Bad Night

The night before last was rough. Although Olivia starts each night in her own bed, she inevitably ends up making her way to my bed anytime between midnight and 2am. This is not usually a big deal. When she arrives at my bedside, I pulled her into bed, kiss her and whisper that it’s still sleepy time and we both go back to sleep. We’ve even managed to figure out how to comfortably share the space.

Except the night before last, O seemed to have forgotten how to share space nicely. She tossed and turned and kicked and wiggled and dug her toes into my thighs and basically drove me nuts.

By the time the blankets were in a big tangle and pulled out from beneath the mattress, I’d had enough. I said, loudly for a middle of the night lecture, “Knock it off, Olivia. Stop moving around, you’re driving me crazy.”

Not my proudest moment. But damn it, I was tired. I just wanted to sleep in peace rather than with a thrashing six year old.

She settled a little and I managed to get another hour or so of fitful sleep.

Which means that last night I was tired before we even sat down to read and scratch back/legs/arms/hands/arm pits, you name it, Olivia wants it scratched.

I was tired and irritable. It was not a nice, gentle evening. At one time, I wished desperately that I’d set up a bedtime long ago that involved me taking the girls to their room, tucking them in, kissing them goodnight and leaving the room.

I didn’t do that, though. And more often than not, I love the closeness of the three of us sitting on the couch, me rubbing/scratching Olivia’s back and Alyssa sharing her day, her thoughts, her ideas.

But there are nights like last night when I’m so tired. I’m tired of being touched, of being instructed on where to scratch, how hard to scratch, of being given advice on how to parent Olivia from Alyssa. I’m just tired.

I was less patient with both girls than usual. I apologized over and over again only to be sighing and rolling my eyes thirty seconds after the last apology. It was ugly. I tried to assure them that I wasn’t angry with either of them, that I was just so tired.

Olivia asked me, “Are you being mean because you’re tired?”

Yes. Yes, I was so tired I was being mean. And I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t stop the bad mood from leaking from my every pore, from every sound I made, from every expression that crossed my face. I had to pee and yet Olivia kept turning to give me more places on her body to scratch. I was hot with her laying across my lap.

The complaints were numerous and I should have taken myself out of the situation. I should have walked away for a few minutes but I desperately wanted her to go to sleep. And I knew that any interruption in the scratching process would just prolong her awake time. I wanted her to sleep so I could rest too.

It’s all so stupid and I know it. I know that I need to change up our routine because no one gets any comfort at all from nights like last night. No one enjoyed our evening because Mom was being mean.

I hope to start making small changes that will eventually lead to everyone getting more, better sleep. I hope.

Pajama Summer

Alyssa loves her jammies. She has always loved the comfort of pajamas, the ease of movement provided by a lovely pair of pajamas.

This summer, she’s spent way more time in her jammies than she has in regular clothes.

She had to get dressed on Saturday and Sunday this past weekend because we actually left the house both of those days. She wasn’t thrilled with the necessity of putting on clothing that is acceptable in public but she did it without much fuss.

But Sunday evening, as she put on a clean pair of pajamas she sighed and said, “I’m not taking these off until next Saturday.”

I laughed. Of course she’ll take them off, even if they’re just replaced by a new pair of pajamas but I understood what she meant.

The girls spend Mondays and Tuesdays each week at home with Tom and then go to my mom’s on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. They both wear their pajamas to my mom’s each morning and change (or not, as is usually the case) into clothes I take over for them.

Olivia has discovered the joy of wearing just pajama pants. She’s decided that even pajama shirts are too much to ask a child whose summer vacation is rapidly dwindling.

I’m glad they both get to run around all day in their pajamas (or even just half their jams.) It’s the fun of being young, being able to declare, “We’re having a pajama summer.” These awesome, free summers won’t last forever and I want them to make the most of them while they’re able.

Her Laugh

It really is the best medicine. Laughing eases tension, it lowers the blood pressure. It lightens the mood.

Olivia laughs a lot.

Alyssa told me the other day, “Livie has the best laugh of anyone else in this house.”

I agree. When Olivia laughs none of us can keep from smiling. We usually end up laughing right along with her, even if we don’t know what was so funny in the first place.

She finds the whole world endlessly amusing. This amazes me. This child, the one who, as an infant, cried for six months unless she was eating or sleeping, laughs at everything now. This is the child who was probably the cleanest baby in the entire state of Indiana during her first few months because baths were the only thing that soothed her. There is no exaggeration when I say that I probably gave her two, sometimes threes baths a day, pumping beside the bathtub while she wallowed in warm water, her tummy soothes for just a few minutes of peace for all of us.

And now? She makes us laugh with her own laughter. She tells stories about her imaginary friend, Mush Mush, a friend who was eleven yesterday and thirteen this morning and had her own car this afternoon.

She loves movies and music, she dances and sings and colors and imagines whole new worlds. She copies her sister to the point of irritation and then laughs hysterically when her sister loses her mind.

This girl…she makes our lives so complete, this baby I worried over so. Her laughter fills our house, it compels us to join her in joy. Joy just to be alive.

A Good Mom

I mentioned that we took one of Alyssa’s friends with us to Cedar Point this year. I really like this friend. She’s a lot like Alyssa. She talks when she has something to say but she’s not a know-it-all or an attention hog like I feared a lot of ten year olds can be.

She was a great addition to our little travelling group.

Her mom, though, is even more awesome. This mom could give tips on how to be a good mom and a good fellow mom when it comes to sending your kid on a trip with other people who are not family.

That last sentence is rough. Yikes. But let me explain.

When T and her mom got to our house on Monday night, T had her stuff in her duffel bag, as one would expect. Her mom handed me two smaller bags. In these bags were drinks and snacks that T’s mom knew T liked.

