok.  If he naps in the car and wakes when we get home, he will still be back in bed by 8:15!  Thats not too bad!  I can make it another few hours...I can do it!"

Then, we got home and the kid was so wrecked he didn't even wake up as I carried him up the stairs while two dogs barked and a fire truck went by.

"It's ok.  Even if he naps until 5:30pm, I can still get him back down by 9:30pm!  That's not too bad.  I can make it another few hours...I can do it!"

Then we get up the stairs to find Mighty hubby passed out on the couch.

"Ugh..."  he groans.  "I am SO sick..."

MH has been in bed ALL DAY.  And ALL NIGHT the night before.  Tonight, he is taking the night off.  Ok, in his defense he really does seem sick.  But, so am I.  And I have had the baby all day.  I beg shamelessly for help, and MH agrees that he will help once Jax wakes up from this weird late afternoon nap.

I rush around the house, which is a disaster, straightening and preparing dinner.  Jax should be up any moment...right?

Wrong.  Jax takes a marathon nap and doesn't wake up until 6pm.  I didn't have the heart to wake him, because he too, is sick.  And unlike his parents who can resort to wonderful things like Nyquil and Sudafed, there is no Nyquil for Infants.

"It's ok.  MH is going to help.....wait, where is MH???"

Where is he?  He is asleep.  Sound asleep in the guest bedroom.  Arrgh.  I poke  my head in there, and he is an incoherent mess.  Lucky for him, I decide to invoke my Inner Supermom power and handle everything myself.  And do it well, dammit!  

A rush of adrenaline surges through my veins and I get the baby fed, bathed, and changed.  I find myself wondering what the Dr. is going to tell me about my cortisol levels next month.  It's amazing I have any adrenaline left to resort to, but I am grateful for the rush of energy.

We play trucks, puzzles, and read some books.  Around 9pm, my voice starts to go.  We watch some alphabet videos on youtube.  I am so done.  I apologize to Jax and figure he is safer in the crib rather than running around the house while I am passed out.  I am estimating I have about 15 minutes until I drop from sheer exhaustion.  I get Jax tucked in bed, and thankfully he does not protest.

I stumble around rounding up the dogs and getting ready to begin a Nyquil-induced stretch of sleep.  First, Inner Supermom insists that I bring MH some water.  Feeling myself practically beaming with my newfound inner strength and ability to take care of MH's thirst before I have had the chance to sit down today, I turn to leave the room.

MH thanks me profusely, and then asks what's for dinner.  Dinner?  Ha!  Doesn't he know that I subsist almost completely on the baby's leftover bits?  If I ever chance to eat dinner, it is at the expense of some much-needed sleep, a shower, or a chance to use the toilet without an audience!  Grr.

I manage to whip up some leftovers into something healthy and make a plate for MH.  After all, he will need his strength if he is going to help out tonight whilst I go to bed.  My throat is starting to feel like sandpaper, my head aches, and I feel like I have a ton of bricks on my chest.  I feel the delirium settling in.  Perhaps that is why I actually believe I will be going to bed in the near future.

I blink and the food has disappeared.  MH has taken a massive dose of Nyquil, and he is GONE, leaving a trail of dirty dishes and used tissues in his wake.  Back to never never land in the span of about 3 minutes.  Dismayed, I realize I am starving.  I eat some crackers, and then Jax starts crying.  My mind whirls.  Fever?  Earache?  I picture myself alone and disoriented in the emergency room with a screaming toddler.  Not happening.  I give the baby some Tylenol and spend the next hour rocking and shushing him.  Finally, finally, he goes down.

I get the house locked up, and oops, I forgot to give the dog her meds.  I force some pills down the throat of a very pissed off chihuahua.  A few moments later, my whole body vibrates as I lie down in bed, the warm buzz of cherry-flavored Nyquil settling into my tummy.  It's nearly 11pm.  By all rights this kid should sleep until at least 6:00am right?  I am sick, and desperately need rest.  My fried brain does some quick calculations.  If I manage to pass out by 11:30, and he sleeps until 5:30 or 6:00, that would allow me to sleep for 6 HOURS or more!  I am elated as I drift into a Nyquil-induced haze.  

At this point, I wonder why I am surprised at the loud screaming that yanks me from my warm bed into pitch black darkness and a perfect quiet.  A few hours later, Jax and I are in my bed.  I am lying there willing my cold to go away.  He is poking me and saying "Hi, Mama!"

The sunrise looks pretty today, I think ruefully. As does Anthony Wiggle...

Hours of sleep logged this week:  24.

A Typical Day in our Not So Typical Life...

