On Bedtime

A year or 2 ago the boys stopped sleeping.

Maybe it was a move (or 2 or 3) or the summertime sun refusing to sleep and making them refuse too. Maybe it was because I decided that more than they needed structure they needed to know that I love them and I stopped saying things like "get your butt in your bed and DON'T come out again! ever!" and like and idiot said things like "you come and talk to me anytime you need anything and I will always be happy to answer your questions. Or maybe it's because they're little boys and (according to them) sleeping is the boringest ever in the universe and their beds only have 10 million blankets when they clearly need 10 million and 2 blankets. And a lovey bear. Each.

So since we finally moved into a house a started feeling stable and I was ready to stop being in the middle of a big fat breakdown, bedtime was the first thing we tackled.

It's better now, only taking 30-45 minutes and typically ending before 8:30.

But still, when John fell off the top bunk for the 2nd time today, getting him out of bed for the 12th time tonight, I had had it. And (after appropriately comforting him) I told him so. I used all of my most reasonable lines.

If you stay in your bed, you won't fall trying to get out of it.
If you were asleep already you wouldn't try to get out of bed.
If you stay up all night counting your money, you'll be too tired when it's time to wake up for church.
If you cleared your dishes from the dinner table you would have already had your stories instead of going straight to bed. 
If you get out of your bed again your mother will lose her mind and you'll have to eat nuggets and spaghettios every day forever.  (which turned out not be a threat at all.)

After my intense tirade they finally went to sleep.

Sometimes I'm embarrassed to admit that shame and yelling seem to be effective parenting techniques.

Also, while I hate the fight to make them sleep, I love love love that they want to stay up all night doing stuff together. Counting all their money, reading all their books, making forts, and pirate ships, and changing their jammies over and over. I really love that they're friends.

Until one of them pushes the other off the top bunk. Then I hate they're enemies.

Being A Mom

I've been struggling with balancing work and home life. I'm torn between wanting to quit to stay home with my babes, and really loving my job and never wanting to give it up.

There are plenty of days that I hate my job, and I hate going to work, and I just want to stay home and read stories with my kids, and sit with them to build marble runs, and eat cereal out of the box for lunch. But that's what weekends are for, right?

There are also plenty of days that I wipe my brow dramatically as I drive off to talk to grown ups, thanking my lucky stars that I don't have to sit and build marble runs, or read the Cat In The Hat one more time, and I can eat a whole meal (a real one even!) all by myself without sharing.

So you see, I'm torn. Just like every other mom I know. 

Of course none of that has anything to do with our finances which mostly require my employment. But I sometimes wonder, if I wasn't working, would we be able to adjust to life without my income? Are we within the adjustable range? Or is it really really necessary for me to work? As stupid as it sounds, this is the least of my worries. I'm far more concerned about whether or not my kids are happy (they are) and I am happy (often) and Josh is happy (usually).

For now I am happy to keep working. Though I have bad days during which I text Josh saying "tell me I love me job? Because I can't remember right now." And he does.

Being happy with working also means making extra effort to thoroughly enjoy the time I am not working.

On Wednesday afternoons I leave work a couple of hours early, and I come home determined to be a fun mom. The kind on pinterest. The kind my boys get to boss around. The kind I wish I could be all the time, but simply lack the patience to be.

So this Wednesday, when I walked in the door and the babies came running for me (there's nothing quite like someone being SO happy to see you, is there?) they immediately told me they wanted to go outside. So I dropped my bag on the kitchen table and we got on our snow clothes. All of us. But especially Little John. Who couldn't put his arms down if he tried.

I thought we'd just play in the backyard for while, which we did. Even built a snowman (while singing about building a snowman - thank you Frozen) and "threw a snowball fight" (thank you Tommy) but before long John started walking down the street.

For every ounce of Tommy never wanting to leave my side, John has a pound of explorer in him. He can't stand to be in the backyard when there's a perfectly good sidewalk leading somewhere RIGHT THERE! So I followed him, and Tommy followed me, and we decided to go to the park. Once Tommy realized we had a destination, he took the lead and insisted that we "follow my froot-pints!" and we did.

In case you're a idiot  first time mom, let me help you with one concept. Wet slides are water slides. And water slides are slippery. And if you're trying to take an adorable picture of your child going down the slide, you're likely to catch one of these.

And at the end of that, is a baby on his bum who has just launched 2 feet from the end of the slide. Of course this means he doesn't want to go down again without you, so of course you go up to slide down and show him how it's done. Which is a nice idea, but when you wind up on your butt 2 feet from the end of the slide you sortof feel foolish.

So, the equation is: snow + plastic slide + snowpants = shooting down the slide like a bobsled. You're welcome.

Of course eventually we learned that it was more fun for me to stay on the ground and catch the babes as they shot out off the end of the slide. 

Those are the kinds of days that leave me loving motherhood. Playing in the snow, hot chocolate, bubbles baths, and home in time to make dinner? Lovely. 

Halloween

Remember how funny it was when I was worried that Tommy would be born on Halloween?

Then remember how I sortof didn't notice that John was born on Halloween because I was all excited that it was on Monday instead of Thursday?

Perhaps it's because really they're both Halloween babies on the inside, or maybe because I neglect Halloween in favor of Little John's birthday. Either way we celebrate Halloween year round around here.

Come to think of it we also celebrate Christmas year round.

I suppose we're just not so great with calendars. What with turning the pages once a month and all....it's a lot of work.

We are frequent library patrons and my boys just happen to gravitate toward Halloween books. The love the "kitty" on the spine (which is really an ugly black Halloween cat) and they love to say "boo!" and they love to walk around with blankets draped over their heads pretending to be ghosts. They love to sing about the "mean old witch mama with a HAT!" They love to look at pumpkins and to sing about spiders. They are lovely little Halloween monsters children.

Cleaning

There are a few reasons that weekly cleaning is no longer optional in my life.

• We live in a big old house now. It started dirty and it has stayed dirty. Even the new parts are dirty. New houses must be sealed better. Big houses are more likely (in my world) to stay dirty. Because I can close the door and go somewhere else and pretend it isn't that bad. Reminder to me. It is. It is that bad. 
• We have a yard now. Yards come with dirt. And grass. And bees. And weeds. And ants. And other general filth. Don't get me wrong, I never want to be yardless again. But seriously - filth.
• Tommy no longer wears diapers. Let me be clear. The term "toilet trained" is a lie. A big. fat. ugly. LIE. Kids go from "in diapers" to "not in diapers" - apparently "toilet training" is something that doesn't happen until much later in life and here's why:
  3 year old boys are capable of aiming. They are also capable of focusing (on bugs and boogers and explosions). But they are not capable of doing both at the same time consistently. That's why there is pee everywhere in that bathroom EXCEPT the toilet. He is capable of aiming "that peein' thing" but now when he's busy looking around at all of the interesting things in the bathroom. And as it turns out "that peein' thing" follows his gaze.
• I got a job. Something happens when I leave this house. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but the effects often look like a bomb. A "daddy was snoozing" bomb. In his defense, he only closes his eyes for like 5 minutes.....and I would too.

And that's why at 9pm I haven't showered, my feet still look like I just went for a hike in flip flops (because I did....12 hours ago) and the house is finally beginning to smell like pinesol. I think...have I mentioned that Josh and I are allergic to this place? No matter. It's probably better that way given the pee smell.....