Tag Archives: kids bedtime

The Bitch Emerges …

10 Apr

Ever feel like the worst version of you is winning the battle?

The Incredible Hulk: Original Soundtrack Recording

The Incredible Hulk: Original Soundtrack Recording (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You’re used to the writer rejections.

You’re used to living on four maybe five hours of sleep at night because you swear your eight-month old has insomnia.

You’re used to your three-year old telling you “no I don’t have to go potty” and then he doesn’t quite make it in time to the toilet so you have to change his Lightning McQueen underwear again. He has 18 pair.

You’re now used to the sandpaper rough exterior of your chick hands that used to be soft, but suffered damage from months of cleaning toilets, washing dishes and constant exposure to Clorox Wipes. You should’ve used gloves earlier, but it hadn’t occurred to you, probably because of your lack of sleep.

You call a couple of friends to vent or join you for quick workout so as to relieve the stress of the human pressure cooker, but all you get is voicemail because they’re busy having a great life.

You reach for your Hawaiian Chocolate, but can’t find the box. It’s supposed to be in it’s usual place, but it’s not.

You take deep breaths and count to ten, but nothing works. You’re on the verge.

So what happened? Why did I snap? Why did the worse version of me — the inner bitch — rise from the depths and reach the surface of my sweet golden Coppertone skin?

I lost it.

By eight-thirty, nine o’clock at night I’m done. I’ve got no patience left.  I’ve spent 13 hours with two kids under the age of three that require 13 hours of constant attention and play time, well maybe 12.5 hours thanks to thirty minutes of the Go Diego, Go distraction so that I can cook dinner and wash some of the dishes.

By bed time, I’m on a zero-tolerance policy.  Patience is gone, and all I need is for them to listen. Just listen. I could use help, but that doesn’t mean I get any. Unwanted and unneeded comments, plenty. But help … not so much. Gray hair emerges. I feel it sprouting from my scalp and twirling down my curls choking out my Guat youth.

All I want is for both kids to fall asleep before Letterman starts. I need to have “me time”. An hour by myself. No washing dishes. No listening to stories. No getting advice. Just an hour to decompress and watch TV. An hour to sit and do nothing before going to sleep.

But that didn’t happen. Battle of the Bedtime sucked and I ended up yelling at my kid to go to sleep or else.

That “or else” didn’t work.

I was literally yelling, you know the type of yelling where the vein pops out and pulsates on the side of your head.

He just wasn’t listening. He was being three. That’s what they do, but today … today I couldn’t handle it.

He kept moving around, jumping around. It’s like someone gave him a box of sugar just before bed. It could’ve happened I was taking a shower and one of the frosted cupcakes we made for Easter was missing. He might have had an extra boost of Betty Crocker and I was in desperate need of “me time”.

 So I lost it. I tried counting to ten and taking deep breaths in order to calm down I tried reasoning, loving, cuddling, talking, even singing to him. But nothing worked. It was getting late and I still had a big pile of dishes and baby bottles waiting for me. I was worried that “me time” wouldn’t make it.

The wrath of The Guat was unleashed and I yelled at him like a crazed fan arguing with an umpire. I yelled like a crazy bitch. He got sad and teary eyed. He says …

I still love you mom.

Ohhhhhhhh. Like a knife to my heart. I felt terrible. I felt like I wasn’ t cut out for motherhood. 

I gave myself a time-out. No chocolate for you, Guat! None


Bedtime Battle Showdown … My Salvation: Framboise

16 Mar

Normally I’m not a raging alcoholic, but after two weeks of consecutive 13-hour days with both kids and minimal “me” time, other than the two-minute “time-out” sessions I took for myself in the bathroom, I was about to drink the two bottles of Lambic Framboise in hopes of relieving the stress from Friday Night Bedtime Battle Showdown. Normally I’d drink Patron, but I thought that’s a little too raging, Framboise a little more subtle.

When exercise doesn't cut it ... my stress reliever

In that corner: 36-pound basketball-pajama wearing three-year old accompanied by his 21-pound onesie-wearing sibling with sneaky smiles.

In this corner: The Guat, usually an upbeat sporty-spice who’s become a worn-down mom that’s accumulated more gray hairs and wrinkles this week.

If you have kids you may be familiar with battle of the bedtimes. Prior to being a guest at my mom’s house this wasn’t really an issue … maybe once in a blue moon my three-year old would act up, but I wouldn’t say it was a problem. However, recently bedtime has become such a frustrating battle  that the vein in my neck has a permanent imprint from where it bulges out.

It’s not like he refuses to go to bed. We have our routine. Always been the same. Eight o’clock comes around he’s showered and ready for some Dr. Seuss, Laura Numeroff, Sandra Boynton, Tony Mitton, Ant Parker, or Eric Carle books. After we’re done, he gets into bed all comfy, cozy, but it just takes longer for him to fall asleep.

And if I don’t get him showered on time … forget about it … He’s watching Dave Letterman. A few times he stays there awake, moving around, talking to his teddy bear until ten o’clock, sometimes later. Thus leaving me with little time to wash dishes and bottles before trying to relax in front of the television.

It’s not like I like to wash dishes. In fact it’s the chore I hate the most. Some might say just leave a dirty kitchen and let it go, but I’m the type of person that needs to have an empty sink and clean kitchen before I can relax. If only my mom believed in dishwashers, but apparently those are for lazy asses. So my hands aren’t too supple, more like the hands of a carpenter who’s been on the job twenty years.

It’s been difficult to say the least. I felt like breaking down like those mom chicks from Sex & The City 2. Have you seen this?

Yeah … but they have nannies. I have myself. I am the nanny, the cook, the diaper changer, the milk producer, the bottle-go-getter, the bath time giver, the baseball pitcher, the funny-face maker, the golf caddy, the Play-Doh creator, the dancing partner to the “I Like To Move It, Move It” song, the Lego’s construction builder, the co-pilot on my son’s imaginary airplane/fire engine/submarine that fights crime, and the dog walker. That’s me … all before lunch. No nanny. No cleaning lady. Just The Guat. 

So by the time I get to bedtime I’m just ready to have them pass out and go into a deep, deep sleep so that I can somehow enjoy television or just enjoy a quiet moment where nobody says anything … just silence.  Quiet is awesome.

So when bedtime becomes a battle or either of them just gives me issues I get so frustrated. I don’t want to be that mom that constantly tells their kid if you don’t go to sleep right now, you won’t be able to play with any cars, monster trucks, trains or sports stuff ever again! I mean it! I’ll take them to the trash.

I tried that … it doesn’t work.

I was so desperate I was about to Google “bedtime problems with three-year olds and seven-month old babies” and hope some self-help answer would come slap me in the face.

But alas … there was no super-secret answer other than some crazy note about slipping some Children’s Benadryl into their night-time sippy cups. I don’t like having crappy frustrating endings to pleasant days. Sometimes it just sucks the awesomeness out of the day.

It has to be a phase.

That’s what I tell myself, or at least that’s what I’m hoping. After the Framboise, I tell myself tomorrow will be better and he’ll get back into his normal sleeping pattern.

I hope tomorrow gets here soon. The stores are running out of Framboise.