Timmy at 20 months

Our baby boy is now 20 months old.  The past few weeks have seen more attempts at saying words, more disagreements with Annie, and a lot more of the behavior that says, 'Remember, Mama, I'm an individual with an agenda of my own!'

Somewhere along the way, Timmy figured out that when he shrugs his shoulders and smiles, people think it's cute.  He does it to me all the time because he knows I'll always laugh and say, "Don't you shrug your shoulders at me!"  His timing is always so perfect.  I'll be bustling around the kitchen while he's sitting at the table, and I'll say, "Are you hungry for lunch, Timmy?"  I'll turn around and see that little shrug and the twinkle in his eye.  "Don't you shrug your shoulders at me!"  No, really, keep doing it because it's adorable and I love it.

Timmy continues to grow longer and leaner.  I just cut the feet off his footie pajamas.  He didn't gain even an ounce between his 12- and 18-month appointments, but he grew three inches taller.  I just love his little physique, the way he stands so tall and straight, and how much longer his legs are starting to look.  I can't wait until it warms up enough to put him in shorts.  I've noticed lately what a great appetite he's had and how he's even more tired than usual at naptime and bedtime.  I think he's having a growth spurt.  This is the only picture I could find that shows his gangly little legs.  He's been in pants for the majority of the last month.

At least once every day, Timmy needs to take a break from playing for a cuddle.  Usually it's with me.  He'll whine and hold onto my legs until I sit down on the floor.  Then he'll turn around and have a seat on my lap and I'll wrap my arms around him, relishing the feel of that busy little body resting against mine and the sight of his cute little feet resting on the floor.  I might tell him in that goofy-sounding voice I use with my babies, "Oh Timmy, I love you so!  And I'm nevah, evah, evah gonna let you go!"  One time he picked big sis Delaney to take a cuddle break with, and it melted my heart, the two of them like that.  I ran for my camera to capture the magic.

I still nurse him three times a day.  I was hoping to nurse him through cold and flu season this year, and it looks like I've met my goal.  He was certainly a healthy specimen this winter, a lot healthier than some of the rest of us were at times.  Now it looks like we'll easily make it to age 2, which would be a lot longer than I nursed either of the girls.  The circumstances have been different with each of them.  I got pregnant with Annie when Delaney was only 13 months old, and three months later my milk dried up.  The summer after Annie turned one was very busy with traveling and moving.  Weaning was the easy and convenient thing to do, and I think I made it to just shy of 14 months with her.  With Timmy I'll probably be looking to wind down in the next few months, but there's really no urgency.  He doesn't walk up and lift my shirt any time or anywhere.  He's accustomed to only nursing in the glider rocker in his room, and only at specific times.  So as long as it's going well, we'll see how long it goes.

He and Annie fight constantly.  I usually yell at her to just give him whatever it is he wants.  This is how I see it: she always starts playing with something she knows he likes right in front of him, and she does it on purpose.  Although he may not have been playing with it before, he wants it when he sees Annie with it.  Then he starts to screech, and I start to yell at Annie, "Why do you always play with the things he likes right in front of him?"  And it's something she has no interest in, she just enjoys pushing his buttons.  So I make her give it to him, whatever it is.  I might be spoiling him, but I can't stand to hear that screeching.  It's like nails on a chalkboard and I'll do anything to make it stop.

