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Browsing Tag: bedtime routines

To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn

Cian doesn’t sleep through the night by himself. I mean, this isn’t something new: I don’t think he’s really slept through the night well since he was about 20 weeks prenatal, rolling around in my belly at 2 a.m. like some deranged BMX biker on Red Bull (speaking of Red Bull: is that still around? Or am I just remembering 1999 a little better than I should?). We moved him out of a crib into his real bed a few months ago, thinking that maybe he was just too big for the confined space (he was) and that having more room would help him relax (it didn’t). So here we are now: lying down with him as he falls asleep at night (third child says, “haha, SUCKERS!”), then jolting out of sleep around 11, 12, 1 in the morning when he wakes up, realizes we’re not with him, and either cries like we’ve all decided to go to  Fiji and leave him behind, or shuffles into our room to crawl into our bed like some cat burglar with separation issues, and we wake…

I Should be Balancing the Checkbook

Do you know how many ideas I have stored up for this blog in the sugar-addled, wine-deprived, sleepy noggin of mine? It’s a lot. As days pass there are a lot of “Ooh!” moments and “Ah, I can’t forget that!” experiences that promptly evaporate into tiny, mist-sized droplets that lodge themselves in my brain, bouncing around until the moment is so far gone I can’t remember enough details to write about them. I want to be posting all the time, I really do. But this parenting thing has sucked up my time (don’t you hate that??). I mean, the parenting and the organizing and the Christmas-preparing and the whining about how much my back hurts. Oh, and the simple fact that the only time I’m alone with my own thoughts is…uh…eh…yeah. So, in order to stay on top of life, I do not write. Which means that my house looks awesome when I don’t write, and my children are paid much better attention, and I remember to transfer the wet clothes from the washer…

Becoming Her Wingman

I sat down with Quinn last night to read her a book before bedtime. It was quiet, her room was lit by just one tiny lamp, and she was all warm from her bath and comfortable in fresh pajamas and just-washed hair that, thanks to her new shampoo, smelled just enough like honey to be pleasant without reminding me that I planned on making waffles for breakfast this morning. I could actually hear my brain sigh with relief as we settled down in the glider together for a few restful moments. Yeah, right. No sooner than we closed that book did my beautiful child start grunting and twisting in a pretty impressive effort to wriggle her way from my arms, out of my lap and down my legs to the floor, where she took off way more quickly than a child who still crawls should ever be able to move. She opened her door, threw one glance at me over her shoulder with a laugh that sounded an awful lot like “Bwahaha–gotchyou again, suckah!” and went careening down the hallway–her arms and legs going thumpthumpthump on the hardwood like a car that&#8217…