Could you...

Aside from the normal kids-say-the-darndest-things, I have really been loving how they articulate just about everything -- a random mixture of befuddled grammar and not-quite-accurate descriptions that come together in one conversation after another that you wish you could remember forever.

And even in the wee hours of the morning, when the house is cold and I am a tad under-dressed for anything that does not involve my down comforter, these little linguistic anomalies stop time for this word-nerd mom who relishes the sweetness of little people learning to speak their minds more than anything else that comes with this parenting gig.

It would seem, at 3:15 in the morning, after not going to bed until 11:45 and when I have to wake up in two-and-a-half hours to start the day, little people talk is, apparently, my Kryptonite.


And so begins the story of How in the world was I bested by a two-year old?

This little gal woke me with a start from a dream that I can't quite remember with a whimper-screech followed by coughing and sniffles. And considering I am a heavy sleeper and because my kids very, very rarely wake in the middle of the night, I jumped out of bed before realizing what I was doing. And before I knew it, I -- cry-it-out champion -- had broken my own rule and was face to face with a not so sleepy girlie who actually giggled as I rushed into her room to find out what was wrong.

Turns out nothing was wrong. Of course. And though I prompted about sore throats and cold toes, little miss Nora simply looked up at me with mischievous eyes and said, "Pwease could you want to wok-a-bye me, mommy?"


And I crumbled with that one could-you-want-to and, to my own surprise, I wok-a-bied.

The rest of the story is pretty predictable. My heart was warm, my toes were freezing and, eventually, I realized that I was whisper talking to a very wily two-year-old about her daddy's snoring and her sleepy stuffed animals who were waiting for her to come back to bed. I then came to my senses and was just about to close her bedroom door when I heard, "Mommy?...Could you...(this was a long pause -- she clearly had no idea what she would use next to keep the two of us awake)...could you...could you...just stay in here?

But I walked over, rubber her back and told her to go to sleep. And just as I was settling back into my own bed, she started wailing, "I want my mommy -- I am not so sleepy anymow!" over and over and over again for what felt like hours. And when that didn't work, she threw in "I want my daddy!" just for good measure. At which point, Andy stopped pretending to be asleep, and we actually considered -- in whisper discussion -- "just" letting her sleep with us.

Now, anyone who knows me knows I am a stickler for routine and schedules and consistency when it comes to kids and sleep. And while I do think the idea of co-sleeping sounds a bit dreamy in a my-kids-are-so-angelic-and cuddly-when-they-sleep kind of way, for me, no kid is cute and cuddly enough to justify half-sleeping on the very edge of your own bed. Saturday morning storytime in bed? Bring it on. But Mommy's bed is off limits from sundown to sunup. In fact, unless it's an emergency, Mommy is off limits from sundown to sunup.

Now that you know where I stand, you can imagine just how out-of-my-mind tired I must have been when I responded, "No. I'll just go sleep in there until she falls back to sleep." Equally. Bad. Idea.

Thus, I found myself cold, crick-necked and very suddenly awake on Nora's bedroom floor one hour later when I heard a "Moooommy...awre you awake? Be awake with me still, ok? We can play pwincesses, ok?"

And maybe it was because I had to get up in an hour anyway; or maybe it was because a surge of love jolted me with a this-could-be-our-first-slumber-party reverie; or maybe it was just that, even at 5 o'clock in the morning, I can't help but smile when she says pwincess instead of princess, but I actually considered it before collecting my pillow and giving her a much more definite no.

The kicker to this rambling tale of sleep deprivation and little kid trickery?

I shut the door, laid down in my bed, and no more than two minutes later, the "not so tired anymow" two-year-old stopped screaming and was fast asleep. I had been duped.

In Like a Lion

I am breathing a sigh of relief this May 1st (ok, 2nd) after April's jam-packed final week. There is no way to fit it all into one cohesive post -- that's how jam-packed a week can be when it includes...

a fifth birthday (which, of course, for a five-year-old boy is not complete without smears of dirt on the face),

a very Good Friday,

Easter,

soccer (of course),

preschool graduation,

and a birthday party, complete with ten four-and five-year-olds and homemade fondant,

...all in eight short days.

Monday has never felt so good. So good, in fact, that I considered sneaking home on my lunch break just to vacuum and fold some laundry so that I could come home unfettered, with nothing but a backyard picnic with the kiddos on tonight's agenda. But then I remembered that Porter has his well child check this afternoon. Relief is short-lived in the never-ending to-do list that is being a grown-up.

Among those to-dos, are thoughtful posts about my kids and family, as well as a diatribe on karma (i.e., why my fiery daughter was destined to be mine from the moment I pitched my first fit as an infant, lovingly secluded secured in my carseat in my mom's walk-in closet -- I get it now, Mom).

But for now, enjoy the sneak peak.

Another First

It seems that once your kids are walking and talking and potty trained, the milestones slow down a bit. You stop watching the calendar, counting down the days until he can cry it out, toddle across the room and eat his first PB&J, and you settle into normal life, where you seldom know what day it is and catch yourself when you almost forget that his first word was "baa" (ball). And suddenly, your little guy starts wearing holes in the knees of his jeans (and socks) and ardently expresses his opinion when it comes to his upcoming fifth birthday party. Cliche or not, the time it flies as babies become big kids.

Yep, that's a lightning bolt onesie -- Andy's first official act as Daddy.

But the milestones still come. The trick is slowing down enough to catch them. To remember them and jot them down so that, just as you will always remember his first word that he thoughtfully saved for his mama's birthday, you will also always remember that his first bad dream was about rainbow-colored ants. And in the rush of getting out the door this morning, I am oh so grateful that he wandered into the bathroom still sleepy-eyed but anxious to tell me about it (because my light-sleeping husband answered his middle-of-the-night call before I even stirred).

And it goes like this (in Porter's words).

I was outside and there were ants all over the ground. They were all different colors -- not just black -- like red and orange and blue and green and yellow and purple and turquoise [which he pronounces toourrrr-coys] and all the other colors. And when I kneeled down, I accidentally squished one, and when I looked at my knee, my pants were covered in a scary, slimy ant face. So then -- not in my dream just in real life -- I yelled for you and Daddy and I woke up but was still scared.

And can I just tell you how happy I was to hear that his dream was not about something truly scary -- like real life scary -- but was instead about smashing a bug?

I've been fretting lately because we are to the point that we have to start talking to Porter about strangers and how to get out of the house if there is a fire and why it is not ok to say the "bad word" his friend at preschool said when they were pretending to be "bad guys and superheroes." And I just don't feel ready to give up one bit of his innocence. But even though I refuse to let him watch anything more grown-up than The Backyardigans and will willingly sit through seven straight and very long games of Chutes and Ladders with enthusiasm if it means he doesn't think to ask about video games, it seems the milestones keep coming. He keeps getting older. And I worry, thinking this moment, this tantrum, this milestone is the beginning of the end.

He had a bad dream about colorful ants. And then asked me to say a prayer with him in the morning "to ask Heavenly Father to make sure I never have a bad dream about ants again."

Do I wish he would stop calling me "dude" and was not so interested in "bad words" and telling me all the reasons why he "likes but does not love" his little sister? Of course. But -- at least until we have to talk about daily showers and deodorant -- the scary slimy ant face dream has reminded me just how much fun each milestone really is.

So grateful this one made me a mommy five years ago. And a little heartbroken that he keeps growing up.