Timmy's been getting into a bit of trouble in the nursery at the Y.  It seems after having to deal with big sisters at home, he is very enthusiastic about seeing kids who are smaller than he is.  At first I would hear, "Timmy loves the babies.  He's so nice to them."  That turned into, "Timmy keeps trying to pick up the babies.  We have to keep telling him not to do that."  From there it progressed to this morning when I walked in to pick him and Annie up after my workout, and saw him sitting alone on a chair facing the back door.  I said, "Aw, is Timmy in timeout?"  I actually didn't believe he was because he didn't look upset.  Pulling a chair over to the back door and looking out at the view outside seemed like something one of my kids might do.  You never know.  I was told by one of the women who work there, "Yes, he's in timeout because he knocked over the babies three times.  And he tried to wrestle this one," she said, indicating a red-haired baby boy on her hip who looked to be maybe 7 months old.  I was like, "Oh no!"  By now Timmy knew I was there and he got out of the chair and came running over to me.  I picked him up and brought him right back to that chair and said, "No, buddy, you've got to go back to timeout until they say you're done.  You can't be pushing the babies."  He started to cry, then came running back to me, and I put him back in the chair.  It hurt my heart to see him crying so hard but we've got to nip that behavior in the bud.  He'll get us kicked out of the nursery!  He stayed there and cried for a little while longer until the girl who put him there went to get him out.  I could see her having a little talk with him, probably about being gentle with the babies.  He was very subdued for a couple minutes after that, clinging onto me with a sad look on his face.  I admit the whole thing was a little distressing for me.  I haven't felt the need to put Timmy in timeout more than once or twice at home, and I still just think of him as a baby himself, mostly because he doesn't talk yet and that makes me think he doesn't understand things.  And of course at home, he doesn't have anyone smaller to pick on.  He's usually the one being picked on.  I definitely think the timeout was appropriate and I did my best to back them up on it.  (I don't even think it even felt like timeout to him until I walked in and didn't rescue him.)  I hope that made an impression on him, and maybe next time a warning will suffice.  Better yet, the next time he gets the urge to treat the babies like bowling pins, he'll go play with some cars or trains instead.

I don't want to end this update on that note so I will post a video of Timmy and I goofing around in the kitchen.  Alright, I tried to post it in two different browsers but it didn't work.  (What do I pay Google $2.49 a month for anyway!?)  I no longer know how to embed YouTube videos either.  Here is the link to the video in YouTube for any grandparents who want to see. 

Timmy at 19 months

Timmy is now 19 months old.  He's another month bigger, smarter, and more determined to do everything.  He sometimes thinks he's not a baby anymore, but then he'll grab his lovey, put his thumb in his mouth and want to sit and snuggle on my lap.  I love those moments so much.  His lovey is starting to smell like feet, however, and I really need to wash it.

He's still not a talker, but he uses lots of body language.  He shakes his shoulders "no" when I ask him if he wants something, and he wants me to keep guessing.  He points and says, "Mm?" waiting for me to figure out what he wants.  It's kind of annoying because I know he knows some words -- use them, Timmy!

He now says the following words: "dis," "dat", "yay", "uh-oh," "car," "go," "woof", "rawr", "bo-bot" (robot), "juice," "cuk" (truck), "car",  "pe-boo"(peek-a-boo), "bye-bye", "hello", "poo-poo," "bowl", "tuh-tuh" (turtle), "cheat" (treat), "ball", "cheese", "more", "Elmo" (and that's funny b/c we don't watch Elmo or Sesame Street here, but we have an Elmo couch in the playroom.), "light", "bubble," "duck," "eye."  It's still just a single word here and there mixed in with the gibberish, but I'm definitely seeing progress.

All four of his pointy teeth just poked through this month.  He's got a whole set of teeth now.

He hates being strapped into things.  Running errands is not fun.  I have to wrestle him into his carseat after every stop, and it is really hard.  Timmy has a strong core and an even stronger will.  He arches his back and twists his entire body as soon as I put him in that carseat.  I have broken nails from trying to get him strapped in.  I've had to drastically limit the stops I make on Tuesdays and Thurdays while Annie's at school.  Maybe I just go to Target or Harris Teeter once a week if I really need to.  It's so much easier to just go home until he's out of this phase.  I use more fuel but oh well.  He also hates being dressed and having his diaper changed.  I'd forgotten how hard it is to care for a toddler.  Come to think of it, I'm sure it was never this hard with his sisters.  They would fight me on being buckled in sometimes, but not every. single. time.

He is fascinated with eyes, mouths and noses.  He'll point at his own and at mine and wait for me to say the words.  I'll sit there saying, "Eyes.. mouth.. nose.. mouth.. eyes.. mouth.. ouch, my eye!" for 10 minutes at a time.

I asked Timmy if I could take a picture of his ear, hoping to get a side profile.  He thought I meant for him to show me where his ears are.