It’s 4:00am…do you know where your toddler is?  I am pretty sure that the entire neighborhood knows where mine is.  I mean, what gives?!  Ok, I recall the 13 months I spent getting up every 90 minutes, dealing with a colicky, refluxy little boy who was only comfortable sitting up over my shoulder.  Yes, I am grateful that Jax now sleeps an average of 9 hours straight.  But now it has been 19 months, and I am pretty sure that what I am dealing with is a conditioned waking problem. 

Yes, as a trained behaviorist, I know what would “extinguish” this behavior.  The problem is, Jackson literally won’t go back to sleep for a minimum of 4 hours, usually 5, once he has awakened like this.  And, by “like this,” I am referring to the frantic hysterics that have been occurring in our house every day before 5:00am for the past month.   As I have mentioned before, my hubby works nights and gets home at 3:00am.  Allowing Jackson to scream hysterically for several hours does not allow anyone to get any more sleep around here. 

So once again, I drag myself to his room.  I signal him to “calm down” before I open the door.  The screams die down and he waits.  I stand there for a few minutes before I go in, milk sippy in hand.  I slowly open the door to see Jax’s little cherub face peeking at me, smiling.  But Hark!  Is that urine I smell?  Drat.  I check Jackson’s diaper, but thankfully the diaper has held.  But now, my little dynamo is wide awake, saying hi to me, and signing “milk”. 

I offer the sippy, and it is rejected.  “Let’s go turn on Sesame Street,” a little voice whispers.  I am not sure who this voice belongs too, I started hallucinating ages ago, so I truly have no idea who speaks to me during the dark disquiet of our Rooster Club mornings. 

Another voice, more forcefully proclaims, “No!  We can’t teach the baby that whenever he wakes up, he gets to watch tv!  We will sit in this dark room, and try to get him to sleep, no matter how long it takes!”  Ugh, not that voice again. 

So, we sit in the rocking chair in the dark for 45 minutes.  We rock, we shush.  Jax yawns.  He rubs his eyes.  His eyes close, and for one blissful moment,  I think I have actually succeeded!  I picture myself lying back in bed…no such luck.  Jax starts poking me.  The dog next door barks, and it’s all over. 

The voice insists.  “Try putting him in bed with you…”  This has never ever worked.  I had planned on co-sleeping, but I hadn’t planned on a tiny preemie who resisted lying down.  But I am so so tired today.  We creep into my bed and the minute we lie down, Jax starts protesting.  I close my eyes, wondering how my husband is sleeping through all the noise.  (He was off last night, but clearly 13 hour of sleep is not enough for him). 

Annoyed, I tell Jax that it is still sleepy time.  I deposit him back in his crib with his milk, and stumble back to my room.  He stands there in startled dismay for approximately 10 seconds.  And then the screams begin. 

Amazingly, my husband wakes up.  He takes Jax for 10 whole minutes before I get up to point out that the baby is fussy because he wants to eat.  We make breakfast.  I eat, something that does not occur most mornings until the baby goes down for a nap.  The dog starts complaining.  He needs to poop.  Hell, so do I but I can only go at designated Jackson-free times!  It turns out that most of us need to poop, and some of us wear diapers.  (Mental image of myself wearing a diaper comes to mind.  I am actually liking the idea.  Then, when I finally get to rest, I can pee without getting up.). 

From his reclined position on the couch, my husband starts commenting loudly, “uh oh!  Someone pooped and it wasn’t me!  Gross!  It stinks in here!  If I try to change that, I’ll throw up!” 

I do not respond.  Seriously?!  A little poop brings the longshoreman low?  Whatever.  After three or four repetitions of these comments, I grab Jax, change him, and get him dressed.  (Really?  It wasn’t even a loose poop!  In fact, Jax ate like 6 tangerines yesterday.  It is probably mother’s love, but I think his poop smells like orange blossoms).  We head out to walk the dogs, while Mighty Hubby, who lasted about 40 minutes, heads back to bed citing that he “must have a fever or something”. 

Well, it’s 7:45am now.  We have walked the dogs.  I have now collected and disposed of the crap of two dogs, and my son.  We have eaten, emptied the dishawasher, and started a load of laundry.  I have made it as long as I can.  Yes, I am a drug addict and my drug of choice in the morning is caffeine.  I am now going to spike my blood sugar and adrenaline with some nice hot coffee.  Sweet dreams, dear hubby, sweet dreams…(Insert here:  Mental image of a pillow accidentally finding its way over his nose and mouth…. ).  

Over the Edge

1/13/12

It’s Friday the 13^th.  A regular day for most of us.  But for me, today marks a milestone that lots of people surely thought I had already surpassed.  You see, today is the day that pushed me over the edge.  I am certifiable now, people, believe me.  Let’s recap. 

