In the middle of the night...

That one night when we hardly slept for no good or apparent reason? Yeah, that was LAST night. (this post is way too long to reflect the 18-hour night we just endured)

6:59 pm: Toddler was sleepy after bath, rubbing eyes and putting blankie over face. Took two books and about two minutes to get zzzzz's. Mommy then sits on sofa to work on her words with friends games.

7:14 pm: Mommy showers for the night and settles into the sofa for some quiet while Daddy works on his online classes.

7:40 pm: Toddler starts screaming like it's the end of the known world. "Might have a poo..." Mommy thinks. Gives him a few minutes to settle. He doesn't settle. Mommy goes in.
Todder: "Hi." Nonchalantly. Standing up. Still smells like baby powder. Seemingly just wants to chat. Shows me toys. Asks (ironically?) for her to read him his potty book. Mommy refuses. Turns off light, rocks, and he is out in moments.

11:30 pm: Shoot. Mommy and Daddy meant to get to bed earlier. What happened? Mommy recounts details of potty book to Daddy as a goodnight story.

after midnight: Parents finally asleep.

1:30 am: Toddler starts screaming like it's the end of the known world. "Might have a poo..." Mommy thinks. Daddy volunteers to see about it. Screaming continues while we wait to see if he can settle down on his own. Mommy slides out of bed.

In the hallway, she sees a kitchen light turning off and on intermittently. Weird. Jerod never leaves lights on. Never. At first she thinks it's lightning, then maybe car headlights. But neither of those fit the bill.

Mommy: "Hon. There's a weird light flickering in the kitchen. Did you leave a light on?"

Daddy: "I don't think so."

Mommy tinkles and goes in to see about toddler. No poo. "May as well change him since we're all up. Maybe he'll sleep later in the morning if he isn't soaked," she thinks.

Daddy reports that the light over the sink blinked once and then was fine. Odd. It was definitely going off and on. At this point, toddler on the changing table says aloud, "Scary."

Daddy feels uneasy. Mommy rocks toddler for a solid ten minutes trying to determine what woke him up. He is happy as a clam in her lap and falls asleep swiftly. Pops his head up after a few minutes, "Shirt. Mommy shirt." Points to Mommy's shirt. This gets him chatting about music. Mommy turns on soft music. "I just want to go to bed," she thinks. "Please. Let. Me. Sleep."

Toddler again asks for potty book. Mommy turns off light and hopes for the music to do its trick. Toddler falls asleep. In transit to the crib, full-on wake up, screaming, standing...Mommy leaves the room to let him sort it out. All known variables have been addressed.

"Mommmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" Toddler screams.

Daddy and Mommy discuss weirdness of the light. Now they're both uneasy. Toddler still screaming. Everything is weird in the middle of the night.

1:52 am: Mommy returns for one more round of rocking chair. Toddler easily falls asleep but oddly clings to her like a tiny monkey when she tries to return him to crib at 2:10 am.

Attempting sleep. Moments of quiet.

Toddler is sitting up in bed, visual courtesy of video monitor. Mommy is watching monitor to see if he lies down. Oddly, while watching, bleary-eyed, the monitor says "Medium Frequency" and then "NO SIGNAL." Ugh. Daddy thinks this is weird. Neither of us has ever seen this message.

Toddler still screaming.

2:30 am: Daddy brings toddler to parents' bed.
2:31 am
Toddler: "Dark. Mommy's bed....night night Mommy." Mommy hopes for dreams.

2:34 am: Toddler pops up. "Dark....pillow. Daddy's pillow? Mommy's pillow. Night night." Mommy's insane optimism. "Maybe he means it," she thinks. What could be better than sleeping between your parents?

2:36 am: Toddler adjusts positions seemingly trying to get comfortable for a solid 15 minutes. Some of the positions he tries are elbows-in-Mommy's-ribcage and on her head. Mommy has the head-end. Daddy must have been dealing with the kickers.

Toddler notices alarm clock. "One!" He says proudly. "I'm thinking it said TWO, baby. I remember a TWO. Do you know what TWO means at the beginning? It's time for night-night. Night-night, sweet baby." Toddler goes face-first to mattress. Mommy covers up alarm clock with a stuffed animal monkey. Mommy hopes for dreams.

Toddler pops up. Notices alarm clock on the other side. "Nine."
Mommy: "Cover that up."
Daddy: "Working on it."
Mommy: "Night-night, Shepard," she says with firmness and meaning.

Sounds of toddler sleep-breath. Mommy tries to get comfortable. Puts hand on toddler to see where he is. Why is Daddy's arm right there? Daddy tries to dislodge arm from under 30-lb. toddler. Toddler awakens. Again readjusts to get comfortable for a solid ten minutes. Squishes Mommy's chest and pulls her hair.