As he gets bigger and his personality gets stronger, I am starting to know how tough it can be having three kids so close together in age.  Before it was two little girls and a baby who was just along for the ride.  Now it's three little people whose wills are constantly clashing.  He and Delaney get along almost 100% of the time.  They adore each other here, there, or anywhere.  They hug and kiss a lot.  He and Annie, on the other hand, are a whole different story.  They torment each other.  She takes things she knows he wants and keeps them just out of his reach.  I've had to untangle his little fingers from her hair many times.  One time he yanked out a whole clump of her hair.  There was the time he got mad because I made him go inside the house, and he walked up to her and hit her on the head just because she happened to be standing there.  She hit him back and then they were both crying.  This hitting stuff is new to me.  I don't remember either of the girls getting mad and wanting to swing at each other, although I'm sure it happened once in awhile.  Annie is physical, but I never would have called her a hitter.  Now I see more of her hitting Delaney and vice versa.  I say to them in exasperation, "I don't hit you guys.  You don't hit each other.  We don't hit in this family."  The girls know better.  But Timmy will not understand that for a long time.  He is a toddler who is completely driven by his emotions.  He gets mad, he cries, he starts swinging in a comical up-and-down motion.  He lifts his arm way up and pauses there for a second with his hand right over his head.  Then, woosh! -- he brings it down with all the power he can muster.  Up and down  his arm goes in a storm of baby fury.  He hit me right in the face once.  I said, "No, we do not hit."  Then I put him down and walked away.  He bawled and followed me but I deliberately ignored him for a little while because for him, being deprived of my attention is the worst thing.  It hasn't happened since.

Annie always wants to do things to "help" Timmy because she likes being bigger than him and being in charge.  One day I heard Timmy  crying in the really shrill way that means he's in pain or afraid.  I rushed up to the playroom and found Annie trying to pull a shirt off him, but it was stuck on his head and he was trapped inside.

When they're in public the two of them are the best of friends.  One of my favorite things to do is just take a few seconds to watch them when I come to pick them up from the babysitting room before they know I'm there.  They are like a Fisher Price ad, all smiles and cooperation.  And they build with the blocks -- the very same blocks we have at home -- instead of just dumping them everywhere.  I'm amazed.  I should take a picture.  And then I'm told how nice they were to each other.  Of course they were, I think to myself.  You people have no idea what they're like at home.  I have friends who are either homeschooling or considering it, and I know I could never do it.  I couldn't spend that much time at home with all my kids.  They are at their absolute worst at home with me, and I'm ready to tear my hair out after a rainy Saturday.  Sending the kids to school is my salvation and theirs too, since they're not crazy about being home with me either.  After a few hours apart we're happy to see each other again.  But maybe other people's kids are different.  To each their own, anyway.  I should learn to never say never, as I have changed my mind in so many areas over the last few years.  If Tim and I get orders to a place that has crappy schools, homeschooling may be the only option.  But this is supposed to be a post about Timmy, not homeschooling, so I'll try to get back on track.

You could probably tell that Timmy got another haircut this month.  Tim thinks he looks a little dorky, and it's more of a bowl cut than last time.  I took him to the same barber as last time, and asked for the same thing as last time.  I don't know anything about boy hair.  I thought it looked cute.  But I will agree that it does look better once it's grown out a little.

Delaney brought home a book from the library about orangutans, with real pictures.  I've never seen Timmy react to any book with so much enthusiasm.  He gasped and shrieked and yelled as he looked at the furry primates, as if he were greeting old friends.  I was sorry to see that book go back to school today because it's so much fun watching Timmy look at it.

I couldn't pick my favorite picture of Timmy right after his nap, so I made this nifty collage.  I love the one of him going, "Rawr!" through the bars.  I was like, "Yikes, don't let the beast out!"

One worn down mama

It has been a hard couple of weeks and I am ready for better days to get here.  I had assumed that when Tim deployed, I would adjust to his going away just by being busy with all the kids' stuff, exercise, and all the usual stuff I do to run this household.  Instead the second half of January has been spent battling sickness.  First there was the bug that struck the weekend right before he left.  Then a few days later, there was the one that Annie was just coming down with at the end of my Day in the Life post.  I had no idea that day what I was in for.  I think it was flu, although I never confirmed that with a doctor (and yes, we all had a flu shot this year).  It was a week of fever, chills, body aches, fatigue, headache and cough, mostly for Annie and me.  I'm positive I've never been so sick.  Fortunately, Delaney and Timmy only got a touch of it and had a fever for one day and runny noses.

