Lemme tell you guys a little something about myself (if you don’t already know): I hate co-sleeping. Hate. It.
I’m not talking about my husband, so much. That is, until he puts his big, cold man feet on me or steals the covers. Then, maybe. But, no — I’m talking about the children. The Hobbitses. The little people that siphon energy and live off of sleep-hungry parents, such as ourselves. The boys can sleep anywhere: vehicles, Target, high chairs… but when we need them to sleep? When we announce last call for bedtime? When we’re begging and pleading and reading the millionth story and getting the thousandth cup of freaking water?? No dice. “Sleep? What is this sleep you speak of, crazy woman?!”
See that picture? That’s Con sleeping in his high chair. Because it’s not his bed, that’s why. Also, please pardon the mess; he’d just eaten dinner. By eating dinner, I mean painting with it and the passing the hell out because why not. Anyway… back to the horrors of co-sleeping. Last night, after we’d eaten dinner, completed homework and chores, and had our “stalling in the bathtub because I don’t want to go to bed” bath-time, I attempted to put both guys down to bed. It was 8:30, right on time, and God bless it, they simply weren’t having it. Gabe was all, “MO-OM! We’ve only read four stories! I wanted five! SEE?? I’m THIS many, so we need one more story! Mo-om! MOM!” And Connor, of course, caught his second wind after having fallen asleep in his oatmeal and was just… everywhere. Does it make me a bad mom for having considered just leaving him in the chair, covered in oatmeal, just so he’d stay asleep? ‘Cause I’d be straight-up lying if I said the thought had never occurred to me. In fact, it “occurred” to me while I washed the dishes (while he was still in the high chair), helped Gabe with homework (see: high chair), and completed some back-to-school paperwork (..ditto). It even occurred to me when I went to go start the bath. In fact, on the way to the bathroom I distinctly remember thinking, “He’s safe and buckled in. Not like he’s stirring, or anything. Gah-dangit, I have to wake it up.”
Anyway, I succeeded in getting Gabe to sleep only by threat of removing Mario Kart from his very existence until he’s forty. Connor… I wasn’t so lucky. My shadow isn’t as glued to my ass as Connor is, guys. So, I stayed up with him. I thought, “Maybe if I watch enough Murder, She Wrote, he’ll pass out.” As if! I watched half a season of Murder, She Wrote before turning it off. I’m not going to say I was getting ideas, because I wasn’t… but if I had. Oh, if I had. So off to my bed we went. I did the usual “prepare the bed for the acrobatic toddler” routine and laid pillows everywhere (knowing that they’re only there for peace of mind), and attempted to wrangle the bull that is Connor. Around midnight, he finally dozed off. I must have done likewise shortly after, because before I knew it is was 3 o’clock in the morning and Gabe was there. In the middle of the bed. Leaving a good two feet of bed UNUSED. I’ve drawn a primitive diagram for your enjoyment of my misery:
Yes, Legos. I’m telling you — they turn up when you least expect them. They were NOT there when I laid down. At least, I don’t think so. Anyway, this was at 3 A.M. It gets better (…worse??):
My kids are contortionists, I tell you. In a past life, I’m sure both were members of the Russian circus… flying off the trapeze and managing to move their bodies through tiny hoops of fire. Apologies for the roughness of my drawings — much like there is a reason for my not being a dancer, there is also good reason why I am not a cartoonist. The bottom two images are between 4 AM and no sleep o’clock when I decided to say, “Screw it,” and removed myself from the clutches of drool-covered toddler hands. Oddly enough, I was still running later than I would have liked to have been for work. Hell, at least I can stare blankly through the windshield while I’m driving to work. That’s pretty much as close to sleep as I’m going to get to for the next, oh… rest of my days. What is that in dog years, I wonder? Gah, I’m tired.