20

It's taking all my willpower to not post the picture I really want to post here, which included not one, but TWO naked baby tushies. Since Harry and Lucy may want to run for public office someday, I thought it best to hold back on that one. In other news, you may not be shocked to learn that bathing two toddlers who won't sit down in the bathtub is both challenging and a comedy of errors.

Ellie had a wonderful time in the bath with the babies. Unlike me, Harry and Lucy loved being squirted by the various rubber bath animals. There was much squealing and happy shrieking from all three. Until Harry peed (what's that saying? It's all fun and games until someone pees in the tub?) and Ellie was absolutely scandalized and...scene. Bathtime was promptly over.

Ellie is on her way to learning to read. She has quite a few sight words. The babies are her perfect audience.

It occured to me yesterday that the babies twins are now twenty months old. That feels like another "momentous" milestone just as entering the "teen" months was. So here they are, now marching squarely toward two. Gulp.

Lucy is...how shall I say this? The BOSS. Or at least she thinks she is. "Don't want it!" "No way!" "Come on!" "Color!" (meaning, she wants to draw, which she always does when she spies the big kids huddled around the kitchen table, drawing) are just a few of her favorite and frequent phrases.

She knows what she wants, and when she wants it. And Look Out if you stand in her way. Just look at that focus. She's going to brush that doll head's hair and she's going to do it right.

And dear, sweet Harry. I've never known a baby who could amuse himself more than this one. He "reads" books to himself. He is absolutely in love with Leo's train table, whether it's covered with trains or Duplos he is on the case and happy as can be. He also recently discovered Thomas trains (see him clutching his little Thomas in the bath, above). He carried that train around all weekend and was seriously perturbed when he found out he wasn't allowed to sleep with it. He's saying a few more words. This week he busted out with "night, night." Most of his words seem closer to approximations than full words but we can usually figure out what he's trying to tell us.

Speaking of "night night," we have a newish bedtime routine. Rather than just plopping the babies in their cribs, turning on the sound machine and music and turning out the lights, as we did for months and months, we're now finally reading books before bed (add this to my list of things I felt guilty about the twins missing out on, since I always dutifully read to my singletons).

Of course nothing in our house can be simple, so when the twins' bedtime hits, which is usually about halfway through Leo and Ellie's dinner, everyone scrambles upstairs ("Last one up gets a rotten egg!" calls Ellie), fights for rights to the rocking chair, and thus begins a rollicking rendition of "Baby Beluga."

Lucy bobs her head and shakes her hips and Harry bounces and sways and throws himself onto his mattress and rolls around to the beat. I scratch his little head like he's a puppy and he flashes me a grateful smile. Leo and Ellie then each sing their own lullaby, alternating nights (some kind of fight about this breaks out nightly, trust me). And then at some point Ellie's Dreamlite became part of the mix (I know, it's practically a Vegas show, right?).


Or maybe more like a circus act.

Well Excuse Me

Thank goodness for last night’s season finale of "Glee", which knocked me out of my cranky, brow beaten mood, a gloom that even a glass of Shiraz couldn’t resolve.

The cause of my temporary meloncholy? Bedtimes with Ellie have become knock down drag out exercises in delaying the inevitable. At nearly three she is very set in her ways (I know, so original) and has definite ideas of how things should be done. She’s never been a huge tantrumer but I can see she has the potential for real talent in this area if she decides to put her mind to it.

She has to step into her nightgown, not have it come over her head. She has to get her own Pull-Up from the pantry and that includes opening the door herself, don't even try to open that door. She has to attempt to put the toothpaste on the toothbrush even though every night she ends up handing it over to you and saying Can you help me Mommy? She has to read books before brushing teeth and don't ever dare suggest a different order to the proceedings.

Starting to get the idea?

Monday night we had a stand-off over the fact that she would not come upstairs for bath time when asked to do so repeatedly. The punishment: she missed the beloved bubble bath and believe me, she did not let me forget it. A "Rain Man" worthy monologue ensued for the rest of the bedtime routine. While Leo splashed away with Erin across the hall, Ellie quietly and repeatedly requested a bubble bath. "I want to take a bubble bath. But I wanted to take a bubble bath!" But I stood firm.

Last night’s fury was aroused when I had the audacity to retrieve the wipes from the second bathroom, rather than allowing Ellie to do so. Well I had some nerve, didn’t I?

I know all of this is exacerbated by the simple fact that she’s exhausted. But it’s so hard when I only see her for an average of four hours a day during the week and 1.5 of those hours are spent bargaining and haggling and deal making over something as simple as bedtime. And then I feel guilty for losing my patience with her when I only get four hours a day with her.