It is hard to parent little kids.  It is hard to parent little kids alone.  It is hard to parent little kids alone and sick.  There is no day off ever.  They need to be fed, they need their butts wiped, they need to be bathed, they need to be kept from killing each other.  There was one morning that I just sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands and thought, 'How in the world am I going to get through this day?'  The good thing is that during the couple of days when everybody was feeling bad, the kids did not misbehave.  We all just lay around in a heap for the most part.  Then we all started to get better, but I continued to have sore throat and a hacking cough that was triggered just by talking.  All day long, I heard, "Mama."  "Mama!"  "Ma-MA!"  And it was so frustrating.  The days seemed endless.

There was one thing I could be grateful for even on the worst days: the routine that we established a long time ago for our kids.  It was my salvation.  I could always count on a two-hour rest in the middle of the day, and an early bedtime.  On Monday night I put them in bed just a little earlier than usual, and by 7, every single light was off and I was in bed too.  Then it was up bright and early at 6 to wait in the freezing cold for a bus that was 35 minutes late .. but at least I'd had lots of rest even if I couldn't sleep all that well.

Over the past few days I've gotten a lot better health-wise, but I still feel so challenged.  These kids are giving me a run for my money.  Delaney breaks down and cries over things like I didn't park in "our spot" in the church parking lot.  She dissolves into tears and calls me a "bad mama" or "mean mama" every time I issue a decision she does not agree with.  And I also realize that she is coping in her own little kid way with her dad leaving.  I am constantly having to referee all their little fights, and my patience is wearing thin.  I repeat myself over and over again about the same old stuff, like we don't drop our jackets on the floor when we come in the door; we don't waste food, if you ask for it eat it; Annie, stop teasing your brother;  It's not time to eat again, we just had breakfast.  I felt like such an ogre when I told them they couldn't have their after dinner treat because they hadn't cleaned the playroom in the allotted time.  And trust me, they'd had plenty of time, they had chosen not to take me seriously.  Delaney was very upset about that.  I hate seeing her cry, especially when I know that it's always the little things we have to look forward to, that make our days good.  But you know what I hate more?  Not being able to maintain any kind of order and discipline in this house.

I think a big part of the problem is all the extra time we've been spending in the house together due to sickness and/or colder weather.  I am hoping for a return to normalcy with this coming week and a more manageable level of parenting stress.  It's going to be a new week, and soon after, a new month, better than this one.  I'm counting on it because right now I am one worn down mama.

Discipline

Last night at bedtime, the girls turned their room inside out.  In retaliation, Tim went in there with a black trash bag and put everything in it -- books, clothes, shoes, toys.  If it was on the floor, it went in the bag.  This he did while I enjoyed date night linguine with scallops alone.  Tonight it was my job to sort through it all.

Now who is being punished: them or me?

You might want to skip this if poop makes you sick.

I'm convinced that 2 must be the most dangerous age in a human's life.  Two-year-olds have the strength, agility, imagination and tenacity to do so many things.  But they have no caution, forethought, no sense of what is wrong or unhealthy or dangerous.  Everything around them presents a unique opportunity for experiment -- the pasta on their plate.  The overturned laundry basket next to the highest (no longer safest) counter.  Their diaper full of turds.  Why not?  It's there.

I'm very grateful to have had Tim home the past two afternoons, because I don't know if could have coped with this alone.  I don't have the stomach for it.  I've been brought to my knees by the horrors I've seen in this house.

We always tell Delaney to yell if she has a poop.  She almost always poops during quiet time, no matter what time quiet time is, but then she never tells us.  Or she'll tell us she has one when she doesn't.  I actually thought we were all set this time because she'd pooped before quiet time started.

