The Most Worstest Mother in the Ever

I am a horrible, horrible mother.

And I am being punished for my horribleness with tag-team extreme sleep deprivation.

What was my mothering crime? What warranted such hideous and horrendous punishment?

Allowing my children to cuddle in bed with me when they wake up at way-too-dark in the morning.

Last night, in addition to being horrible, I was also just plain stupid: couldn't fall asleep at a reasonable bedtime, so I stayed up late watching crappy TV. Climbed into bed around midnight.

Silly Mommy! Midnight is for college students!

First wake up was 12:45am. Chelsea. Wants to cuddle with me because her leg hurts. I zombie-walk her back to bed. Five minutes later, she's back, crying now because she can't sleep on her own. I give her medicine for her leg and whisper-yell at her to stay in bed. Five minutes later, she's back AGAIN because of course she is. The medicine is not working, she says. Now I have steam coming out of my ears and I threaten her within an inch of her life that if she does not stay in bed SANTA WILL NOT COME.

I finally get back into my bed, wide awake in my fury.

Next thing I know, it's 2am. Savannah needs her blankets fixed. I zombie over to her room, do a quick adjustment of covers, and try to leave. She begins to scream at me to stay. I pull out the big guns: "The DOCTOR says you have to go to sleep on your own. Mommy can't stay."

And dammit if it doesn't work! More cries of 'tay! Peese, Mommy! 'tay!

Now I'm whisper-yelling at her, too. Threatening to close her door if she keeps yelling. I stumble back to bed and tell Jeremy that they will never let me sleep again. He tells me it's my own damn fault and that I should just let them cry it out. (Which works great for him, 'cause guess who can sleep right through both of his children crying? Hint: It's not me!)

Next wake up: 4am. Honestly, I can't even remember who it was. Maybe I dreamed it?

Next wake up that I can recall: 5am. Chelsea again. This time, she just can't go back to sleep on her own. There is no mention of the phantom leg pain. I steer her back to bed, all the while whisper-screaming at her NOT to WAKE her SISTER.

5:45am. Chelsea is back! Again! OMFG. I snatch her up, plunk her down at the kitchen table, stick a bowl of oatmeal in front of her and go back to bed.

As I'm lying there fuming and definitely NOT sleeping, I can hear Savannah start to wake up.

Fuck.

Chelsea comes to bother me in my bed yet again, and I send her to her room to play or read or I really don't care what just keep your door shut.

Now Savannah's awake. I give her the kitchen table and oatmeal treatment and she just sits at the table and whines. I add milk to the menu (which is usually her great weakness) and get more whining.

Luckily, Jeremy comes home from the gym at this point with a bag of bagels. Savannah gets to cover her face, fingers, and much of the table in cream cheese and she is finally happy.

It is awfully quiet in Chelsea's room. I go peek and she's in bed, fast asleep.

It's now 6:30am. I've gotten a worse night of sleep than most mothers of newborns. And "furious" barely covers the level of rage that I'm stewing in.

My father-in-law told me recently that when you point your finger at someone else, notice that three of your fingers are pointing back at you.

I know this bad sleep is my fault. My fault for letting my babies cuddle in bed with me. It kills me that in order to fix this behavior I have to stop doing something that doesn't feel like horrible mothering.

It feels like loving them so much that I want to hold them forever. And knowing that the time will come, too soon, when they won't want to cuddle up to their mom in the night.

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Happy Halloween!

Quick preview of what's in store at our house tonight:

Toddler Snow White (aka No Neck Joe)

And Rasta Fairy Strawberry Shortcake

Chelsea says, "If you want to know what Fairy Strawberry Shortcake is, it's basically Strawberry Shortcake with a wand."

Happy haunting, everyone!

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Weepy McWeeperpants

Hello. My name is Heidi. And I cry at musicals.

Today I decided to clean the house. It is such a loathsome chore that I thought some music would help. We've been playing enough of the Spooky Halloween Mix that I needed something different and musicals are usually my cleaning music of choice.

I love musicals. Even the bad ones. I know the anti-Rent mafia would crap a coconut to hear it, but I love every melodramatic minute of that musical. And Wicked! And Chicago! And Evita! And what else you got?

Today's selection was Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And I know what you're thinking: "Close Every Door to Me." Right? That's the song that makes me cry?

Nope.

Today I had to stop singing in the middle of "Go, Go, Go Joseph." Which (in case you're not a closet musical freak like me) is not a tear-jerker at all. It's more like a rousing dance number.

Donny Osmond reuniting with his family also set off the waterworks: "Your brother... It's me!"

That last line just kills me. I know it's coming. And it still kills me. I don't even have any brothers. (Self psychoanalysis: Is that why? I want to reunite with my formerly fratricidal brothers, too?)

I'm a weepy person in general, so I guess it's not surprising that musicals would make me cry, but it's not just musicals. I cry at church music. And that bothers me vastly more than the musicals because I am completely un-religious. So what's up with that? Is it just music in general that makes me cry? I don't cry at the radio. Much.