3 - 4 am: toddler moves around about every minute. Several times landing on Mommy's back or head and seemingly diving toward the edge of the bed. Mommy sighs audibly. Daddy sighs audibly.

Daddy: "what should we do?"
Mommy: "take him back to his bed."

Sometime around 4, but not sure because there's a monkey covering up her clock:
Daddy takes toddler back to his bed. Rocks him for 15 minutes. Gets him good and asleep. Mommy finally starts to drift off. Toddler will not go in crib. Screams. Daddy brings him back to bed.

Daddy: "He won't get in his crib. What should we do?"
Mommy: "Let him cry. I have to get some sleep." Mommy was callused and exhausted.

Daddy: "I won't be able to sleep if he's in there crying." Daddy brings him back to bed. Daddy is the nice one. The ratio between lack of sleep and Mommy's lack of sweetness is concurrent and direct.

Toddler kind of settles long enough for Mommy to have a paranoid dream about four people busting up into her house at 4 a.m. and acting strangely. Then she dreams of a violent thunderstorm outside, and a tree crashes through their bedroom. She takes the toddler to the nursery, and a tree crashes into the nursery, grazing Daddy's head. Next, she discovers that the people who visited earlier left magnetic nametags on her chairs that had bugs for listening embedded in them. She realizes they had been there under false pretenses. Daddy seems unconcerned. People show up on her doorstep again. She goes Georgia-hood-rat on them and starts yelling and hitting. They barge in anyway. Child won't sleep in the dream. They are in her guest room, bedrooms, and are interacting with her kid. Uncool, weird people.

Oh wait. Child is still crawling on her back and head and ribcage in real life. Perhaps there is some dozing between 5 - 6:15 am. Light dozing. And sweating because she's afraid to move.

6:15 am: Toddler moves to the foot of the bed and seems to get comfortable. Mommy laments that alarm is set for 6:45 am. Moves monkey and pushes alarm forward five minutes. Like that will help.

6:36: Toddler awakens. Tries to slide off side of bed. Mommy catches him with her feet and slides him back up. "Ten more minutes, baby. Please." She closes her eyes and hopes. Not for dreams, but for a magical dose of rest.

6:38: Toddler is ready to greet the sun.

6:40: Mommy finds sippy cup and Mickey Mouse on DVR. Makes strong coffee. Attempts to curl hair. Cannot get into any conceivable rhythm for getting ready. Has to be at work early today of all days.

7:30 am: Toddler is refusing all foods except four puffs and half of a graham cracker.

Hello, Wednesday. I've spent so much time with you already.

If you happen by my desk, and don't see me; I'm underneath, dreaming about a toddler climbing on me like a jungle gym in the night.

Mexican for Mother's Day

We were pulling out of church, full of encouragement and thoughts on friendship. Our sleepy little boy in the backseat, already saying, "All done." Um. We have a 30-minute ride, son. You'll have to get comfy. Being the one named Mommy, I got to pick the lunch spot. I opted for the very close and recently discovered Mexican dive near church, Miguel's. If you saw this place, you'd probably keep driving. It looks like it's attached to a sketchy motel by interstate. But their fajitas are fantastic. And they have an "A" rating.
There we are, and within 30 seconds of entering, Shepard knocks over the basket of tortilla chips. But within moments, we have a Mother's Day miracle! I show him for the 100th time how to drink from a straw (even though he has his own sippy cup, he really loves to play with straws). He takes the drink from me and promptly drinks through the straw! This endeavor is a leap away from last week's Sunday lunch that ended up in a full clothes-change in the Showmars bathroom. (For him, not me) Last week's sippy cup got left behind at the church, so we were trying to help him drink milk from a styrofoam cup. Milk-bath.
Fast-forward to Miguel's. I was so excited. I had started to worry that Shepard would be in his first day of college telling his classmates that the one distinguishing thing about him is that he never learned to drink from a straw.
 Our massive plates of fajitas came, as did Shepard's rice and grilled chicken. "RICE!" That kid loves some rice. As is usually the case, about half the rice makes it to his mouth, and the other half ends up in his lap and on the booster seat. We have at least graduated from the "everything on the floor" phase. As he started poaching the rice off my plate, and I had a teeny moment of "hold up! It's my Mother's Day lunch! Calm down little poacher!" Then I realized. I am his mommy. I am mothering him.  I helped him eat and drink (!), and I'll scoop all my rice to his plate so he can drop half of it. I will cheer him on when he tries the beans, even if he makes yucky face. I will take him outside and shake off his lunch in the bushes by the restaurant. I will carry him, draped over my shoulder in sleep, into the house after church and lunch and kiss his forehead and cover him up and pray for a good nap. I will hold him in my lap in his Elmo pajamas when I should be fixing my hair or doing the dishes...because he climbed up there and that's where he wants to be. I will tell him 298 times to sit on his bum and put him in time out despite his protestations. I will do all these over and over because one Mother's Day in the not-too-distant future, he will sit and eat something he ordered for himself and he will eat it all and ask for seconds and grow taller than I am. His long, lean body will get too long to sit in my lap, and his cartoons will turn into car shows or time alone in his room. I will tell him to sit on his bum because one day he'll be at a friend's house, and he'll need to set the example. I will always mother him to varying degrees, of course, but now I get the privilege of being hands-on. He still takes my kisses and runs to me at the end of a school-day. He still mostly fits in my lap. It takes four times longer to get ready in the morning because he still needs me. One day he'll brush his teeth and put on his own clothes. I constantly tell myself this or that phase will be over soon enough, but in truth, I'm not sure I want it to be. I'm very busy celebrating my "moments made of now."