Did I mention that she also rarely naps at daycare? Hmm, the might explain why she’s been known to sleep half the day away on the weekend. In short, she’s whipped. Or is it wiped? Whatever.

But in lighter moments, she can say the sweetest things at the end of the night, after said bargaining and haggling and deal making is over and she’s ensconced, finally, in her little pink bed with the Scottie dog sheets and the pastel striped blanket.

“I really love you Mommy. You’re my best big girl.”

Some nights she asks me to blow her a kiss so she can catch it. Oh sure, some nights she also wails at me that she doesn’t want to catch a kiss. One night she actually screamed for me to come back to her room so she could return the kiss that I’d given her.

Don't let the innocent smile fool you.

But last night was different.

“I really, really…” Ellie began, then drifted off. I didn’t catch the last portion of what she’d said.

“What Sweetie? I can’t hear you,” I said, leaning over her, expecting to hear something about how she “really loved me” or how I was “really her favorite mommy.”

Oh no, that wasn’t it.

“I really, really…wanted to get the wipes,” she sniffed.

Bedtime Meltdowns and Manis

In a fit of domesticity, I made a variation of this last night. Of course, I was the only one who really ate it. Leo picked at his (squinting suspiciously at the stray tomato skin—he should be a private investigator specializing in vegetable detection). After eating the leftover string cheese, apple sauce cup and Pirate Booty from her lunch box, Ellie wasn’t too interested in my creation either. Shocking.

For some reason, after working all day and being away from the kids for eight hours, five days a week, a home cooked meal feels like the least I can do. But then they won’t even touch it. And then I remember why scrambled eggs (or something equally fast to make and easy to clean-up) really does make more sense, most nights.

***
Last evening was a strange one. For Ellie, the word exhaustion doesn’t cover it. I continue to look at her sideways, daily, still paranoid that she’s doomed to get the strep that three-quarters of the house had/has. It would certainly help if I remembered to take my antibiotics too, ahem. But the appetite is still there (you can’t really gauge sickness with Ellie by mood since she’s often what I would describe as, um, opinionated) so that’s a good sign. As I said, she devoured her lunch box remains (she now proudly zips and unzips that little bag like it’s her job, and her favorite phrase to go along with that activity is “I want something else.”) Hmm…something else? I know the feeling.

When we finally did finish eating and cleaning up the abbreviated “Hayride” (it’s now become an after dinner activity too), Ellie dissolved upstairs. There was refusal to put on the nighttime Pull-Up, there was hysteria at the thought of pajamas. There was plenty of warning from me, there were vows of “no books, you’re going straight in your crib” if she didn’t cooperate.

She didn’t.

And so, fearing what I might do if I was forced to continue trying to shimmy little pink pajama bottoms onto exceptionally uncooperative little legs, I did what I promised to do all along. It was into the crib for her, without pants even.

I know. Mean.

What was odd was there was no crying. Not even a peep. Erin went into her room to attempt to wrangle Pull-Ups and clothes. Somewhere along the way she must have lost her will to fight, because she let Erin dress her without argument. She then plunked back down and was out for the night.

Meanwhile Leo was feeling cuddly and needy (no surprise). I lay next to him on his little firm twin bed with the fish sheets and stared up at the ceiling, listening to his breathing, heavy but noticeably (so far) less congested-sounding than it was pre-adenoid surgery. That’s when he shot upright and presented me with two stubby fingered hands. For some reason, I knew exactly what he meant: he wanted me to cut his fingernails.

The moment reminded me of a lesson my mom taught me, handed down to her by the great and wise Peg Bracken: If you have the inclination to do something (in Bracken’s case it was housework-feel like dusting but you’re on your way to make a phone call or coffee? Dust! You never know when the burst of dusting energy might return!).

Normally, cutting Leo’s nails is just one notch easier than giving him a haircut. There is holding down, there is struggle and pleading and cajoling. But not last night. He observed me wordlessly as I carefully trimmed each little half-moon down. Note to self: he’s outgrown the infant nail clippers (oops).

This might sound silly, but it felt like a Moment. A milestone of some sort. Leo noticed something about himself that needed attending to. He asked for help. He tolerated having something "done" to him.

Now if we could just get him to notice that hair of his, part surfer dude, part Adam Rich from "Eight is Enough" and fast on its way to mullet city.

Ten minutes later, Leo was asleep, buried under comforter and fleece throw, clutching his water bottle and stuffed dog, the tired boy with the well-groomed nails.