I'm not really very musical myself. Took piano lessons as a kid, didn't stick with it. Can't really sing. My iPod is full of episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine and SuperWhy instead of actual music.

Perhaps I have some unfulfilled desire to star on Broadway. But how would I ever get through the show, when I'm bursting into tears halfway through every song?

So I guess I'll just keep listening at home. And keep mopping the floor. With my tears.
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The Many Faces of Savannah Rose

A little photographic tribute to the youngest, in honor of her upcoming half birthday.

"The Stylish Face" (to go with the pose, natch)

"The Biting Devil" (self-explanatory, yes?)

"The Gene Simmons"

"The Dance Party"

"The I Was Crying so Grandma Gave Me a Chocolate Bon Bon and Now Look How Happy I Am!"

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It's a Good Life

I have this friend. Let's call her Grace.

Grace has a very nice life. She has a charming husband whom she loves and is in love with. She has two charming, healthy children.

She has a well-paying job that she loves and where she is able to work a less-than-full-time schedule.

Her husband owns his own business, doing what he loves, and is able to work a somewhat flexible schedule.

She and her husband recently bought a big, beautiful home in a wonderful neighborhood. They live on a cul-de-sac where their kids roam and play safely with their neighbors' children. They were able to buy their home for far less than it is worth (and much less than what many of their neighbors paid).

Grace's parents live nearby and are occasionally able to help out with the kids. Grace also has lots of other family and friends nearby.

Grace and her family live in San Diego.

Enough said. Are you ready to kill Grace with your eye-daggers of envy yet?

Her life is pretty much perfect. I'm jealous of her on a regular basis. I'm pretty sure she has more bathrooms than I have rooms.

And yet, she called me today asking me if I had to live somewhere else, where would it be? She knew that I'd lived in Los Angeles, Washington DC, Atlanta, Savannah, and Boston. (Sheesh, I get tired just thinking about all that moving.)

She and her husband are talking about leaving San Diego.

My reaction: Excuse me, wha-HUH?!

Because her life? Is seriously about as good as it gets.

But even with the two of them working, Grace and her husband are going broke living in this crazy-expensive state. Which seems to be getting more and more expensive by the minute. And THAT? I can completely relate to.

But even paying through the nose for everything from groceries to gas to the mortgage cannot deflate my excitement about living here and my bewilderment that Grace and her husband would want to leave.

Now I know, San Diego is not for everyone. But if you happen to have family in an area of the country that is so astoundingly beautiful and so eminently enjoyable year-round, like we do, and like Grace does, how do you think that moving somewhere else will be better?

We don't have a big fancy house. We don't live in a stellar neighborhood. I don't have a job that I'm passionate about, or any job for that matter.

But I have a home. A charming husband whom I love and am in love with. Two (mostly) charming, healthy children. And lots of family and friends nearby.

And we live in America's Finest Freaking City.

You couldn't drag me out of here if you tried.
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Things to be Grateful for Today

1. Savannah went into Kids' Club at the YMCA without crying. For the first time ever. And stayed until I was done working out.

2. Free pizza for lunch.

3. Savannah ate some apple slices.

4. Chelsea likes the Little House books (so far).

5. Savannah told me she needed to poop and then pooped in the toilet instead of her diaper. Or training pants. Or panties. Hallelujah!

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Unhappy Camper

I have tried to like camping. Really, I have.

I have camped at the beach.

I have camped in the desert.

And now I have camped in the mountains.

Can I be done trying to like camping now?

I just. don't. like it.

I want to like it. For the children. And for my husband, who really does like it. But I just don't.

I don't like the dirt. Or the bugs. Or the hikes. Or the sleeping on the ground.

I do like the stars. The campfire. The s'mores.

But we live by the beach. So we can go have a bonfire with stars and s'mores just about whenever we want, minus the dirt, and bugs, and hiking, and butt and/or hip hitting the ground all night long because your fancy air mattress is not properly inflated.

Come to think of it, we have a firepit. So we can do fire + stars + s'mores without even leaving the house!

Top that, camping.

For now, I think I'm all done. I'll take a year off, then try again. We went camping with some really lovely friends this time, and I was just such a Debbie Downer. I hate to ruin everyone else's trip, so I'll just stay away for a while.

Part of the problem with camping is me. But part of the problem with camping is my children, particularly Savannah. She's just too young to be fun on a camping trip. She won't sleep through the night, she pours lemonade all over me and herself, and she throws a handful of dirt into her own eyes. Maybe in a year she'll be more manageable.

Lest you think I spoiled the entire trip, here are a few pictures to prove otherwise.

Chelsea's patented "stylish pose."

Now THERE'S a happy camper.

See? I was there, too. And I even smiled!

Post-camping exhaustion. Like father, like daughter.

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