How cool is that? I wonder if I’d have thought to do that if Alyssa were going somewhere overnight with T and her mom. I can’t be sure I would. I would like to think I would from this point forward, though.

I had already bought a lot of snacks and drinks and I was hoping that I’d found something, anything that T would like. I love that T’s mom took it upon herself to make sure that daughter has something she liked on the trip.

Because we’d invited T to join us, I paid for her ticket and told her mom to just send some money with T for souvenirs. After I’d put T’s drinks in the refrigerator, her mom handed me some cash. I tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary but she said she really wanted to contributed and she didn’t trust her ten year old to hold the cash herself. She said that whatever T didn’t spend on souvenirs could go toward the meals I’d be providing for her in the next two and a half days.

I didn’t expect money. I didn’t want her to have to contribute at all but I could tell it was more important to her that she give us something that I took it. Then, when it came time for the girls to pick out souvenirs (stuffed dogs for A and T and a bracelet for O.) I felt pretty good about letting them all pick out exactly what they wanted instead of T having to count her money and figure out if she could afford it. It was fun for us all to just browse without worrying about cash flow.

I’m sure it goes without saying (but I’m saying it anyway, huh?) but I really like T and I like her mom. I feel like Alyssa got really lucky (smart?) when she and T became friends. I feel like I got REALLY lucky that the girls Alyssa likes so much has a mom that I feel like I’ve connected with, even just enough to exchange these girls who I hope are friends for years to come.

I hope to learn even more from T’s mom in how to be a good mom friend as both A and O continue to make friends and bring new people into our lives.

What Matters

It’s the little things, really. Those small gestures that whisper, “I love you.” They matter so much more than grand gestures that scream it.

He puts the dishes away each morning before I get up and leaves out the containers I’ll use for my lunch so I don’t have to get them myself.

He changes the oil in my car without my having to ask him to do so.

He comes up every Sunday morning and gets Olivia out of our bed, leaving me with two whole hours in which to sleep without sharing the bed with anyone. This is the best two hours of sleep I get each week.

He smiled indulgently whenever I yell grammar corrections at the television and when I suggest we watch yet another science fiction movie or television show.

He lets me be me without ever feeling like I’m less than everything he ever wanted in a partner, a mother to his daughters.

These things, the little things, matter. They are the ones that describe a lasting, enduring love, the kind of love that will take you from those lustful glances over the table at your first date to the gentle hand-holding as your daughter’s wedding.

Is it always sunshine and roses? No. Of course not. Everyday life doesn’t lend itself to constant joyous contentment. There must be rain in order to enjoy the rainbow. But knowing that things have been tough and yes, can even get tough again makes me appreciate these times of contentment, of peace, of gentle loving that much more.

Selfishness and Guilt

I was talking to my beautiful bestie this morning and the subject of selfishness and guilt came up.

We agreed that it seems men tend to be innately selfish and feel no guilt over the selfishness whatsoever. Okay, to be fair, the men WE know have moments of selfishness and feel no guilt over it. I am not saying either her husband or my own is a selfish pig and that they are never unselfish but…bear with me, okay?

What really came of our conversation was the idea that if we, either Julie or I, ever take a moment or even a weekend and do something that feels even a little selfish or self-indulgent, we are drown in guilt over this.

An example I gave was the fact that every single evening, I sit on our couch with my girls and they both try to share the center couch cushion with me for several hours. By the time a couple of hours has passed, I am touched out. I’m ready for some space. And so I ask for it and am immediately wrapped in guilt over asking my children to get off me already.

See, I know how lucky I am that they both still want to be near me to the point of appearing to want to crawl back inside my body. I know that as the mother of ten year old, my days of snuggles and long-limbed draping are numbered.

I know all these things and yet after several hours of togetherness, I long for three inches to move my elbows without jabbing someone in the ribs.

My husband, on the other hand, never apologizes for telling one of them to stop touching him. I don’t think it occurs to him to apologize. He needs his space, he asks for it and that’s all okay.

I know it is okay too. I do. I know it is okay for me to ask for space too. But my mommy-guilt tells me that it’s not. I need to learn to silence that sucker because it’s wrong.

I hope in asking for space I’m showing my girls that it’s okay for them to someday put their needs above the wants of others. I will always put their needs first. They know this. But I want them to realize that while yes, I’m a mother, I’m also a person with needs of my own and I’m allowed to put them first every so often.

I want them to know this so that someday, if/when they’re mothers, they aren’t consumed by the guilt that often keeps me awake at night.

But What Did You Do On the Oher Four Days You Didn't Work?

Ahh yes. I was out of work for four days, which equals six days of vacation if you count the two weekend days that followed Tuesday through Friday.

Thursday, well, I napped because, duh, I was tired. We got home at 9pm the night before and the girls were wired. We managed to get the dirty laundry where it belonged.

But before my nap, we had to hit the grocery store and Menards for some paint. See, I wanted to get the closets in the toy room painted before I moved all the toys back in there.

And…I did it. It took me a couple of hours on Friday and another couple on Sunday but those closets are navied and pinked. They’re awesome. I love them. Tom, on the other hand, hates them. But I knew he would and that’s why I didn’t ask his opinion when I was picking out paint. Yes, I told him that too. He would have gone with bright white. Boring!

On Saturday, though, we had company. Or, as Olivia called her, “Our Guest” visited. It was actually Tom’s oldest daughter. She was in the area and so came over for a few hours. The girls loved having her there.

She and Tom and Lyssie played basketball for over an hour. Olivia showed off her somersaulting skills. We ended up at the pool where we all swam and cooled off.

Here is a picture of Olivia at the end of the day, after “Our Guest” had left. Olivia wanted to dress like her big sister, with a dress over a swim suit. I am quite fond of this picture, actually.