Thank you, Shepard, for making me a Mommy. It's one of my favorite names.

Excuse me, can we have April back? Someone stole it.

April was just a blur. There was a birthday, work events, work events, surprises, a trip to Atlanta, a trip to Greenville, work events...and I'm sure we did something fun. Oh yes, we had a birthday date night to see the Hunger Games, ate at the Beef and Bottle and saw Starving Artist's excellent spring show...and got to see Les Mis (musical version).
One fun thing I did was take a break from my no-new-clothes 2012 edict. Yup. I'm okay with it. When I pulled out my summer wardrobe in March ('cause it was already 85 degrees...what?), I realized that I was seriously struggling in the summer/warm weather clothing department. So, I took my birth-month off and picked up a few items to fill out what I had in the closet. Without making an exhaustive list of why I hate summer clothes...I just find it difficult to be dressed nicely and not be hot. I don't wear sleeveless, I'm really pale, and I hate getting sweaty in dress clothes. Just FINDING stuff I like can be a challenge.
But I think I'm back on the horse, so to speak. I should be able to swim through the summer with what I have now, after I exchange a few items that don't work. I still cannot find a decent pair of chocolate brown cotton dress pants or khakis that fit quite right. Alas, this challenge does not include my learning to sew. Maybe one day...I can sew things that fit my flat behind, my 6'11" husband, and my sure-to-be-tall son.
We're keeping up with kiddo news over on www.shepardjones.com. Which of course, ends up being some family stuff too. I'm looking forward to summer, when we can spend some time outside with the little guy and his backyard playground.
I'm thinking a LOT about how to teach him how to be in the world with others, and that he's not the only person on the planet. I'm thinking a lot about making my moments made of now enjoyable. I still need to paint something besides a wall this year. And keep plugging away at freeing the thoughts that run around in my head late at night.
In other news, I finally went back to the short haircut I love. Between that and Shepard finally answering "YES" to the question "Do you love Mommy?" I'm having a pretty good May.

Shiny week and half-brain syndrome

Alright, now that I've officially announced my no-new-clothes resolution (I started to type no-clothes resolution, and realized that's an ENTIRELY different affair!)...I could say I'm on week three. I haven't bought anything but "unmentionables" and some socks for Jerod so far in 2012. It is SHINY week. I started yesterday by sporting a shiny orange top, and have continued today with a shiny gold/leopard top with a black sweater. (maybe there will be pictures. no promises)
I'm hopeful I can make it all the way through the week with something shiny each day.
In other news, I have realized that I am suffering from half-brain syndrome. Do not race over to WebMD. It is not an actual disease. Except to those of you who suffer from it.
I find that now that I have a running, climbing, curious toddler, I cannot have a conversation with adults when he's in the room. I try valiantly. But most of my brain is in mommy-mode, making sure that he's not dangling from the back of the recliner by one hand. Adult conversation has become nearly impossible with anyone other than Husband, who is also suffering from half-brain syndrome. So, between the two of us, we have one whole brain and can make some gibberish into what passes for conversation. But at least he understands when I give the look that says, "can this wait until after bedtime?" Because half-brain syndrome also comes with temporary aphasia.

According to the mayo clinic online, a person with aphasia may:

• Speak in short or incomplete sentences
• Speak in sentences that don't make sense
• Speak unrecognizable words
• Not comprehend other people's conversation
• Interpret figurative language literally
• Begin to make spelling errors
• Write sentences that don't make sense

They may as well have listed, "people with small children may..."
So, bear with us. When the little man is around, we are operating on instinct to keep our offspring intact. He is thus far fairly fearless and more curious about everything with a button, plug, or climbing ledge than I ever thought possible.

Merry Christmas!

Here's a holiday card featuring the little one. Hopefully, we'll get a good family picture over the next few days.