4:40am on the dot:  Jackson wakes up from a deep sleep and goes from his little boy dreams to full blown hysterical screaming.  My husband, who has just come home from his night job, tries valiantly to console him.  The earth-shattering shrieks get louder and louder.  I am certain someone in the neighborhood is calling the cops.   

Where am I?  Oh, I am stumbling around in the bathroom valiantly trying to fill up a test tube with my own spit.  (This is due to a hormone test I am taking, and because it cost $250 big ones out of my pocket, I ain’t messing it up!).  I am working spit into my cheek and spitting repeatedly, wondering why it is taking so long for me to produce enough saliva to fill up a test tube, when my husband bursts in. 

5:00am:  “Sorry babe, I tried,”my husband says, shaking his head.  He then proceeds to go back to sleep immediately.  His ability to fall asleep within 3 seconds of his head hitting the pillow amid loud anguished screams makes me want to smother him...but I digress.  I approach the baby’s door, from which tortured wails are coming.  I know there is no way in hell I will be able to get this kid back to sleep, but I’ll be damned if I am up and making breakfast before the rooster crows.  Again. 

5:15am:  I am making breakfast for Jackson before the rooster crows.  Again.  True to form, he is all adorable smiles and giggles as I manage to get him into his high chair and make him French toast and banana.  He even says “Nana!”  when he sees the banana, which makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.  Then, Jackson makes a high-pitched whine, and points to the tea pot. 

The tea pot.  My savior.  It brews delicious and highly caffeinated black tea, which I lace liberally with honey.  It wakes me up.  It starts my engine.  But today I can’t have it.  In fact, I can’t have any caffeine, and I had to avoid it starting yesterday, because it will throw off the hormone test.  Other things on the list of banned items:  chapstick (of course my lips feel like they are cracked and bleeding right now) and dirty bedsheets (I used the last of my strength to change the sheets last night), and alcohol.  Knowing that I can’t have my glass of wine at the end of what is already turning out to be a challenging day makes me wring my hands in despair. 

But wait, it’s ok!  I can trick myself and my caffeine headache by making some nice herbal tea.  Everyone likes herbal tea.  I have tons of it left over from my pregnancy because I couldn’t seem to find one I liked.  Nothing has changed.  I still hate it all.  As Jackson proceeds to swipe all of his breakfast onto the floor and then demand milk from a bottle, I struggle to choke down my non-caffeinated beverage. 

6:45am:  How has the time passed?  With Sesame Street of course!  Yes, I am supermom, who resorts to tv because she is too tired to move.  So, I drag myself up, migraine and all, and proceed to get the dogs ready for their morning walk.  My friend told me morning exercise will make me feel better.  Damn them for being someone I really admire, so here we go. 

7:00-7:30:  I somehow get a reluctant chihuahua, a rambunctious weiner dog, and my toddler down the stairs, and we walk the dogs.  Amazingly, I start to feel a little better!  I pick up three loads of dog poop, and feel my chest swell with pride for being a responsible dog owner.  I actually enjoy the sunrise and feel gratitude for living in such a beautiful place.  Then, I manage to get all of us up three flights of stairs without killing any of us.  I feel a major sense of self-efficacy. 

7:45am:  I determine that Jax might actually hang out in the living room for 5 minutes so I can take a shower alone.  Commence shower.  Enjoy every stinking minute of it!  I run out, buck naked, because it is suspiciously quiet in the living room.  Jax must be up to no good!  I check, but nope.  He is right there, watching the rest of Sesame Street.  I take my time (e.g, 2 minutes) to get dressed and brush my hair. 

7:50am:  Feeling somewhat relaxed despite my pounding head, and triumphant over my solo shower, I meander into the living room and stop cold.  What is that horrible stench?!  What are those brown smears all over my leather ottoman?  Ohmygod.  It appears the dog has made a nono.  All over the fluffy area rug.  And the baby has stepped in it.  And it has been smashed into my rug.  And somehow, it has also been smeared on the ottoman. 

7:51am:  I erupt into a barrage of swearing.  I hate these dogs!  I hate everything!  My head hurts!  I want coffeeeeeeeeee!  Arrgh!  The things that come out of my mouth are horrible, violent, and nasty enough to make a longshoreman blush.  (My husband is a longshoreman.  At the very least I would expect that my tirade would wake him up so that he can help me out...but I ain't living on Fantasy Island here, am I?).  

7:52am:  Fueled by a massive dose of adrenaline (and wondering how this stress-capade is going to impact my cortisol levels), I manage to secure the baby in his high chair, remove his shoes, scrape the poop out of all the little grooves and ridges (damn stride rites), sterilize the shoes with Lysol, and roll up a 10 x 10 area rug and drag it out to the balcony, swearing like a drunken sailor all the while. 