When her two hours were up, I went in there, and was surprised to see she had a poopy diaper.  I reminded her that she should tell me right when she has it so I can change it right away.  As I opened the diaper, I wondered, 'What are those brown streaks on her belly?  Oh, please don't let it be what I think it is.. Oh, but it is.'  I changed her, and as I did, I wiped her anywhere I saw a trace of brown.  I got a good look at her fingers and fingernails, and I saw -- oh no, no, no no nononono...

I was really upset by now, and once I got her new diaper on, I hauled her to the bathroom to scrub her hands.  Her stepstool is not high enough so I have to hold her up with my arm under her belly.  Back in her room I ordered her to stand in the corner while I surveyed the rest of the room.  I don't know what made me pull back the curtain, but it's a good thing I did.  Delaney's artwork was all over the windowpane.  I nearly gagged.

Tim came upstairs and helped me clean up, and as we did so, we told Delaney she'd done a very bad thing.  We said over and over, Yo-Gabba-Gabba - style, "We don't play with poop."  "We don't play with poop."  We got her to say it too, with enthusiasm.

But no matter how forceful our tone was, no matter how abrupt we were with her, one thing was very obvious.  She did not feel any remorse or shame for what she'd done.  For her, this started out as boring quiet time, and turned into a party with Mom and Dad.  She said cheerfully, "I'm sorry," and you could tell she was loving every minute.  We've never been so frustrated.

She did become upset when, once cleanup was over, we turned off the lights and closed the curtain again, and told her not to move until the clock turned yellow.  We wanted her to know this was not 'get out of jail free' time.  Tim stood guard out in the hall.  First he had her sitting on the floor in time-out, not allowed to move.  As long as she was crying, he figured that she understood that we were angry with her because she'd done something bad. Then she became happy there, talking to herself, and he realized it was useless.  He then allowed her in her bed, and there she stayed until the clock turned yellow.

The next day I put her in quiet time, and we went over the rules.  "You yell if you have a poop."  "You don't play with poop, you understand?"

I checked on her a half hour into it, and everything was OK.  Tim was home, and eager to talk about the day's events with him and just relax, I let the rest of the two hours slip by, and they did.  Quickly.

If you could have seen my face when I opened her door, it would have looked a little something like this:



This was only 40 minutes before a potential babysitter was scheduled to arrive for an interview, mind you.

Tim and I were a very efficient team.  He whisked her to the bathtub without delay, and scrubbed her head to toe, while I descended on her room with plastic bags, all-purpose cleaner and baking soda.  I picked up at least 25 turds.  I gritted my teeth and vowed to embarrass her with this story one day.  There was hardly a spot in her room that had been spared.  The bed was stripped.  The stuffed animals were sniffed, and immediately quarantined.  Books were sprayed and wiped down.  Bedding was thrown into the washer.  Every surface was scrubbed.

The madder we got, the more cheerful Delaney became.  I said to Tim, "I'd slap her silly if I thought it would make an impression on her.  But the only impression would be the one left by my hand on her cheek!"  (OK, the truth is I'd never slap her silly, but it felt good to say.)  She just didn't get it.  In fact, later, she asked Tim for another "bubble bath."  I said, "Bubble bath?  We don't have any bubble bath."  Tim said that he'd used so much soap, the bath was unusually bubbly.  Her takeaway from this incident and our reaction: a bubble bath.

So, let's try to examine this from Delaney's point of view.  She plays with her poop, and thinks to herself, 'What will it be this time?'  Mama and Daddy running around my room yelling?  A bubble bath?  All this fuss over little old me -- what fun!  I'll just do something new with my poop every day, and wait for the show to begin.  Quiet time has never been so interesting.

The last two days have taught us that she is incapable of being disciplined because she only lives in the moment.  Unless we catch her red- er, brown-handed in the act, there is no disciplining.  So today, I will finally do something smart.  I will sit outside her room at quiet time, with the door open a few inches.  I will get comfy with a pillow and throw, and a book.  I guarandarntee you she will not play with her poop with me just outside the door.

Oh, and taking the advice I found somewhere on the Internet, I will buy some Play-Doh so that she can get her fix of playing with mushy things at other times during the day.

Do you think there will ever be a time when she does the right thing without me watching?

