Just a Spoon Full of Hogwash Helps The Medicine Go Down

Some Christmas toys are the gifts that keep on giving. If you're a parent, you know what I mean. The giver picked the loudest, most annoying item he/she could find in the store to torture you year round, until you make it disappear. We have several of these gifts in the house, the most infamous being the electronic talking parrot. I have to admit, on Christmas Eve, as Milk Man and I were cutting toys out of their boxes, that parrot was a hoot. We made it say things I wouldn't dare repeat here, (because I'm not stupid). We laughed so hard I nearly spit up egg nog.

Today the bird is about as funny as the joke my grandmother used to tell in Italian about artichokes. Apparently, it was funnier in 1957, but she still told it over, and over again for fifty years. (Translation of Joke: Sign in the grocery store says: Arti Chokes 3 for $1.) Like I said, it was funnier in Italian.

In the kitchen Hell Hound is having a barking war with the no-longer-funny parrot, whom the kids have situated on top of her dog cage. Big brother is following me around asking what the difference is between hydrophilic and hydrophobic parts of a cell membrane. Meanwhile, the baby is crying and screaming non-stop, and the phone is ringing. By dusk I've just about lost all of my patience. I hurl the parrot out the sliding glass doors in the den onto the lawn. Then the princess bursts into tears over her toy, and I feel like a horrible parent.

Later I'm watching "The Nanny" on television so I can feel better about myself, and the baby is still cranky, on my lap at 9:15 p.m. "The children are still up past the hour of 9 p.m., which is simply unacceptable." She says in her Mary Poppins' accent. I look down at baby Bigfoot. "Did you hear that?" I ask. The Nanny has this strategy of putting the kids back into their beds over and over again until they sleep. Of course, this technique always works in time for a commercial break, and the hopeless parents who called for her help are changed people.

Tonight doesn't look good for me, since Baby Bigfoot has a cold and is getting molars at the same time. I sit in his room rocking him at 10 p.m., reading a copy of The Nanny's book that someone helpfully bought me. I find out that not only is this girl not married, she's never had a child of her own. In her book, she suggests that parents not have children close in age, as that makes discipline more of a challenge. I hurl the book across the room, seemingly on a throwing kick today. Baby Bigfoot is crying still, at 10:30 p.m. I put Thomas the Tank Engine on television in his bedroom and step into the hall.

The Nanny would be aghast at me allowing him to watch late night TV, but I'm too tired to care. I crawl into bed and try to sleep. At 1 p.m. he's crying again, and I climb into his Winnie the Pooh toddler bed with him. I'm like a pretzel under his blankets with him, patting his tummy, and he is thrilled. He laughs softly, and grabs my hand. That's how we fall asleep, and I dream that The Nanny is watching my day of parenting mistakes on her portable DVD player, shaking her head in disapproval. It's about 3 a.m. when I awake, to the sound of rain hitting his window. Baby Bigfoot and I are still holding hands, and I have to admit that it is very sweet and cozy to cuddle with a toddler in the wee hours of the morning. Someday, maybe I'll even miss it.

I laugh so hysterically at this thought that I nearly wake him. Covering my mouth like a lunatic in the dark, I crawl out of his bed, over the baby gate and down the hall into my room. It's 3:17 a.m., my head is pounding, and now I can't fall back asleep. I chew a Tylenol because I don't want to make noise getting a glass of water. Don't mess with me, Nanny, this is my reality show: "Survivor Mom."

Baby Bigfoot's Big Boy Bed

"As soon as the child could live without the constant solicitude of his mother, his nanny or his cradle- rocker, he belonged to adult society."
-Phillippe Aries, (20th C. French Historian)


Last night, refusing to accept the fact that soothing music and the appearance of a giant, bug-eyed moon projected on his ceiling indicates bedtime, baby Bigfoot flips out in, and over the side of his crib. It's now 10 p.m.the next day, the crib is in pieces waiting to be delivered to the attic, and baby brother is finally asleep in his new (old) toddler bed, a hand-me-down from the princess.

Earlier today, when I first set up the bed, I give him time to get used to it by bringing him into his room for some independent play. Intrigued by the appearance of the bed and matching Winnie the Pooh sheet set, baby brother hands me his shoes, ready to explore his new-and- improved room. As soon as his sneakers are tied, he pushes off my lap and starts checking out the bed, looking back at me only to wave and shout, "Bye." That's my cue to leave him alone. I go downstairs and turn on the baby monitor; it has a TV screen. Wasting no time at all, he climbs on top of the bed and stands, arms raised like the king of the world.

