Friday, September 7, 2012

Dear Babies,

All I wanted to do was take a shower, put on my pajamas, come downstairs and sit on the couch with a bowl of baked ziti and watch Bill Clinton’s speech from the Democratic National Convention Wednesday night.

There, I said it.

As lame as this sounds, I had envisioned that moment yesterday all…long…day…

I thought about it at the hair salon where you screamed so hard your face literally turned the color of a beet, Baby Girl. “And usually it’s the boys who don’t like hair cuts!” said Phyllis, the nice lady trying to sneak snips of your fine baby hair, going in with a scissor when she could dodge your swatting attacks. (You are quick, I’m thinking tennis.) “Ha!” I forced, going back to the ol’ days of general advice I received before you were born. They won’t sleep! They will sleep a lot! They will be cold! They will be hot!

I thought about it when I tried getting you guys to go to sleep during your afternoon nap. And tried getting you to go to sleep. And tried getting you to go go sleep…Some days in your bed it’s fine, Baby Boy. Others, like yesterday, you get too excited. I watch you on the monitor (future you: Creepy!), it’s like you lay there so tired, about to fall asleep, then think, “wait a minute!! And then you spring up and do whatever ridiculous thing, anything, from opening all of the drawers and taking out all of the pajamas, only to put them back in, to flashing the lights on and off like a disco party, to crawling in and out of bed with your sister (future you: Creepy). Yesterday you had lots of “wait a minute!” ideas. So much so that you became “over tired,” that dreaded thing new parents quickly learn about when a deliriously tired child reaches the point of no return. Since your sister won’t sleep until you do–and enjoys watching “the show”–there was no napping yesterday afternoon.

I thought about it when I stood outside your doorway, accepting this, thinking what am I going to do with them now for the rest of the afternoon? as the room boomed with wild laughter.

I thought of if it when I opened the door and surveyed your room which looked like a day-after scene from “The Hangover.”

I thought of it around 5:00 p.m. when you were tired, punchy, banging into each other and me like bumper cars..

I thought of it when you were pouring bowls of baked ziti over your heads…

I thought of as I tried to subsequently scrub your bellies in the bathtub, thinking how, so hard and round and ¬†orange with sauce, they really looked like melons…

I thought about it at 7:45 when I was still literally chasing your naked bodies trying to get on pajamas. With you finally pinned on your backs (I would’ve been a really good wrestler), you played your new fun game with me: “Let me stick my fingers up mom’s nose! In her ear! In her mouth! Har har har!”

I thought about when I looked at the clock and saw 8:15 and had that sinking feeling, I didn’t get any writing done today, again, how am I ever going to get any done if we keep this up, how how how…

…When your father came home from work we met at the kitchen sink rinsing bottles and bowls encrusted with baked ziti.

“Come on!,” I said, a little too enthusiastically, like a punchy, wild, over-tired child myself. “Are you ready?! Do you want to go watch Bill Clinton?!”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, babe. I already watched it.”

My face said something.

“I’m sorry. Everyone was talking about it at work. I had to.”

My face.

“I only watched a little of it!”

(I almost cried. This was the state of your mom.)

“No no, I want to watch on TV anyway!” he back pedaled. “I didn’t see it could on my computer!”

And he sat on the couch with his child and put on our DVR’ed Bill Clinton speech.

(Yes, this is what it’s come to.)

And I put my feet up on the ottoman.

And I nuzzled into a pillow.

And the last thing I remember was Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” blaring as my head tilted back and my lips parted and I fell quickly into deep, hard sleep.



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