Feeling very humbled today

I came to the realization on the way back from Tot Gym this morning that over the past few days, maybe even weeks, I have allowed myself to be sucked down into a vortex of self-pity, and if I don't get ahold of myself, I'm in danger of becoming the type of mom I said I'd never want to be.

It was a little incident at Tot Gym (thank goodness "little" since it had the potential to be big), that woke me up to so many other things.  Suddenly I was staring at a montage of myself and not happy at all with what I saw.

There I am at 7 in the morning, wishing I didn't have to be the one to answer Delaney's thud-thud-thud wakeup call, and dragging myself to her room.  How long since Delaney got a cheerful greeting in the morning?

There I am, feeling burnt out from the long day, tearfully telling Tim how much I miss having his parents around, to "swoop in" every now and then and take these kids off our hands for a little while.

There I am, feeling like this house is falling down around me, and I can't get it under control.  I fantasize having someone else come in to clean my house, and not always having dirty bathrooms in the back of my mind. [We've already been down that road, and it's not happening.]

There I am complaining to friends about how Tim worked on a project all through the three-day weekend, and I didn't get the weekend help that I'm accustomed to getting, and we had no quality family time.  Three-day weekend, ha!  Try seven-month deployment!

There I am saying to Tim, "Ugh, I just can't do bathtime tonight;" knowing that he will pitch in and give Delaney her bath even though he's had a hard day himself.

Taken alone, none of these things is a big deal.  But add them all together over the course of just a couple weeks, and I'm alarmed.  Alarmed at how often I'm hoping and expecting someone else -- usually Tim -- to take over and do my job.  The job that I happily and eagerly signed up for.  The job that, as we were talking about at a friend's house the other night, we are darn lucky to be able to have.  It's a privilege to be able to stay home and raise these kids ourselves, and to be able to afford to is a luxury.  But lately the voice in me that says, I am blessed, I am lucky is being drowned out by the loud whiny one that says, Why me?  Why all the time?

How did I ever get it into my head that just because I am feeling especially challenged these days -- I'd even go so far as to say besieged some days -- that I am in any way entitled to a break?  Why am I still waiting for some relief?

So today, I take the girls to Tot Gym, as much to get out of the house and see friends, as to get Delaney somewhere where she can burn energy.  It is a little dance and gymnastics studio, comprised of a few rooms -- a studio, a room where the gymnastics equipment is, a coatroom, and a lobby with a desk -- all separated by doors that are not childproofed.  Neither is the front door.  The kids run from room to room, but the only rooms where there is anything for them to do are the dance studio and the gymnastics room, which are connected by a door.

With Delaney off playing independently, I relax and sit down with Annalise, just talking with the other moms there.  I know I ought to be checking on Delaney, but I shrug off my own little voice of concern, saying, "She's fine here, there's nothing for her to get into.."  OK, mostly true.  But then I'm ashamed to say, I followed that up with, "I'm sure the teacher wouldn't let her run out the front door, even if she were strong enough to open it."  Funny how at that moment I didn't hear what two things were wrong with that statement: that a) First and foremost, it's not Miss Sandra's job to keep kids from running out the door; and b) the idiotic idea that Delaney's not strong enough to do anything she sets her mind to doing.

Within a short while, I was told that Delaney, who makes it her mission to test any and all boundaries,  had tried to escape.  Miss Sandra, who I'm sure relishes the job of gatekeeper, in addition to dance and gymnastics instructor, had stopped her.

And here I was, face to face with my laziness, complacency and readiness to pass the buck  -- things that I had never before hesitated to notice in others from atop my high horse.

Feeling like a complete dumbass, I kept my Delaney in view the rest of the time we were there, and gave her a time-out for going to the door again soon before we left.  This is what it's about sometimes -- time-outs and crying.  Other times, it's all about hugs and smiles, and then life is easy.  But this too shall pass, and then it will be back to hugs and smiles, right?

Until then, can I stop waiting and expecting for a break?  For Delaney to stop acting like a two-year-old? For a fairy godmother to appear and say, "I've got it.  You spend the day at the spa."? Or even for Tim to get home just an hour or two early?

Can I catch myself about to complain about my wonderful life, and instead just suck it up and say a prayer?  Yeah, I'll try that and see how it goes.