This is the way I find him again this evening after returning home from an errand. My husband claims baby Bigfoot has no idea what to do without his crib. "He's just standing on his toddler bed, starring into space. I know he's tired by now."

It will take a few nights for him to adjust to the new sleeping situation, after all, he's not even two years old. Now, the fake moon is shining on the ceiling, the soothing music is playing and he's fast asleep, hugging his bear. I'm standing in his doorway watching him, and I can't believe he's a big boy now. That was too fast. Even though I know I haven't missed any part of my children's lives, I still feel a bit like Rip Van Winkle. I better get some rest; at this rate he'll be shaving and packing for college in the morning.

Meet Little Loren

As a little girl, I am afraid of the dark. I'm one of those kids who doesn't like to go to bed at night, to my parents' dismay. As soon as the nightlight goes on I cry for mommy, only stopping to listen intently to my parents verbal struggle over what to do about me. If the verdict is to ignore me, then I resume crying, louder. I do this because I'm sure monsters live in my pillow. They have shaggy orange fur, (it's the '70's). I can't let my arm or foot dangle over the side of the bed, even on the hottest summer nights, because an "ugly breen witch" waits to grab me from beneath it! An open window is a bad idea, a gargoyle could climb through it and take me to his cave where his blue brothers will roast me. I dare not look at the open closet door; the ghost hiding in my hanging clothes might see that I am still awake.

On the whole, night time is bad and scary for little Loren. Besides, I'm not tired. Sometimes, after a nightmare, I stay frozen in my bed, the covers up to my eyes, until I can muster enough courage up to run into my parents' room and climb into bed with them. After a few minutes there, I'm ready to face the horrors of my own bedroom again. Sleeping next to dad is not comfortable. His big body cooks me, and his snore is louder that any imagined creature that might visit me in the darkness just beyond my own bed covers. Like a soldier running through open gunfire, I scamper back to my own bed and jump under the covers. As I start to feel sleepy, I ask my little self: How could mom sleep next to such a loud, sweaty person?

Zombie

"It is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us."

-Charles Dickens

It's 10 p.m.; do you know how long your children will stay asleep? This is the question I find myself frequently asking as I force my eyes shut, sleepy or not, knowing that the baby will be wailing at midnight. It's true to say that I've let myself go slightly in the months following the arrival of child number three, and if not for pure exhaustion, I'd be more self-conscious about my appearance. The heartbeat sound on the baby monitor that is supposed to soothe my little infant gives me nightmares of blue teddy bears who have located the kitchen knives. So I toss and turn, muttering explicit phrases I can claim to not remember saying tomorrow.


Then, just as I'm beginning to drift off peacefully, it starts. It's a whimper that keeps on growing into a full-blown cry. As I sit up, I've got Michael Jackson's song "Thriller" in my head; I feel stiff like a zombie. I pass the mirror on the way to the baby's room and my fears are confirmed. The dark rings under my eyes would secure my part as an extra in the music video. Jackson could come over my house right now to do a remake; my backyard connects to an old cemetery.

I look out the kitchen window. The cemetery is quiet and dark. There's a perfectly spooky fog rising over it beyond the fence. The shed door is open, and my overworked imagination pictures the zombies helpfully shutting it for me as they limp across the lawn. Frowning at the baby, who is now wide-eyed and smiling, I wish he were sleeping. In fact, I'm kind of angry that I'm not sleeping.


I turn on the television to keep myself awake. The baby wants to play "blow on your hair." That's a game we made up, for the daytime. He laughs when he gets some strands to move. Lauren Hutton is speaking to me in an infomercial. She knows about my dark circles, and says it's a sure sign of aging. Maybe she's right, I think. After all, if it weren't for the shampoo commercial she did in 1974, I'd be a Jennifer. Mom must have liked something about her. I change the channel just in time to hear another model advise me to improve myself cosmetically, "because you're worth it," she coos.


The little person I'm holding is cooing too, as he looks up at me like I'm the most fascinating and beautiful person he's ever seen. Then suddenly, he digs into my cheeks with his chubby, sharp-nailed little fingers and smashes his slimy open mouth on my face. My son gives me his first baby kiss, followed by a clinging, joyful hug. My eyes are welling up; only I know this precious moment. Suddenly I'm the Grinch on Christmas morning; this little boy melts my heart. I think I'm okay with living life as a zombie. This midnight cuddle session is a moment of joy, and even Lauren Hutton can't bottle that! I'll live with the dark circles, because HE'S worth it.