So we're back into a routine here and that's what I like. That's what the kids like. My husband has been home all week and finishing some projects around the house. We're working on getting the baby to sleep more soundly. One night this week, as I lay fast asleep, Owen was climbing all over Jim in our bed. Clearly, co-sleeping has become too dangerous.
And bath time has become rather treacherous lately, too. I was arranging Owen's towel while Jim was corralling Fiona and exhorting Owen to sit down. Before I could get to him, he hurled himself from the tub like Shamu and landed on the rug. Jim commented later that it was a good thing no one had pooped on the rug that particular day or it would not have been there to break his fall.
And I am still utterly exhausted. The little bit of extra sleep I've gotten since Jim has been home and Owen has been sleeping slightly better only reminds my body of how tired I really am. Although, Owen did sleep seven whole hours last night and they were the right ones: Midnight to 7 a.m. Progress!!!
So here is a smattering of what's been overheard around here these past few weeks:
It's not that he looks like Sloth [from The Goonies]. It's that Sloth looks like a baby, Jim says of Owen. Oh, well then, go right ahead and continue to call our son Sloth.
Are you sure you'll be okay alone with all of them? I ask my best friend before my husband and I leave for a dinner out.
You do this every day, she says.
Yeah, but they locked me in a bedroom this week.
I would advise anyone who takes care of my children from here on out to always carry a cell phone and thin, rigid object with which to pop door locks.
What could possibly be wrong? You're eating a donut. Jim says to a whiny Fiona. Oh, you'll see, dear, you'll see. Have I mentioned she goes nuts on sugar?
Danny, you can't wear footed pajamas all afternoon.
But I have to. They're a present from Nana, he says with a quivering lip. How can I say no to that?
Danny needs a picture of a nocturnal animal for a preschool project next week, Jim informs me.
I pointed to Owen. The kid actually laughed. Babies have a sick sense of humor.
Do you need a hug, Danny? I ask as he's in post-nap hysterics because, near as I can figure, he's upset about wearing clothes at naptime.
NO, he screams. Well, file that parenting magazine gem under "FAIL."
Because I said so, I say, exasperated after running out of answers.
Ohhh, don't say so, he cries.
Cup? Fiona asks as she goes for the cup drawer.
No, I say loudly, just use the cup on the floor. There's a good chance it's actually clean. By 9 a.m. on most days, my kids have managed to scatter just about every cup in the drawer. We have at least 15 in there.
Utto, we lost two of them, Jim proclaims as he looks in the rear view mirror on our way home from the museum and lunch. Owen and Fiona had fallen asleep. Van naps don't count.
You're not cleaning up. You're just making a mess somewhere else, I told. Danny was helping to clean up by putting blankets and toys on a chair. I have a feeling this will be the kid who "cleans" his room by putting everything under the bed.
You don't like [the bacon]? I ask as I notice Danny has chewed and spit out a few bites.
It's too good, he replies. Yes, that is so true, dear.