A cell fit for a princess

Who remembers what a cute nursery Delaney used to have?  It was my pride and joy in Massachusetts, the one room I took a good long look at with a lump in my throat before the movers came.  Delaney's ladybug nursery that Tim had conspired with his family to surprise me with its completion when I was six months pregnant with her.  When we moved here, we transferred it over as best we could, but without paint and wallpaper, since we were only staying here 10 months.  I even added a couple of things I thought would make it nicer, as she got a little older.  There was the sling bookshelf to hold all her books in her reach, with the covers facing out.  I'd even stuck leftover ladybugs and dragonflies to the side of it.  There was the little wooden rocking chair we made off with from Tim's parents', that was the perfect size for a munchkin.  Sometimes at story time, I would sit in the large wooden rocker, and she would sit in the small one, since she usually didn't like to sit in my lap anymore.  I even added a little toy box of sorts, with a couple puzzles in it, so she had her own little space to play.  That was the first thing to go when the insanity started.

Then we converted her crib to a toddler bed a few weeks ago, when she learned how to climb in and out of it.  Now her entire room is only a couple steps away from being converted to a padded room in a mental hospital.  She's losing her nice things one by one, but only Tim and I seem to care.  First went her little rocking chair, that Tim had lovingly repaired after it broke during the move.  I got tired of listening to her toss it around, and I didn't want it to break for good.  Next went the bookshelf I love, after I heard a crash one day during what we now refer to as "quiet time", and came upstairs to find it knocked over.  A few days ago, Tim came home from work and was sad to see the large wooden rocker in the middle of the family room  instead of beside her bed.  He remembered how he used to read stories to her with her on his lap, her drowsy head on his chest.  She'd used it to climb on top of her bureau, and that was that.  Her armoire is strapped to the wall, and the knobs are removed from the drawers.  I dearly hope she doesn't find another way to hurt herself with it, but there's nowhere else in the house to put it.  Her bureau is a low, squat, heavy thing that I couldn't even manage to pull over, but then again..

Oh, and then about an hour ago, I used the same threat with Delaney that Tim had used before, successfully.  "Delaney, if I hear any more noise, I'm coming in here and taking all your books and toys."  I felt so sad and defeated as I went back up there a half hour later to make good on my threat.

Every day I go through the same routine with her that I always have.  "Naptime" or "quiet time" is nothing new around here.  It's an important part of the day that I refuse to give up on because experts say kids this age still need naps; and even more importantly, Mama needs time to recharge her batteries.  But my batteries do not get recharged.  I cringe at every noise I hear now, and dash up those stairs every 20 minutes or more, afraid of what I might find.  I live in fear.  What's next?  Blinds broken?  Room-darkening shade ripped off the rod? Her head busted open?

I've tried niceness and meanness, and consequences.  During non- quiet time hours, time-outs are very effective with her for discipline.  But obviously that won't work, if she views quiet time as one long time-out.  I told Tim, if there was ever a time I thought she deserved a spanking, it's when she's wreaking havoc when she's supposed to be resting, and then waking her sister, to boot!  But Tim and I agree that spanking is not for us.

The other day, she slept for once, and so did Annie, and then so did I for a little while.  It was like heaven.  Why can't it be like that every day?  What am I doing wrong?  The Sleep Lady can not help me here.  Or maybe she could, if I was willing to pay $300 for a phone consultation. That'll be the day, when I pay someone $300 to talk to me on the phone!

I remember how, with care, love and joy, Tim and I selected every piece of furniture that went into that room.  We wanted the best.  Now we know, we could have thrown a mattress into the middle of an empty room and saved ourselves the trouble.  I realize now that every last detail that went into her nursery was really for us, not for her.  I still have the pictures, and it was lovely while it lasted.  If I have tears smarting my eyes right now, at least I can comfort myself with the fact that all of these nice things never mattered much to her.  They were all for me -- the big surprise, the nice furniture, all of it.  The only thing she ever needed was a quiet place to rest her head.

And now Mr. Clock is probably saying it's time to "wake up," and I hear the thud-thud-thud at the door.  I might be looking into a padded room for myself here soon.