8:00am:  I feel remorseful.  I have just completely imploded in front of my son, who luckily does not seem to notice that mommy has just lost it.  In fact, he looks sleepy.  Nooo!  He can’t fall asleep now!  We have that uber-expensive Gymboree class to get to!  We absolutely cannot miss yet another class because he fell asleep.  He wants to wake up at 4:00am, fine!  But we are NOT missing another class or event! 

8:45am:  I have now managed to eat, get us both ready to go, and we are in the car blasting music and talking talking talking.  Anything to keep him up until we get to class.  He babbles happily until we are approximately two blocks away.   Then, he passes out.   

9:30am:  I park the car in front of Gymboree feeling like the undead.  As I try to stop thinking about coffee, tea, and coca cola, I witness all of the other perky-looking moms and their happy, well-rested kids parading into the facility.  I gently remove Jax from the car and try to rouse him.  No response.  He is out like a light.  I am determined.  We enter the facility and everyone who works there expresses amazement.  No one has ever seen Jackson asleep.  Or even standing still for that matter.  I rub his cheek and muss his hair a little so wake him up.  Once he hears the music and sees his little friends, he will be just fine.  

9:31am:  Loud screaming and headbutting ensues, much to the shock of the other parents in the group.  Their children have obviously just woken up.  They have no idea about the hell I have endured before 9:00am.  Thankfully, Jax likes music class more than he likes to protest.  He engages and seems to have fun.  


11:00am:  We arrive back home.  Jax proceeds to run around the house screaming for an hour in an overtired, overstimulated frenzy.  The noise finally wakes up my husband.  It's a miracle!  


I attempt to make Jax lunch.  My husband asks what happened to the living room.  I give him a look that should, by all rights, cause him to go up in flames.  The baby throws most of his food on the floor.  I clean it up mechanically, and my husband decides he is still quite tired, and heads back to bed.  Mentally, I am tarring and feathering him, but he brings home the bacon, so I can't complain.

1:00pm:  Jax finally goes down for a nap and I collapse on the couch, unable to move, eat, or muster the energy to take a pee.  A few hours pass.  You might be wondering where my husband is at this point, (and so am I).  He’s sleeping so soundly I can hear him snoring out here in the living room.  Yes, he works nights, but last night he was off at midnight.  He’s now been in bed for 13 hours.  (Mental image of tarring and feathering morphs into image of burning at the stake).  

3:00pm:  Jax is up, and we proceed with the rest of our day.  Snack time, clean up, spit in a test tube for 30 minutes.  Collecting one’s saliva sucks.  I feel totally unglued.   I need caffeine, or at least some wine!  Instead, I force us to the park, hoping to tire out the baby.  It doesn’t work, but we do have fun.  

5:30pm:  I am dragging.  I fix dinner:  chicken nuggets, green peas, bread and butter.  With one fell swoop, it all lands on the disgusting floor, while the baby calls, “Oscar!  Oscar!”  Our dog runs over happily, eats the nuggets, steps on the peas, and nearly trips me hovering around the high chair. 

6:00pm:  Bathtime.  Jax decides it is fun to repeatedly throw the sponge at me, soaking both me, and the bathroom.  I bang my head on the heavy glass door peeling him off the floor of the shower, since he has now decided that lying there and screaming while squirming like a slippery eel is more fun than simply getting out of the shower by himself. 

7:00pm:  I have manhandled the baby into his pajamas.  He starts frantically signing “milk”.  I offer a sippy cup.  He throws it, and give me "the look."  I know that look.  He is gearing up to flip out big time.  At this point, I concede defeat.  He has won...again.  I trudge to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and disoriented.  I make a bottle and hand it over to my tiny tyrant.  (Did I mention I’m a former early childhood specialist with 15 years of behavioral training?). 

8:00pm:  We have watched an hour of Sesame Street and The Wiggles (who I am now starting to find physically attractive...especially Anthony Wiggle.  Oh Yeah. Anthony Wiggle can make me a fruit salad any time).  Jax yawns.  Thank God!  We read Good Night Moon, and I place him in bed with some books.  Thankfully, 8 months of sleep training has at least afforded me an awesome bedtime routine.  Jax quietly looks at some books and drops off to sleep.

9:00pm:  I have spent the last 30 minutes collecting my spit in a test tube.  I stumble around, like a demented ballerina, and then I find myself in heaven…my bed.  I close my eyes until…

4:00am on the dot: Jackson wakes up from a deep sleep and goes from his little boy dreams to full blown hysterical screaming….Oh well.  At least today I can have coffee!